"And then, after everybody half knew or half guessed, and had ceased to respect him, he came back here to Springfield once, as we all do, and happened to see Baldwin, and found him the same, scarcely a day older, though he himself was gray and withered. It hadn't hurt Baldwin; he was well-*dressed, respectable, popular, received everywhere—clubs, society, church and all, just as the men were whose dirty money Baldwin handled. And Baldwin's wife, she wasn't old and sad and hopeless; she was going out in society, president of a big woman's club, talked about safe little reforms, charities and philanthropies. And Baldwin's daughters were over in Europe getting the last finish on their education."
Holman had a feeling that McCray was no longer listening and, glancing aside, saw that McCray's face was buried in his hands. And with pity in his long, gray face he looked at him a little while, then laid a hand on McCray's shoulder.
"Do you know," he said, "why I told you this story? You see, I didn't want to make you feel bad; I only wanted to show you. Because there's a lot in you—a big, beautiful future."
