.iiiii 
 
 yDZ 
 
 if)/ RALPH CONNOR 
 
CORNELL 
 
 UNIVERSITY 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 FROM 
 
 The Library of 
 
 K. M. WIEGAND 
 
 Gift of the 
 Department of Botany 
 
Cornell University Library 
 PR 9299.G66D6 
 
 The doctor; a tale of the Rockies, by Ralp 
 
 3 1924 013 243 252 
 
The original of tliis book is in 
 tlie Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924013243252 
 
THE DOCTOR 
 
THE COMPLETE WORKS OF 
 
 RALPH CONNOR 
 
 THE DOCTOR. A Tale of the Rockies. 
 
 1st edition, fjth thousand. l2mo, $1.50. 
 
 THE PROSPECTOR. A Tale of the Crow's 
 Nest Pass, jzjth thousand. i2mo, j!i.5o. 
 ' 'A novel so intense that one grinds his teeth 
 lest his sinews should snap ere the strain is 
 released." — Chicago Tribune. 
 
 GWEN. The Canyon Story from "The Sky Pilot" 
 in Art Gift Book Series, with many illustrations 
 and marginal etchings. 75 cents net. 
 
 BLACK ROCK. A Tale of the Selkirks. 4S0th 
 thousand. Illustrated, $1.25. 
 
 THE SKY PILOT. A Tale of the Foothills. 
 260th thousand. l2mo, fi.25. 
 " Real life, virile, true, tender, humorous, 
 pathetic, spiritual, wholesome." — The Outlook. 
 
 THE MAN FROM GLENGARRY. A Tale of 
 the Ottawa. 160th thousand. i2mo, I1.50. 
 ' ' A legitimate successor to ' The Sky Pilot ' 
 and ' Black Rock.' " — The Literary Digest. 
 
 GLENGARRY SCHOOL DAYS. A Story of 
 Early Days in Glengarry. ^6th thousand. 
 Illustrated, i!i.2S. 
 
 Fleming H. Revell Company 
 
 PUBLISHERS 
 
Th e Docto r 
 
 A TALE OF THE ROCKIES 
 
 BY 
 RALPH CONNOR u^sead ^ 
 
 Author of "The Sky Pilot," "Black Rock," 
 The Man from Glengarry," 
 'The Prospector," etc. 
 
 NEW YORK, CHICAGO, TORONTO 
 
 FLEMING H. REVELL COMPANY 
 
 LONDON AND EDINBURGH 
 
Copyright, 1906, by 
 FLEMING H. REVELL COMPANY 
 
 New York : 158 Fifth Avenue 
 Chicago : 80 Wabash Avenue 
 Toronto: SS Richmond St., W. 
 London : 21 Paternoster Square 
 Edinburgh : 100 Princes Street 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 CBAPTEB PAGE 
 
 I. The Old Stone Mill ......... 9 
 
 II. The Daughter or the Manse IS 
 
 III. The Raisins 26 
 
 IV. The Dance 40 
 
 V. The New Teacher 55 
 
 VI. The Young Doctor 66 
 
 VII. The Good Cheer Department 76 
 
 VIII. Ben's Gang 95 
 
 IX. Love's Tangled Ways 110 
 
 X. For a Lady's Honour 195 
 
 XI. Iola's Choice 144 
 
 XII. He that Loveth His Life 161 
 
 XIII. A Man that is an Heretic Reject .... 185 
 
 XIV. Whosoever Looketh Upon a Woman .... 199 
 
 XV. The Superintendent's Methods 212 
 
 XVI. The Challenge of Death 230 
 
 XVII. The Fight with Death ' . . . 245 
 
 XVIII. The Medical Superintendent of the Crow's 
 
 Nest 263 
 
 XIX. The Lady op Kuskinook 276 
 
 XX. Until Seventy Times Seven 297 
 
 XXL To Whom He Forgave Most 322 
 
 XXII. The Heart's Rest 339 
 
 XXIII. The Last Call 362 
 
 XXIV For Love's Sake 397 
 
THE DOCTOR 
 
 THE OLD STONE MILU 
 
 THERE were two ways by which one could 
 get to the Old Stone Mill. One, from the 
 sideroad by a lane which, edged with grassy, 
 flower-decked banks, woiond between snake fences, 
 along which straggled irregular clumps of hazel and 
 blue beech, dogwood and thorn bushes, and beyond 
 which stretched on one side fields of grain just head- 
 ing out this bright June morning, and on the other 
 side a long strip of hay fields of mixed timothy and 
 red clover, generous of colour and perfume, which 
 ran along the snake fence till it came to a potato 
 patch which, in turn, led to an orchard where the 
 lane began to drop down to the Mill valley. 
 
