“Contentment is better than wealth.”

“A proverb for drones.”

“No, William, it is a proverb for the wise.”

“Be it for the wise or simple, as commonly, understood, it is no proverb for me.  As poor plodder along the way of life, it were impossible for me to know content.  So urge no farther, Robert.  I am going out into the world a wealth-seeker, and not until wealth is gained do I purpose to return.”

“What of Ellen, Robert?”

The young man turned quickly towards his brother, visibly disturbed, and fixed his eyes upon him with an earnest expression.

“I love her as my life,” he said, with a strong emphasis on his words.

“Do you love wealth more than life, William?”

“Robert!”

“If you love Ellen as your life, and leave her for the sake of getting riches, then you must love money more than life.”

“Don’t talk to me after this fashion.  I love her tenderly and truly.  I am going forth as well for her sake as my own.  In all the good fortune that comes as a meed of effort, she will be the sharer.”

“You will see her before you leave us?”

“No; I will neither pain her nor myself by a parting interview.  Send her this letter and this ring.”

A few hours later, and there brothers stood with tightly-grasped hands, gazing into each other’s faces.

“Farewell, Robert.”

“Farewell, William.  Think of the old homestead as still your home.  Though it is mine, in the division of our patrimony, let your heart come back to it as yours.  Think of it as home; and, should Fortune cheat you with the apples of Sodom, return to it again.  Its doors will ever be open, and its hearth-fire bright for you as of old.  Farewell!”

And they turned from each other, one going out into the restless world, an eager seeker for its wealth and honours; the other to linger among the pleasant places dear to him by every association of childhood, there to fill up the measure of his days—­not idly, for he was no drone in the social hive.

On the evening of that day two maidens sat alone, each in the sanctuary of her own chamber.  There was a warm glow on the cheeks of one, and a glad light in her eyes.  Pale was the other’s face, and wet her drooping lashes.  And she that sorrowed held an open letter in her hand.  It was full of tender words; but the writer loved wealth more than the maiden, and had gone forth to seek the mistress of his soul.  He would “come back,” but when?  Ah, what a veil of uncertainty was upon the future!  Poor, stricken heart!  The other maiden—­she of the glowing cheeks and dancing eyes—­held also a letter in her hand.  It was from the brother of the wealth-seeker; and it was also full of loving words; and it said that, on the morrow, he would come to bear her as his bride to his pleasant home.  Happy maiden!

Ten years have passed.  And what of the wealth-seeker?  Has he won the glittering prize?  What of the pale-faced maiden he left in tears?  Has he returned to her?  Does she share now his wealth and honour?  Not since the day he went forth from the home of his childhood has a word of intelligence from the wanderer been received; and to those he left behind him he is as one who has passed the final bourne.  Yet he still dwells among the living.