One night a hot wind came, and the nest morning was summer.  The horse that had drawn coal during the winter, now hitched to an ice wagon, died in the street.  The pavements throbbed, the basement restaurants exhaled a sickening air, and through the grating was blown the cellar’s cool and mouldy breath; and the sanitary writer on the editorial page cried out:  “Boil your drinking-water!”

It was Witherspoon’s custom, during the heated term, to take his wife and his daughter to the seaside, and to return when the weather there became insufferably hot.  It was supposed that Henry would go, but when the time came he declared that he had in view a piece of work that most not be neglected.  Witherspoon recognized the urgency of no work except his own.  “What, you can’t go!” he exclaimed.  “What do you mean by ’can’t go’?”

“I mean simply that it is not convenient for me to get away at this time.”

“And is it your scheme now to act entirely upon your own convenience?  Can’t you sometimes pull far enough away from yourself to forget your own convenience?”

“Oh, yes, but I can’t very well forget that on this occasion it is almost impossible for me to get away.  Of course you don’t understand this, and I am afraid that if I should try I couldn’t make it very clear to you.”

“Oh, you needn’t make any explanation to me, I assure you.  I had planned an enjoyment for your mother and sister, and if you desire to interfere with it, I have nothing more to say.”

“I have no business that shall interfere with their enjoyment,” Henry replied.  “I’m ready to go at any time.”

The next day Witherspoon said:  “Henry, if you have decided to go, there is no use of my leaving home.”

“Now there’s no need of all this sacrifice,” Mrs. Witherspoon protested, “for the truth is I don’t want to go anyway.  During the hot weather I am never so comfortable anywhere as I am at home.  My son, you shall not go on my account; and as for Ellen, she can go with some of our friends.  But, father, I do think that you need rest.”

“Very true,” he admitted, “but unfortunately we can’t drop a worry and run away from it.”

“But what is worrying you now?”

“Everything.  Nothing goes on as it should, and every day it seems that a new annoyance takes hold of me.”

“In your time you have advised many a man to be sensible,” said Henry, “and now if you please, permit a man who has never been very sensible to advise you.”  Witherspoon looked at him.  “My advice is, be sensible.”

In a fretful resentment Witherspoon jerked his shoulder as if with muscular force he sought a befitting reply, but he said nothing and Henry continued:  “This may be impudence on my part, but in impudence there may lie a good intention and a piece of advice that may not be bad.  The worry of a strong man is a sign of danger.  The truth is that if you keep on this way you’ll break down.”