ly--that is, not yet. His business has been going rather
badly. He has a wife and little baby, you know. And now he has broken
down,--something wrong with his lungs. The doctor says his only chance
is a year or eighteen months in Colorado. I wish we could help him."

"How much would it cost?"

"Three or four thousand, perhaps, as a loan."

"Does the doctor say he will get well?"

"A fighting chance--the doctor says."

The face of the older man changed subtly. Not a line was altered, but
it seemed to have a different substance, as if it were carved out of
some firm imperishable stuff.

"A fighting chance," he said, "may do for a speculation, but it is not
a good investment. You owe something to young Rollins. Your grateful
feeling does you credit. But don't overwork it. Send him three or four
hundred, if you like. You'll never hear from it again, except in the
letter of thanks. But for Heaven's sake don't be sentimental.
Religion is not a matter of sentiment; it's a matter of principle."

The face of the younger man changed now. But instead of becoming fixed
and graven, it seemed to melt into life. His nostrils quivered with
quick breath, his lips were curled.

"Principle!" he said. "You mean principal--and interest too. Well,
sir, you know best whether that is religion or not. But if it is,
count me out, please. Tom saved me from going to the devil, six years
ago; and I'll be damned if I don't help him to the best of my ability
now."

John Weightman looked at his son steadily. "Harold," he said at last,
"you know I dislike violent language, and it never has any influence
with me. If I could honestly approve of this proposition of yours, I'd
let you have the money; but I can't; it's extravagant and useless. But
you have your Christmas check for a thousand dollars coming to you
to-morrow. You can use it as you please. I never interfere with your
private affairs."

"Thank you," said Harold. "Thank you very much! But there's another
private affair. I want to get away from this life, this town, this
house. It stifles me. You refused last summer when I asked you to let
me go up to Grenfell's Mission on the Labrador. I could go now, at
least as far as the Newfoundland Station. Have you changed your mind?"

"Not at all. I think it is an exceedingly foolish enterprise. It would
interrupt the career that I have marked out for you."

"Well, then, here's a cheaper proposition. Algy Vanderhoof wants me to
join him on