DISSECTING A MOTIVE.


Onward went the ship, nodding to the beck and call of mighty ocean.
DeGolyer--or, rather, Henry Witherspoon, as now he knew
himself--walked up and down the deck. And it seemed that at every turn
his searching grief had found a new abiding-place for sorrow. His
first strong attachment was broken, and he felt that in the years to
come, no matter what fortune they might bring him, there could not
grow a friendship large enough to fill the place made vacant by his
present loss. An absorbing love might come, but love is by turns a
sweet and anxious selfishness, while friendship is a broad-spread
generosity. Suddenly he was struck by the serious meaning of his
obligation, and with stern vivisection he laid bare the very nerves of
his motive. At first he could find nothing save the discharge of a
sacred duty; but what if this trust had entailed a life of toil and
sacrifice? Would he have accepted it? In his agreement to this odd
compact was there not an atom of self-interest? Over and over again he
asked himself these questions, and he strove to answer them to the
honor of his incentive, but he felt that in this strife there lay a
prejudice, a hope that self might be cleared of all dishonor. But was
there ever a man who, in the very finest detail, lived a life of
perfect truth and freedom from all selfishness? If so, why should
Providence have put him in a grasping world? Give conscience time and
it will find an easy bed, and yet the softest bed may have grown hard
ere morning comes.

"Who am I that I should carp with myself?" the traveler mused. "Have
the world and its litter of pups done anything for me?" He walked up