In the middle of the pile of cards he found one signed by Kate Ransom. She had written across the printed form in her smooth, flowing hand:
He knew that she would make a liberal gift, but her fortune could not be more than a million, perhaps not half so large. Her generosity could not save the day even if she gave half of all she possessed, a supposition of course preposterous.
He could not summon courage to go in the bitterness of his defeat. He scrawled a note and sent it by the sexton.
There was but one forlorn hope left. He had written personal letters to several millionaires he knew in town. They might respond.
He sat in his study in the afternoon, dull, stupid and sick, feeling an iron band around his brain. He could not think. He gave up the work on his evening sermon and determined to repeat an old one.
As he sat in an aching stupor the sexton announced a gentleman who insisted on seeing him on important business.
