"I mean that if I die--and I know that I am going to die--you must be
their son. You must go there, not as Henry DeGolyer, but as Henry
Witherspoon, their own son."

"Merciful God! I can't do that."

"But if you care for me you will. Take all my papers--take everything
I've got--and go home. It will be the greatest favor you could do me
and the greatest you could do them."

"But, my dear boy, I should be a liar and a hypocrite."

"No, you would be playing my part because I couldn't play it. Once you
said that you would give me your life if I wanted it, and now I want
it. You can make them happy, and they'll be so proud of you. Won't you
try it? I would do anything on earth for you, and now you deny me
this--and who knows but my spirit might enter into you and form a part
of your own? How can you refuse me when you know that I think more of
you than I do of anybody? This is no boy's prank--I'm a man now. Will
you?"

"Henry," said DeGolyer, "this is merely a feverish notion that has
come out of your derangement. Put it by, and after a while we will
laugh at it. Is the cloth hot again?"

"Yes."

"I'll change it." And DeGolyer, removing the cloth and placing his
hand on his friend's forehead, added: "Your fever isn't so high as it
was yesterday. You are coming out all right."