poverty and neglect, or die of a broken heart? How often has it stolen,
aye stolen, the priceless fruits of their genius and labour? Speaking
for myself, I don't complain; I haven't had much to do with it. My
withdrawal from it has been voluntary. I was born in the south of
Scotland, and educated for the medical profession; but I emigrated to
America, and was engaged in one of Colonel Fremont's exploring
expeditions to the Rocky Mountains. After that I was appointed to the
chair of Physical Science in a college of Louisville, Kentucky, where my
daughter was born. One day, when I was experimenting to find out
something else, I fell by accident upon the track of my discovery, and
ever since I have devoted my life to the investigation. It appeared to
me of the very highest importance. As time went on, I grew more and more
absorbed in it. Every hour that I had to give to my official and social
duties seemed thrown away. A man cannot serve two masters, and as I also
found it difficult to carry on my experiments in secrecy, I resigned my
post. I had become a citizen of the United States, but my wife was a
Welshwoman, and had relations in England. So we came to London. When
she died, I settled in this isolated spot, where I could study in peace,
enjoy the fresh air, and easily get the requisite books and apparatus.
Here, with my daughter, I live a very secluded life. She is my sole
companion, my housekeeper, my servant, and my assistant in the
laboratory. She knows as much about my machine, and can work it as well
as I do myself. Indeed, I don't know what I should have done without
her. She has denied herself the ordinary amusements of her age. Her
devotion to me has been beautiful."

The voice of the old man trembled, and I fancied I could read in his
hollow eyes the untold martyrdom of genius.

"At last," he continued, "I have brought the matter into a practical