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Richling was already answering, not by words only, but by his confident smile: "Yes, sir; yes, it is just: ask Mary." "Yes, Doctor," interposed the wife. "We went over" "We went over it together," said John. "We weighed it well. It is just, not to ask aid as long as there's hope without it." The Doctor responded with the quiet air of one who is sure of his position: "Yes, I see.

Richling alone, of all in the establishment, while the sick lay scattered through the town on uncounted thousands of beds, and the month of October passed by, bringing death to eleven hundred more, escaped untouched of the scourge. "I can't understand it," he said. "Demand an immediate explanation," said Dr. Sevier, with sombre irony. How did others fare?

"Yes?" responded Richling, rather timidly. And the Doctor continued: "The same age, the same stature, the same features. Alice was a shade paler in her style of beauty, just a shade. Her hair was darker; but otherwise her whole effect was a trifle quieter, even, than Mary's. She was beautiful, outside and in. Like Mary, she had a certain richness of character but of a different sort.

Presently he said, "Richling!" Richling answered by an inquiring glance. "Take better care of your health," said the physician. Richling smiled a young man's answer and rose to say good-night. Mrs. Riley missed the Richlings, she said, more than tongue could tell. She had easily rented the rooms they left vacant; that was not the trouble.

"I wish I had spoken," he thought to himself; "I wish I had made the offer." And again: "I hope he didn't tell her what I said about the letters. Not but I was right, but it'll only wound her." But Richling had told her; he always "told her everything;" she could not possibly have magnified wifehood more, in her way, than he did in his.

"Yes, but I have," said the Doctor. "Here I am, telling you to let your philanthropy be cold-blooded; why, I've always been hot-blooded." "I like the hot best," said Richling, quickly. "You ought to hate it," replied his friend. "It's been the root of all your troubles. Richling, God Almighty is unimpassioned. If he wasn't he'd be weak.

There was a person sitting at a desk on the farther side of the office, writing, who had not lifted his head from first to last, Richling said: "Can you tell me when the proprietor will be in?" The writer's eyes rose, and dropped again upon his writing. "What do you want with him?" "He asked me to wait here for him." "Better wait, then." Just then in came the merchant.

I have never consciously disputed God's arrangements since. The man who does is only a wayward child." "It's true," said Richling, with an air of confession, "it's true;" and they fell into silence. Presently Richling looked around the room. His eyes brightened rapidly as he beheld the ranks and tiers of good books. He breathed an audible delight.

You need Mary back here now to hold you square to your course by the tremendous power of her timid little 'Don't you think? and 'Doesn't it seem?" "Doctor," replied Richling, with a smile of expostulation, "you touch one's pride." "Certainly I do. You're willing enough to say that you love her and long for her, but not that your moral manhood needs her. And yet isn't it true?"

"Is your wife's mother comfortably situated?" "Yes." "Then I'll tell you what you must do." "The only thing I can't do," said Richling. "Yes, you can. You must. You must send Mrs. Richling back to her mother." Richling shook his head. "Well," said the Doctor, warmly, "I say you must. I will lend you the passage-money."