As I turned from the last man, vexed with his indifference,
the thought came to me: "Why not go yourself? Here is missionary work, if
you want it."
I will not tell how I weighed the probable uselessness of my going, nor how
I shrank from one so vile as he. It was not the kind of work I wanted.
But at last one day I went over the hills to the little abode. It was a mud
cabin, containing but one room. The door stood open. In one corner, on some
straw and colored blankets, I found the dying man. Sin had left awful marks
on his face, and if I had not heard that he could not move, I should have
retreated. As my shadow fell over the floor, he looked up and greeted me
with an oath. I stepped forward a little, and again he swore.
"Don't speak so, my friend," I said.
"I ain't your friend. I ain't got any friends," he said.
"Well, I am your friend, and--"
But the oaths came quickly, and he said: "You ain't my friend. I never had
any friends, and I don't want any now."
I reached out, at arm's length, the fruit I had brought for him, and
stepping back to the doorway, asked if he remembered his mother, hoping to
find a tender place in his heart; but he cursed her.
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