"The past is past," said the Chemist. "It dies like the brutes.
Who talks to me of its traces in my life? He raves or lies! What
have I to do with your distempered dreams? If you want money, here
it is. I came to offer it; and that is all I came for. There can
be nothing else that brings me here," he muttered, holding his head
again, with both his hands. "There CAN be nothing else, and yet -
"
He had tossed his purse upon the table. As he fell into this dim
cogitation with himself, the student took it up, and held it out to
him.
"Take it back, sir," he said proudly, though not angrily. "I wish
you could take from me, with it, the remembrance of your words and
offer."
"You do?" he retorted, with a wild light in his eyes. "You do?"
"I do!"
The Chemist went close to him, for the first time, and took the
purse, and turned him by the arm, and looked him in the face.
"There is sorrow and trouble in sickness, is there not?" he
demanded, with a laugh.
The wondering student answered, "Yes."
"In its unrest, in its anxiety, in its suspense, in all its train
of physical and mental miseries?" said the Chemist, with a wild
unearthly exultation. "All best forgotten, are they not?"
The student did not answer, but again passed his hand, confusedly,
across his forehead.
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