God knows it was not to gratify those tastes that he clutched at this money.

All the slow years of work trailed up before him, that were gone,--of hard, wearing work for daily bread, when his brain had been starving for knowledge, and his soul dulled, debased with sordid trading.

Was this to be always?
Were these few golden moments of life to be traded for the bread and meat he ate?
To eat and drink,--was that what he was here for?
As he paced the floor mechanically, some vague recollection crossed his brain of a childish story of the man standing where the two great roads of life parted.

They were open before him now.

Money, money,--he took the word into his heart as a miser might do.