There is in such companionships less
self-interest than in any other. As I have said, I thought that this man
had a trouble, and I wished to know it; not from curiosity,--though my
mind had a selfish, inquiring strain,--but because I hoped I might be
able to help him in some way. I put my hand on his shoulder, and replied:
"You will never be better unless you get rid of your worry."
He drew in a sharp breath, and said: "I know that. I am afraid I shall
never be better."
There was a silence in which we looked at each other steadily, and then
he added, with an intense but quiet misery: "Never--never!"
At that he moved his hand across his forehead wearily, rose, and turned
toward the door. He swayed as he did so, and would have fallen, but I
caught him as he lost consciousness, and laid him on the cabin sofa. I
chafed his hands, unloosed his collar, and opened the bosom of his shirt.
As the linen dropped away from his throat, a small portrait on ivory was
exposed on his breast. I did not look closely at it then, but it struck
me that the woman's head in the portrait was familiar, though the
artistic work was not recent, and the fashion of the hair was of years
before.
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