had really
happened, a troublesome detail would turn up which made the whole thing
impossible. As in the matter of drowning, for instance. In that case he
had swum out and tugged Goodson ashore in an unconscious state with
a great crowd looking on and applauding, but when he had got it all
thought out and was just beginning to remember all about it, a whole
swarm of disqualifying details arrived on the ground: the town would
have known of the circumstance, Mary would have known of it, it
would glare like a limelight in his own memory instead of being an
inconspicuous service which he had possibly rendered "without knowing
its full value." And at this point he remembered that he couldn't swim
anyway.

Ah--THERE was a point which he had been overlooking from the start: it
had to be a service which he had rendered "possibly without knowing
the full value of it." Why, really, that ought to be an easy hunt--much
easier than those others. And sure enough, by-and-by he found it.
Goodson, years and years ago, came near marrying a very sweet and pretty
girl, named Nancy Hewitt, but in some way or other the match had been
broken off; the girl died, Goodson remained a bachelor, and by-and-by
became a soured one and a frank despiser of the human species. Soon
after the girl's death the village found out, or thought it had found
out, that she carried a spoonful of negro blood in her veins. Richards
worked at these details a good while, and in the end he thought he
remembered things concerning them which must have gotten mislaid in his
memory through long neglect. He seemed to dimly remember that it was
HE that found out about the negro blood; that it was he that told the
village; that the village told Goodson where they got it; that he thus
saved Goodson from marrying the tainted girl; that he had done him this
great service "without knowing the full value of it," in fact without
knowing that he WAS doing it; but that Goodson knew the value of it, and
what a narrow escape he had had, and so went to his grave grateful to
his benefactor and wishing he had a fortune to leave him. It was all
clear and simple, now, and the more he went over it the more luminous
and certain it grew; and at last, when he nestled to sleep, satisfied
and happy, he remembered the whole thing just as if it had been
yesterday. In fact, he dimly remembered Goodson's TELLING him his
gratitude once. Meantime Mary had spent six thousand dollars on a new
house for