Part 8 (1/2)

”Working foolishly rather. I thought I had broken down, but sleep and your kindness have so revived me that I scarcely know myself. Are you accustomed to take in tramps from New York?”

”That depends somewhat upon the tramps. I think the right leadings are given us.”

”If good leadings const.i.tute a Friend, I am one to-day, for I have been led to your home.” ”Now I'm moved to preach a little,” said Mr. Yocomb.

”Richard Morton, does thee realize the sin and folly of overwork? If thee works for thyself it is folly. If thee toils for the good of the world, and art able to do the world any good, it is sin; if there are loved ones dependent on thee, thee may do them a wrong for which there is no remedy. Thee looks to me like a man who has been over-doing.”

”Unfortunately there is no one dependent on me, and I fear I have not had the world's welfare very greatly at heart. I have learned that I was becoming my own worst enemy, and so must plead guilty of folly.”

”Well, thee doesn't look as if thee had sinned away thy day of grace yet. If thee'll take roast-beef and common-sense as thy medicine, thee'll see my years and vigor.”

”Richard Morton,” said his wife, with a gentle gravity, ”never let any one make thee believe that thee has sinned away thy day of grace.”

”Mother, thee's very weak on the 'terrors of the law.' Thee's always for coaxing the transgressors out of the broad road. Thee's lat.i.tudinarian; now!”

”And thee's a little queer, father.”

”Emily Warren, am I queer?”

”You are very sound and sensible in your advice to Mr. Morton,” she replied. ”One may very easily sin against life and health beyond the point of remedy. I should judge from Mr. Morton's words that he is in danger.”

”Now, mother, thee sees that Emily Warren believes in the terrors of the law.”

”Thee wouldn't be a very good one at enforcing them, Emily,” said Mrs.

Yocomb, nodding her head smilingly toward her favorite.

”The trouble is,” said Miss Warren a little sadly, ”that some laws enforce themselves. I know of so many worn-out people in New York, both men and women, that I wish that Mr. Yocomb's words were printed at the head of ail our leading newspapers.”

”Yes,” said Mr. Yocomb, ”if editors and newspaper writers were only as eager to quiet the people as they are to keep up the hubbub of the world, they might make their calling a useful one. It almost takes away my breath to read some of our great journals.”

”Do you not think laziness the one pre-eminent vice of the world?”

tasked.

”Not of native-born Americans. I think restlessness, nervous activity, is the vice of our age. I am out of the whirl, and can see it all the more clearly. Thee admits that thy city life was killing thee--I know it would kill me in a month.”

”I would like to have a chance to be killed by it,” said Adah, with a sigh.

”Thy absence would be fatal to some in the country,” I heard Silas Jones remark, and with a look designed to be very reproachful.

”Don't tell me that. Melissa Bunting would soon console thee.”

”Thee stands city life quite well, Emily,” said Mrs. Yocomb.

”Yes, better than I once did. I am learning how to live there and still enjoy a little of your quiet; but were it not for my long summers in the country I fear it would go hard with me also.”

”You have suggested my remedy,” I said. ”My business does not permit much chance for rest, unless it is taken resolutely; and, like many other sinners, I have great reforms in contemplation.”

”It must be a dreadful business that came so near killing you,” Adah remarked, looking at me curiously. ”What can it be?”