Walter Drury was not unmindful of the care and skill which the hospital staff lavished on him, though no more faithfully on him than on many an unknown or unresponsive patient.  But he was in a pitifully questioning mood.  The doctors had told him he could not expect to preach again.  When the district superintendent had come to visit him, he carried away with him Walter Drury’s request for retirement at the coming session of the Annual Conference.

In his quiet moments—­there were so many of them now—­the broken man counted up his years of service, all too few, as it seemed to him, and lacking much of what they might have shown in outcomes for the church and the kingdom.  His Conference was one of the few which paid the full annuity claim of its retired preachers, but even so he had not much to look forward to.  His twenty-five years in the active ranks meant that he could count on twenty-five times $15 a year, $375, on which to live, when he gave up his work.

Perhaps he could live on this, with what little he had been able to put aside; at any rate he could be glad now that there was none but himself to think about.  But was it worth all he had put into his vocation?  His brother in Saint Louis, not remarkably successful in his business, had been able at least to make some provision for his old age.  He too might have been a moderately successful business or professional man.  Truly it was more than the older preachers had, this Conference annuity, which would keep him from actual want; so much, surely, had been gained by the church’s growing sense of responsibility for its veterans.

But had it really paid?  Was all the gentle efficiency of the hospital, and all the church’s money which would come to him from the Conference funds and the Board of Conference Claimants, enough to compensate him for the long years when he had been spendthrift of all his powers for the sake of his work?

He knew, of course, the answer to his questions; no one better.  But he was a broken-down preacher, old before his time; and knowing the answer was not at all the same as having the answer.  So he had been brought home from Hillcrest, mind-weary and much cast down.  Nor did he regain any of his old buoyancy of spirit until the day when they told him J. W, would be home next week.

It was then that he told himself, “If J.W. has come back with only a story to tell”—­and gloom was in his face; “But if he has come back with the story to tell”—­and his heart leaped within him at the thought.

The pastor and J.W. were soon talking away with the old familiarity, but mostly about inconsequentials.  Neither was quite prepared for more intimate communion; and, of course, the returning traveler had much to do.  The wedding was near at hand, and everybody but himself had been getting ready this long time.  So the call was too brief to suit either of them, with the longer visits each hoped for of necessity deferred to a more convenient season.