CHAPTER XIX

WILL POWER

The old man sat in the same shabby chair, in the same little Eighth Avenue apartment where he had lived ten months before. He was dreaming again, although his eyes were open, and his dreams were not the old dreams of happy confidence.

He looked to be a broken man as he sat there, his mind and body both inert, in a half trance, half doze. On the table beside him still stood his electric apparatus, and on the mantel the little Dutch clock still ticked away soberly.

Men are born and die. Hearts are made glad and hearts are broken, fame comes and disgrace, but time goes on, unfaltering. Ten thousand years ago men fought for their brief moment of life, just as they fight to-day, just as they must ten thousand years from now; the joys that mean so much to us, the griefs that seem to fill the universe with sorrow blend in that endless procession of to-morrows into one little grain of the world's experience.

Through the open window the harsh music of a street piano penetrated discordantly, and Maria, who was quietly working about the dining-room, looked up.

"Bother the old thing! They always make him nervous!" She crossed the room and closed the window, moving so as not to disturb the old man. The music came fainter now, and the time changed abruptly to a waltz; the swing of it got into her head, and because she was young, and full of life and joy, she forgot for a moment the silent, grief-stricken figure so near to her, and she waltzed back to the dining-room, humming to herself. It was a fine thing to be alive, she thought, and to be of real use to this lonely man; he had done much for her, but now she felt that she was paying some of her debt to him of gratitude. Without her what would become of him? He was as helpless as a child and without a child's real desire to live. She busily arranged some slices of bread and butter on a plate, and placing it on a tray with a pot of freshly made tea, she put it down on the dining-room table, and stepping into the front room, stood by the Doctor's chair.

"Your tea is ready, Doctor."

"Oh!" He looked up at her, then made an effort, and aroused himself to answer. "Thank you, Maria, but I do not care for any lunch to-day."

"You didn't eat nothin' for your breakfast."

"Oh, yes, I did, Maria." He smiled at her very gently. "I am much stronger and in better health than you will believe. I am not living an active life just now. I do not require the same amount of food as a young thing like you."

"You are sick, Doctor," she spoke anxiously. "You can't live like you have been living for the last six months, doing nothing and eating less. You'll be on your back the first thing I know; then how will I take care of you?"

"You are a good girl, Maria, but I am quite equal to my work. I only wish that I had more to do."

"You can't get patients sittin' here, dreamin' over that darned thing!" She pointed angrily at the electrical machine on the table. "You could have all the patients you could take care of if you'd only try to get 'em. There ain't a better doctor in the world."

"You are a very loyal little thing, Maria."

"No, I ain't. I've done somethin' I hadn't no right to do. I'm going to tell yer because I'm ashamed, but I'm mighty glad I did it just the same."

"What have you done?" He spoke quickly, seeing by her manner that she had something of more than usual importance on her mind.

"I wrote a letter," she answered defiantly, "most three weeks ago, the very first letter I ever wrote in my life."

"To your sweetheart?"

"No, I ain't countin' him. I've been writin' to him a long time; he says one kind of spelling is just as good to him as another, but this