"He has a very commonplace practice," Sommers replied. "An old-fashioned kind of practice." "Do you think you'll like Chicago any better?" Colonel Hitchcock asked bluntly. "I haven't thought much about that," the doctor admitted, uncomfortably. He felt that the kind old merchant had lost whatever interest he might have had in him. Any man who played ducks and drakes with his chances in life was not to be depended upon, according to Colonel Hitchcock's philosophy. And a man who could not be depended upon to do the rational thing was more or less dangerous. It was easier for him to understand Parker's defects than Sommers's wilfulness. They were both lamentable eccentricities. "Chicago isn't what it was," the old man resumed reminiscently. "It's too big, and there is too much speculation. A man is rich to-day and poor to-morrow. That sort of thing used to be confined to the Board of Trade, but now it's everywhere, in legitimate business. People don't seem to be willing to work hard for success." He relapsed into silence, and shortly after went upstairs, saying as he excused himself,--"Hope we shall see you again, Dr. Sommers." When Colonel Hitchcock had left the room, Miss Hitchcock said, as if to remove the sting of her father's indifference: "Uncle Brome's transactions worry papa,--for a time papa was deeply involved in one of his schemes,--and he worries over Parker, too. He doesn't like to think of--what will happen when he is dead. Parker will have a good deal of money, more than he will know what to do with. It's sad, don't you think so? To be ending one's life with a feeling that you have failed to make permanent your ideals, to leave things stable in your family at least?" Instead of replying Sommers left his chair and walked aimlessly about the room. At last he came back to the large table near which Miss Hitchcock was seated. "You know why I came to-night," he began nervously. Miss Hitchcock put down the book she held in her hands and turned her face to him. "Will you help me--to live?" he said bluntly. She rose from her seat, and, with a slight smile of irony, replied, "Can I?" "The past,--" Sommers stammered. "You know it all better than any one else." "I would not have it different, not one thing changed," she protested with warmth. "What I cannot understand in it, I will believe was best for you and for me." "And the lack of success, the failure?" Sommers questioned eagerly; a touch of fear in his voice. "I am asking much and giving very little." "You understand so badly!" The smile this time was sad. "I shall never know that it is failure." CHAPTER XIV