The rich man shrugged his shoulders, and looked slightly annoyed, as one upon whom a distasteful theme was intruded.

“I hear that kind of talk every Sunday,” he said, almost impatiently.  “But I know what it is worth.  Preaching is as much a business as anything else; and this cant about its being more blessed to give than to receive is a part of the capital in trade of your men of black coats and white neck-ties.  I understand it all, Mr. Erwin.”

“You talk lighter than is your wont on so grave a theme,” answered the friend.  “What you speak of as ‘cant,’ and the preacher’s ’capital in trade’—­’it is more blessed to give than to receive, are the recorded words of him who never spake as man spake.  If his words, must they not be true?”

“Perhaps I did speak lightly,” was returned.  “But indeed, Mr. Erwin, I cannot help feeling that in all these efforts to make rich men believe that their only way to happiness is through a distribution of their estates, a large element of covetousness exists.”

“That may be.  But, to-day you are worth over a quarter of million of dollars.  I remember when fifty thousand, all told, limited the extent of your possessions, and I think you were happier than I find you to-day.  How was it, my friend?”

“As to that,” was unhesitatingly replied, “I had more true enjoyment in life when I was simply a clerk with a salary of four hundred dollars a year, than I have known at any time since.”

“A remarkable confession,” said the friend.

“Yet true, nevertheless.”

“In all these years of strife with fortune—­in all these years of unremitted gain—­has there been any great and worthy end in your mind?  Any purpose beyond the acquirement of wealth?”

Mr. Steel’s brows contracted.  He looked at his friend for a moment like one half surprised, and then glanced thoughtfully down at the floor.

“Gain, and only gain,” said Mr. Erwin.  “Not your history alone, nor mine alone.  It is the history of millions.  Gathering, gathering, but never of free choice, dispensing.  Still, under Providence, the dispensation goes on; and what we hoard, in due time another distributes.  Men accumulate gold like water in great reservoirs; accumulate it for themselves, and refuse to lay conduits.  Often they pour in their gold until the banks fail under excessive pressure, and the rich treasure escapes to flow back among the people.  Often secret conduits are laid, and refreshing and fertilizing currents, unknown to the selfish owner, flow steadily out, while he toils with renewed and anxious labors to keep the repository full.  Oftener, the great magazine of accumulated gold and silver, which he never found time to enjoy, is rifled by others at his death.  He was the toiler and the accumulator—­the slave who only produced.  Miners, pearl-divers, gold-washers are we, my friend; but what we gather we fail to possess in that true sense of possession which involves delight and satisfaction.  For us the toil, for others the benefit.”