nstead of drawing idly upon your great
advantage, add to it. Successful men are often niggardly of advice,
while the prattling tongue nearly always belongs to failure;
therefore, when a successful man does advise, heed him. I think that I
should have succeeded in nearly any walk of life. Sturdy New England
stock, the hard necessity for thrift, and the practical common school
fitted me to push my way to the front. Don't think that I am boasting.
It is no more of vanity for one to say 'I have succeeded' than to say
'I will succeed.'" He paused a moment and stood near Henry's chair.
"You have the chance to become what I cannot be--one of the wealthiest
men in this country." He sat down, and leaning back in his
leather-covered chair, stretched forth his legs and crossed his
slippered feet. He looked at Henry.

"To some men success is natural, and to others it is impossible,"
Henry replied. "I can well see that prosperity could not long have
kept beyond your reach. Your mind led you in a certain direction, and
instead of resisting, you gladly followed it. You say that you should
have been a success in any walk of life, and while it is true that you
would have made money, it does not follow that you would have found
that contentment which is beyond all earthly price. I admit that the
opportunity which you offer me is one of rarest advantage, but knowing
myself, I feel that in accepting it I should be doing you an
injustice. It may be so strange to you that you can't understand it,
yet I haven't a single commercial instinct; and to be frank with you,
that great store would be a penitentiary to me. Wait a moment."
Witherspoon had bounded to his feet. "I am willing to do almost
anything," Henry continued, "but I can't consent to a complete
darkening of my life. I admit that I am peculiar, and shall not
dispute you in your belief that my mind is not strong, but I am firm
when it comes to purpose. To hear one say that he doesn't care to be
the richest man in the country may strike you as the utterance of a
fool, and yet I am compelled to say it. I don't want you to make me an
allowance. I don't want"--

"What in God's name do you want, sir!" Witherspoon exclaimed. He was
walking up and down the room, not with the regular paces which had
marked his stroll a few moments before, but with the uneven tread of
anger. "What in God's name can you ask?"

He turned upon Henry, and standing still, gave him a look of hard
inquiry.

"I a