He liked the unpresuming, modest, generous word.
"I'll tell you what you would be," said he, quickly. "A month ago worth
half a million--to-day not a cent. Brought up like a fool, you would
probably be one. Turned out of house, helpless as a baby. You have
yourself--master of your wits and your hands. Look at these hands! And all
my wits can advise me is, this life isn't worth the keeping."
"Oh, no; not to-day! They don't say that to-day!" exclaimed Summerman,
speaking as if he knew. And he ventured further, boldly: "They advise you,
go home to your wife and your child; live for them and yourself, and God's
honor."
"Wife--child!" repeated Rush; and he blushed when he added; "you read
fortunes. Your pardon."
"I saw it in your face," said the organist, quietly. "When you looked at
our little Mary, I believed you were thinking of some other little child.
And it reminded you of some other young lady, when I told you what I
expected once. If it hadn't been for them, you would never have thought of
destroying yourself; and I'm sure, on their account, what you ought to ask
and hope is, that your life may be spared."
It is said that drowning men will grasp at straws.
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