He turned, blushing, and took from his pocket a twenty-dollar bill, and said: “I'm glad you spoke of it. Take this and go and get me some good ties in the morning. If you see anything that you think I need, buy it; my credit is good here. But there's another matter--my soul is feeling a bit shabby and ashamed of itself; it needs a little advice.” “What's the trouble?” I asked. “Well, I've found a greater power than the push of steam or water or electricity. It can put them all out of business--it could stop every wheel in the world.” He paused, and I looked into his eyes and guessed his meaning. “It is love, and it has stopped me,” he went on--“stopped me on the brink of a precipice. I don't know what to do. I wish I were somebody--anybody but the low-bred, common, Pegleg McCarthy that I am.” His voice began to tremble a bit, and he left his chair and walked up and down the room in silence. “Don't throw mud on yourself,” I protested. “There are plenty of us who would like to be that same McCarthy.” “I'm not so bad,” he went on. “The trouble is, I have the pride of a king in me and the blood of a hodman. But I may do something by-and-by. I've been reading about Lincoln. He was a man of humble birth and limited education. It gave me hope for myself.” “What's the trouble?” I asked again. “I have met the woman I love, and she is not Miss Manning,” he continued. “She is a lady--the sweetest, dearest lady in the land, and so far above me that we could never be man and wife. But I love her. God! she is more to me than all the rest of the world. I have nothing in me but the thought of her.” He turned away and fussed with the papers on his desk. “I care no more for business,” he continued, “and the honors I had hoped for are nothing to me now. All my plans are like the withered stems of a garden sticking out of the snow.” He strode up and down the room and stopped before me, and something out of the depths of his heart shone in his countenance and lifted him to greatness, it seemed to me, so that he saw his way clearly. “I shall do my work,” he said, solemnly. “I will do what my God tells me to do. I will try to be good enough for her--that is something--and I shall marry Miss Manning.” “Do you think you ought to do that?” I asked. “I have promised, and a gentleman keeps his word unless--unless there's some good reason why he shouldn't.” “I have sometimes thought that she was not the woman for you,” I suggested. “So have I. Poor girl! We're quick to judge, and not any of us are perfect. My life isn't much; I'm glad to give it for a principle.” “I know how you feel,” I said, thinking of my own troubles. “But then it may be that she doesn't care for you.” “Well, I've got to believe her, haven't I?”