"What do you see there?" Reynolds asked, more interested in hearing the
man's deliberate drawl than the meaning of the fog-bank.

"Wall, it seems to me that a fog-bank hasn't a ghost of a chance fer
life when the sun hits it good an' hard."

"That one hasn't, anyway," Reynolds replied, as he watched the cloud
gradually thinning and drifting away.

"It's the same with all clouds, sir, an' it makes no difference whether
they're hangin' over the water or over one's life. They're bound to
disappear when the sun gits after 'em."

"Do you think so?"

"I sartinly do. Why, there isn't a cloud but'll gather up its skirts
an' run when a good big blazin' laugh gits after it. An' that's what
we want in this world to-day; more cheerfulness, more of the joy of
life."

"Have you tried it?"

"Y'bet I have, an' it's allus worked like a charm. I could tell ye of
many a squabble that's been settled by the means of a smilin' face an'
a good hearty laugh. There's nuthin' like it."

"You're an optimist, I see," and Reynolds smiled for the first time in
many a day. He could not help it, for this stranger radiated a
stimulating influence of cheerfulness and goodwill.