l them to God, ask Him to give me a chance. Ten years
more--or five--or one--and I'll do these things."

The shifting eyes caught sight of Stuart. He released the minister's
hand and raised his own to his friend.

"Jim!"

The preacher moved aside with a sigh of relief and softly tiptoed out
of the room as Stuart took the outstretched hand.

"It's awfully good of you to come up here so soon," he began feebly.
"I've some plans I want you to carry out for me right away. You see I
never thought before of the world as a place where there were so many
men and women sick and suffering--thousands and tens and hundreds of
thousands. These doctors say that every night in New York alone there
are half a million people sick or bending over the beds of loved ones
who are suffering, and two hundred die every day."

He paused for breath, and the black eyes stared at his friend.

"Jim, I can't die! I haven't lived! I've got to get up from here and do
some things I've meant to do--all those sick people--I've got to do
something for them. I'm going to build palaces for the lame, the halt,
the sick, the blind. I'm going to gather the great men of science from
the ends of the earth and set them to work to lift this shadow from the
world."

A sudden pain seized and convulsed his frail body and Stuart called the
doctors from the next room.

They stood by in helpless sympathy.

"Can't you stop this pain?" the financier gasped in anger. "What are
you here for? Am I not able to buy enough morphine to stop this hellish
agony?"

His family doctor bent and said:

"Your heart action is too low just now, Mr. Bivens, you can't stand
it."

"Well, I can't stand this! Give it to me, I tell you!"

The doctor took a hypodermic syringe, filled it with water and injected
it into his arm.

While Stuart watched the pitiful trick, his eye wandered over the
magnificent trappings of the room.

"What irony of Fate!" he exclaimed, under his breath. "Not a clod
hopper in the field, nor a blacksmith at his anvil who would change
places with him now--the poorest negro who sings at his plow is
richer."

The sufferer stared and beckoned to Stuart.

Handing him a key which he drew from beneath his pillow he cried:

"Unlock the right-hand top-drawer of that safe, Jim--the door is open.
Hand me those bundles of stocks and bonds and ask those doctors to come
in here."

Stuart complied with his request, and Bivens spread the brilliant
coloured pap