“Before the Spanish War and in every panic, when no man seemed to want her securities, I have bought them freely, and I own them today. With our growing trade and fruitful lands I wonder that all thinking men did not share my confidence. If America had gone to smash I should have gone with her. I shall stick to the old ship.” One paragraph of the will has begun to make history. It has appeared in the newspapers, but no account of my friend should omit it, and therefore I present its wording here: “There are many points of greatness in the Christian faith, but the greatest of all is charity. I conceive that the best argument for the heathen is that of wheat and com. I therefore direct that the sum of five million dollars be set aside and invested by the trustees of this will and that its proceeds be applied to the relief of the distressing poverty of unconverted peoples, wherever they may be, in the discretion of said trustees; and when said relief is applied it shall be done as the act of 'A Christian friend in America.' It is my wish that wherever practicable in the judgment of said trustees this relief shall be applied through the establishment of industries in which the needy shall be employed at fair wages.” I had finished my notes for the will, and my friend and I were sitting comfortably by the open fire, when his wife entered the room and sat down with us. “Have you told Mr. Potter about the bank offer?” she inquired of her husband. “No, my dear,” he answered. “May I tell him?” “Certainly.” “Mr. Potter, the presidency of a great bank has been offered to my husband, and I think that he ought to take it.” “Oh, I have work enough here at home--all I can do,” he said. “But you will not have much to do there--only a little consulting once a week or so, and they say that you can talk to them here if you wish.” “It's too much responsibility,” he answered. “But it's so respectable,” she urged. “My heart is set on it. They tell me that, next to Mr. Morgan, you would be the greatest power in American finance. We should all be so proud of you.” “I couldn't wish you to be any more proud of me,” he answered, tenderly. “But, naturally, we want you to be as great as you can, Whitfield,” she went on. “This would mean so much to me and to Gwendolyn.” He rose wearily, with a glance into my eyes which I perfectly understood, and went to his wife and kissed her and said: “My dear, I am sure that Mr. Potter will agree with me.” “Unreservedly,” was my answer. I knew then that this ambitious woman was as ignorant as the cattle in their farmyard of the greater honors which he had declined. She rose and left the room with a look of disappointment. How far the urgency of his wife and other misguided friends may have gone I know not, but I have reason to believe that it put him to his wit's ends.