He was now walking up and down the room.  He spoke with fervor, and Henry saw how strong he was and wondered not at his great success.

“I don’t often resort to figures of speech,” Witherspoon continued, “but even the most practical man feels sometimes that illustration is a necessity.  Words are the trademarks of the goods stored in the mind, and a flashy expression proclaims the flimsy trinket.”

Was his unwonted indulgence in wine at dinner playing rhetorical tricks with his mind?

“I spoke just now of the partial goddess of fortune,” the merchant continued, “in the hope that I might impress you with a deplorable truth.  Fortune is vested with a peculiar discrimination.  It appears more often to favor the unjust than the just.  Ability and a life of constant wooing do not always win success, for luck, the factotum of fortune, often bestows in one minute a success which a life-time of stubborn toil could not have achieved.  Therefore, I say to you, think well of your position, and instead of drawing idly upon your great advantage, add to it.  Successful men are often niggardly of advice, while the prattling tongue nearly always belongs to failure; therefore, when a successful man does advise, heed him.  I think that I should have succeeded in nearly any walk of life.  Sturdy New England stock, the hard necessity for thrift, and the practical common school fitted me to push my way to the front.  Don’t think that I am boasting.  It is no more of vanity for one to say ‘I have succeeded’ than to say ‘I will succeed.’” He paused a moment and stood near Henry’s chair.  “You have the chance to become what I cannot be—­one of the wealthiest men in this country.”  He sat down, and leaning back in his leather-covered chair, stretched forth his legs and crossed his slippered feet.  He looked at Henry.

“To some men success is natural, and to others it is impossible,” Henry replied.  “I can well see that prosperity could not long have kept beyond your reach.  Your mind led you in a certain direction, and instead of resisting, you gladly followed it.  You say that you should have been a success in any walk of life, and while it is true that you would have made money, it does not follow that you would have found that contentment which is beyond all earthly price.  I admit that the opportunity which you offer me is one of rarest advantage, but knowing myself, I feel that in accepting it I should be doing you an injustice.  It may be so strange to you that you can’t understand it, yet I haven’t a single commercial instinct; and to be frank with you, that great store would be a penitentiary to me.  Wait a moment.”  Witherspoon had bounded to his feet.  “I am willing to do almost anything,” Henry continued, “but I can’t consent to a complete darkening of my life.  I admit that I am peculiar, and shall not dispute you in your belief that my mind is not strong, but I am firm when it comes to purpose.  To hear one say that he doesn’t care to be the richest man in the country may strike you as the utterance of a fool, and yet I am compelled to say it.  I don’t want you to make me an allowance.  I don’t want”—­