One night he came
to see me, and I tried hard to get him to tell me what was wrong. He
wouldn't, but went away, and several hours later I found a letter he
had shoved under the table-cloth. I read it, and rushed out and
hitched up a horse and drove like mad to my brother-in-law's, but I
got there too late, the poor boy had taken a shot-gun to his room,
and put the muzzle into his mouth, and set off the trigger with his
foot. In the letter he told me what was the matter--he had got into
trouble with a woman of the town, and had caught syphilis. He had
gone away and tried to get cured, but had fallen into the hands of a
quack, who had taken all his money and left his health worse than
ever, so in despair and shame the poor boy had shot his head off.
I paused, uncertain if Sylvia would understand the story. "Do you
know what syphilis is?" I asked.
"I suppose--I have heard of what we call a 'bad disease'" she said.
"It's a very bad disease. But if the words convey to you that it's a
disease that bad people get, I should tell you that most men take
the chance of getting it; yet they are cruel enough to despise those
upon whom the ill-luck falls. My poor nephew had been utterly
ignorant--I found out that from his father, too late.
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