“The boy is coming, after dinner, to give poor Fred an outing,” continued this wise father; “and I particularly desire that there shall be no rudeness on your part for Pinkie to complain of, and especially no hint of any possible romance in the situation. You know your sister”— “Yes, as obstinate as the devil when she likes, and she generally does like.” “Don’t swear, Frank; it is ungentlemanly, and irreligious too. Pinkie is only a child, after all—and so is the boy, for that matter. There’s no harm done yet; but, of course, I shall get her away from this as soon as possible; only, in the mean time, mind what you’re about.” “No fear of me, sir, now that I know you have your eyes open.” “I usually have, my fine fellow,” thought Mr. Randolph as his son left him, “and especially when I find my jeweller putting up a locket containing your picture, and marked ‘Gretchen.’ Humph! How came you to know what Prices’ wagon left? Your old father isn’t quite in his dotage, my boy.” Twelve years of ill-health had not passed over Dr. Richards without leaving some token behind them. His practice among the wealthy had fallen off almost to nothing; though a few old patients still liked him to come, when he was able, and send Dr. Harrison when he was not; but among the poor, who were only too glad to see him on any terms, he did far more than was prudent or perhaps right; though I, for one, must hesitate before casting a shadow of blame on one who spends himself for others. “I believe that there are others for whom I ought to live,” he had said long ago. Those others! When living for one’s self is almost beyond one’s strength, and the weight of a grasshopper a perceptible burden involving a loss of nerve-force and vitality, living for others is a phrase that acquires new meanings every day. And visits among the very poor are of all things exhausting and disheartening to a man whose own purse is empty. Tonics, change of air, change of scene, above all—_rest_—rest of mind and body, would have saved many a life during those twelve years, while the thousands of Alice Randolph’s fortune were multiplying themselves by ten and twenty. And Henry Randolph was, in his own opinion, not only a just man, but kind and generous; Frederick Richards had but to lift a finger, and his hands would have been filled with twice the amount of the original bequest. The finger was not raised. As sternly as Elijah of old surveyed the rainless heavens, while the deeps afforded no water and the rivers were exhausted; while the suckling’s tongue clave for thirst to his mouth, and the infant children cried for bread which none brake to feed them;—so sternly stood Frederick Richards beside the dying lives for which he would have given his own; but to save which he would not touch with so much as a finger the polluted millions of Henry Randolph.