and he expected to have strength to keep himself stoical. But now he is
weak,--weak and truly miserable. He hears the people come in to their
supper, go to their rooms, wash, run gayly down-stairs, chat, go down
another pair of stairs,--and then come the jarring sounds of plates and
knives and spoons, and, worse, the sickening smell of victuals. How can
they laugh and joke when he, a man and a brother, lies sick of a fever?
Ah! my friend, it would not be so were you the head of the house. All
would be changed. The supper-hour would come with a hush instead of a
clatter. The light stol'n forth o' the building would leave the whole
house in gloom. And in your selfish soul you would be glad, for God so
made all of us! Now you turn yourself to the wall, and marvel at the
lightness of human words and