"Richling, I'll tell you. I've been thinking about this thing for some time, and I've decided to make you a proposal. I look at you and at Mary and at the times--the condition of the country--the probable future--everything. I know you, physically and mentally, better than anybody else does. I can say the same of Mary. So, of course, I don't make this proposal impulsively, and I don't want it rejected. "Richling, I'll lend you two thousand to twenty-five hundred dollars, payable at your convenience, if you will just go to your room, pack up, go home, and take from six to twelve months' holiday with your wife and child." The listener opened his mouth in blank astonishment. "Why, Doctor, you're jesting! You can't suppose"-- "I don't suppose anything. I simply want you to do it." "Well, I simply can't!" "Did you ever regret taking my advice, Richling?" "No, never. But this--why, it's utterly impossible! Me leave the results of four years' struggle to go holidaying? I can't understand you, Doctor." "'Twould take weeks to explain." "It's idle to think of it," said Richling, half to himself. "Go home and think of it twenty-four hours," said the Doctor. "It is useless, Doctor." "Very good, then; send for Mary. Mail your letter." "You don't mean it!" said Richling. "Yes, I do. Send for Mary; and tell her I advised it." He turned quickly away to his desk, for Richling's eyes had filled with tears; but turned again and rose as Richling rose. They joined hands. "Yes, Richling, send for her. It's the right thing to do--if you will not do the other. You know I want you to be happy." "Doctor, one word. In your opinion is there going to be war?" "I don't know. But if there is it's time for husband and wife and child to draw close together. Good-day." And so the letter went. CHAPTER XLIX. A BUNDLE OF HOPES. Richling insisted, in the face of much scepticism on the part of the baker's widow, that he felt better, was better, and would go on getting better, now that the weather was cool once more. "Well, I hope you vill, Mr. Richlin', dtat's a fect. 'Specially ven yo' vife comin'. Dough _I_ could a-tooken care ye choost tso koot as vot she couldt." "But maybe you couldn't take care of her as well as I can," said the happy Richling. "Oh, tdat's a tdifferendt. A voman kin tek care herself." Visiting the French market on one of these glad mornings, as his business often required him to do, he fell in with Narcisse, just withdrawing from the celebrated coffee-stand of Rose Nicaud. Richling stopped in the moving crowd and exchanged salutations very willingly; for here was one more chance to hear himself tell the fact of Mary's expected coming.