_Dan._ Does it seem so strange to thee? Hast thou e’er known what it is to set thy heart night and day on one object, to dream of it, sleepin’ and wakin’, to find the hope of it flavouring thy meat and drink, and weavin’ itself so into thy life that every thought o’ thy brain is born of it, and every deed o’ thy hand has some bearin’ on it? And havin’ done all this, and so fashioned, and twisted, and turned, and trimmed the chances at thy hand that the one hope of thy soul shall be helped on by it, hast thou known what it is to find, at one bitter, black blow, thy hope made hopeless, thy love loveless, thy life lifeless? So did I hope and pray to be blessed with a little child--so was my hope withered when I thought it sure of fulfilment. I had a store of love in my battered heart to _set on some one thing of my creating_; it was there for that end, and for none other. When _she_ left me (curse him!) I knew, for certain, that one thing would never be of flesh and blood, and it never will, for the love of my heart is given over to the next best thing--gold and silver, gold and silver. Ay, brother, I love my gold as other men love their bairns; it’s of my making, and I love it, I love it! A mean and sordid love, maybe, but hard, and bad, and base as thou thinkest me, I’ve prayed a thousand times that my gold might take a living form, that the one harmless old hope of my wrecked life might come true. _Mar._ The age of miracles is past, Jonas. Well, I’ve said my say and done my do. Stay where thou art, and Heaven forgive thee, Jonas Marple. _Dan._ (_sternly_). He’s dead! _Mar._ (_warmly_). He is; dead to the call of reason, dead to the voice of human love, dead to everything that marks a reasoning man off from the beasts that perish. Thou hast well said, Jonas Marple _is_ dead--rest his soul! _Dan._ Amen! Now go. [_MARPLE, after a pause, shrugs his shoulders, and exit with RIPLEY._