An ambition or a passion
possess us, flatters and mocks us. Death is not so dreary a thing as life
then."

"He felt that."

"Who?"

"The devil."

"His mind is wandering," murmured Mortimer--"wandering."

"It isn't," said Snarle, slowly. "A passion, a love, made Flint's life
bitter."

"Flint! Did he ever love anything but gold?"

"Yes; but it was long ago! We are cousins. We were schoolmates and friends,
sharing our boyish sports and troubles with that confiding friendship which
leaves us in our teens. We lived together. I can see the old white frame
house at Hampton Falls!" and the man passed his emaciated hand over his
eyes, as if to wipe out some unpleasant picture. "A niece of my father's
came to spend a winter with us. Young men's thoughts run to love. I could
but love her, she was so beautiful and good; and while she did a thousand
kind things to win my affection, she took a strange aversion to my cousin
Flint, who grew rude and impetuous. We were married. But long before that,
Flint packed up his little trunk, and, without a word of farewell, left us
one night for a neighboring city. Years went by, and from time to time
tidings reached us of his prosperity and growing wealth. We were proud of
his industry, and thought of him kindly. We, too, were prospering. But the
tide of our fortune changed. My father's affairs and mine became
complicated. He died, and the farm was sold. One day I stood at Flint's
office door, and asked for employment. Evil day! better for me if I had
toiled in the fields from morning till night, wringing a reluctant
livelihood from the earth, which is even more human than Flint. Wet my
lips, boy, and come near to me, that I may tell you how I became his slave;
softly, so the air may not hear me."

Mortimer drew nearer to him.

"It was a hard winter for the poor. My darling wife was suffering from the
mere want of proper medicines and food. I asked Flint for a little more
than the pitiable salary which he allowed me. He smiled, and said that I
was extravagant. We had not clothes enough to shield us from the cold! I
told him that my wife was sick; and he replied, bitterly, 'poor men should
not have wives.' Wet my lips again. Can you love me, boy, after what I
shall tell you? I forged a check for a trivial amount!" and Snarle's voice
sunk to a hoarse whisper. "Can you love me?"

"Can I love you?" cried Mortimer. He could not see the sick man for his
tears. "Can I forget all your kind