"No friend of mine," returned Dr. DeLancey. "Only a patient. Patients are
plenty, but friends are few. Let him get someone else, or die, as he
chooses. It's none of my business. Here, drink this." And he poured
between the protesting lips of Thomas Cathcart Blake a nauseating draught
of something that was most malodorous; for Dr. DeLancey was an allopath,
and a good one.

But, good as he was, he was too late. Pneumonia had been before him; and,
two weeks later, in spite of all that the good doctor, and several other
equally good doctors, could do, Thomas Cathcart Blake died. And he didn't
seem sorry at going.

Before he went, he called to him his son, and to that son he said many
things. Most of the things that he said are neither your business nor
mine. But of the things that he said, we may know one. He wanted his son
to marry the daughter of the widow of Jimmy Blair.

Young Tom Blake, between the sobs that are becoming a man, answered:

"I want to, dad. I've always wanted to. And I will, if I can."

His father counselled, weakly:

"Get her honestly, boy, or not at all. If you get her, cherish her--give
her everything that there is in you to give--for there's nothing that a
man can give that a good woman doesn't deserve. Now, God bless you, son--
and--go."

Tom Blake clung to the sheets. It was hard to lose such a father and such