consciousness from him but that of the idea which obsessed him.

Morty Sands felt gratefully the spell of the strong mind upon him. Twice
he started to speak, and twice stopped. Then Grant said: "Out with it,
Morty--what's on your chest?"

"Well,--this thing," he tapped his throat, "is going to get me, Grant,
unless--well, it's a last hope; but I thought," he spoke in short,
hesitating phrases, then he started again. "Grant, Grant," he cried,
"you have it, this thing they call vitality. You are all vitality,
bodily, mentally, spiritually. Why have I been denied always, everything
that you have! Millions of good men and bad men and indifferent men are
overflowing with power, and I--I--why, why can't I--what shall I do to
get it? How can I feel and speak and live as you? Tell me." He gazed
into the strong, hard visage looking down upon him, and cried weakly:
"Grant--for God's sake, help me. Tell me--what shall I do to--Oh, I want
to live--I want to live, Grant, can't you help me!"

He stopped, exhausted. Grant looked at him keenly, and asked gently,

"Had another hemorrhage this morning--didn't you?"

Morty looked over his clothes to detect the stain of blood, and nodded.
"Oh, just a little one. Up all night working with Folsom, but it didn't
amount to anything."

Grant sat beside the broken man, and taking his white hand in his big,
paw-like hand:

"Morty--Morty--my dear, gentle friend; your trouble is not your body,
but your soul. You read these great books, and they fascinate your mind.
But they don't grip your soul; you see these brutal injustices, and they
cut your heart; but they don't reach your will." The strong hand felt
the fluttering pressure of the pale hand in its grasp. Morty looked
down, and seemed about to speak.

"Morty," Grant resumed, "it's your money--your soul-choking money.
You've never had a deep, vital, will-moving conviction in your life. You
haven't needed this money. Morty, Morty," he cried, "what you need is to
get out of your dry-rot of a life; let the Holy Ghost in your soul wake
up to the glory of serving. Face life barehanded, consecrate your
talents--you have enough--to this man's fight for men. Throw away your
miserable back-breaking money. Give it to the poor if you feel like it;
it won't help them particularly." He shook his head so vigorously that
his vigor seemed like anger, and hammered with his claw on the iron
bunk. "Money," he cried and repeated the word, "money not earned