and it is a good deal on my heart, too. So I thought of speaking to
you about it to-night. You remember Tom Rollins, the Junior who was so
good to me when I entered college?"

The father nodded. He remembered very well indeed the annoying
incidents of his son's first escapade, and how Rollins had stood by him
and helped to avoid a public disgrace, and how a close friendship had
grown between the two boys, so different in their fortunes.

"Yes," he said, "I remember him. He was a promising young man. Has he
succeeded?"

"Not exactly--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 by the heat of an inward fire.
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 i