o blame had been stricken, I should think the Judgment wasn't
far off. Talk of God's mercy in times of health! There's no greater
evidence of it than to see him, in these awful visitations, refusing
still to discriminate between the innocent and the guilty! Richling,
only Infinite Mercy joined to Infinite Power, with infinite command of
the future, could so forbear!"

Richling could not answer. The Doctor unfolded the paper and began to
read: "'God, in his mysterious providence'--O sir!"

"What!" demanded Richling.

"O sir, what a foul, false charge! There's nothing mysterious about it.
We've trampled the book of Nature's laws in the mire of our streets, and
dragged her penalties down upon our heads! Why, Richling,"--he shifted
his attitude, and laid the edge of one hand upon the paper that lay in
the other, with the air of commencing a demonstration,--"you're a Bible
man, eh? Well, yes, I think you are; but I want you never to forget that
the book of Nature has its commandments, too; and the man who sins
against _them_ is a sinner. There's no dispensation of mercy in that
Scripture to Jew or Gentile, though the God of Mercy wrote it with his
own finger. A community has got to know those laws and keep them, or
take the consequences--and take them here and now--on this
globe--_presently_!"

"You mean, then," said Richling, extending his hand for the return of
the paper, "that those whose negligence filled the asylums should be the
ones to subscribe."

"Yes," replied the Doctor, "yes!" drew back his hand with the paper
still in it, turned to his desk, opened the list, and wrote. Richling's
eyes followed the pen; his heart came slowly up into his throat.

"Why, Doc--Doctor, that's more than any one else has"--

"They have probably made some mistake," said Dr. Sevier, rubbing the
blotting-paper with his finger. "Richling, do you think it's your
mission to be a philanthropist?"

"Isn't it everybody's mission?" replied Richling.

"That's not what I asked you."

"But you ask a question," said Richling, smiling down upon the
subscription-paper as he folded it, "that nobody would like to answer."

"Very well, then, you needn't answer. But, Richling,"--he pointed
his long finger to the pocket of Richling's coat, where the
subscription-list had disappeared,--"this sort of work--whether you
distinctly propose to be a philanthropist or not--is right, of course.
It's good. But it's the mere alphabet of beneficence. Richl