And he found him here, in his own home,
a stranger, alone and dying, receiving what ministrations were reserved
for Jerry the Teller. But it was Helen Sherwood who had found him. He
wondered how much those two had seen of each other, down there in
Plattville. If they had liked each other, and Harkless could have lived,
he thought it might have simplified some things for Helen. "Poor Helen!"
he exclaimed aloud. Her telegram had a ring, even in the barren four
sentences. He wondered how much they had liked each other. Perhaps she
would wish to come at once. When those fellows came out of the room he
would send her a word by telegraph.
When they came out--ah! he did not want them to come out; he was afraid.
They were an eternity--why didn't they come? No; he hoped they would not
come, just now. In a little time, in a few minutes, even, he would not
dread a few words so much; but _now_ he couldn't quite bear to be told he
had found his friend only to lose him, the man he had always most needed,
wanted, loved. Everybody had always cared for Harkless, wherever he went.
That _he_ had always cared for everybody was part of the reason, maybe.
Meredith remembered, now, hearing a man who had spent a day in Plattville
on business speak of him: "They've got a young fellow down there who'll be
Governor in a few years.
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