 At the crest of the hill travellers with even the 
 merest embryonic aesthetic taste were forced to pause. 
 For there the valley with its sweet loveliness lay in 
 full view before them. Far away to the right, out 
 of an angle in the woods, ran the Mill Creek to fill 
 the pond which brimmed gleaming to the green bank 
 of the dam. Beyond the pond a sloping grassy 
 sward showed green under an open beech and maple 
 woods. On the hither side of the pond an orchard 
 ran down hill to the water's edge, and at the nearer 
 
 9 
 
10 THE DOCTOR 
 
 corner of the dam, among a clump of ancient willows, 
 stood the Old Stone Mill, with house attached, and 
 across the miU yard the shed and bam, aU neat as a 
 tidy housewife's kitchen. To the left of the mill, 
 with its green turf-clad dam and placid gleaming 
 pond, wandered off green fields of many shading 
 colours, through which ran the MiU Creek, foaming 
 as if enraged that it should have been even for a brief 
 space paused in its flow to serve another's will. Then, 
 beyond the many-shaded fields, woods again, spruce 
 and tamarack, where the stream entered, and maple 
 and beech on the higher levels. That was one way 
 to the mill, the way the farmers took with their grist 
 or their oats for old Charley Boyle to grind. 
 
 The other way came in by the McKenzies' lane 
 from the Concession Line, which ran at right angles 
 to the sideroad. This was a mere foot path, some- 
 times used by riders who came for a bag of flour or 
 meal when the barrel or bin had unawares run low. 
 This path led through the beech and maple woods to 
 the farther end of the dam, where it divided, to the 
 right if one wished to go to the mill yard, and across 
 the dam if one wished to reach the house. From any 
 point of view the Old Stone Mill, with its dam and 
 pond, its surrounding woods and fields and orchard, 
 made a picture of rare loveliness, and suggestive of 
 deep fulness of peace. At least, the woman stand- 
 ing at the dam, where the shade of the willows fell, 
 found it so. The beauty, the quiet of the scene, 
 rested her; the full sweet harmony of those many 
 voices in which Nature pours forth herself on a sum- 
 
THE OLD STONE MILL 11 
 
 mer day, stole in upon her heart and comforted her. 
 She was a woman of striking appearance. Tall and 
 straight she stood, a figure full of strength ; her dark 
 face stamped with features that bespoke her High- 
 land ancestry, her black hair shot with silver threads, 
 parting in waves over her forehead; her eyes deep 
 set, black and sombre, glowing with that mystic light 
 that shines only in eyes that have for generations 
 peered into the gloom of Highland glens. 
 
 " Ay, it's a bonny spot," she sighed, her rugged 
 face softening as she gazed. " It's a bonny spot, 
 and it would be a sore thing to part it." 
 
 As she stood looking and listening her face 
 changed. Through the hum of the mill there pierced 
 now and then the notes of a violin. 
 
 " Oh, that weary fiddle ! " she said with an im- 
 patient shake of her head. But in a few moments 
 the impatience in her face passed into tender pity. 
 " Ah, well, well," she sighed, " poor man, it is the 
 kind heart he has, whateffer." 
 
 She passed down the bank into the house, then 
 through the large living-room, speckless in its thrifty 
 order, into a longer room that joined house to mill. 
 She glanced at the tall clock that stood beside the 
 door. " Mercy me ! " she cried, " it's time my own 
 
 work was done. But I'll just step in and see " 
 
 She opened the door leading to the mill and stood 
 silent. A neat little man with cheery, rosy face, 
 clean-shaven, and with a mass of curly hair tinged 
 with grey hanging about his forehead, was seated 
 upon a chair tipped back against the wall, play- 
 
12 THE DOCTOR 
 
 ing a violin with great vigour and unmistakable 
 delight. 
 
 "The mill's a-workin', mother," he cried without 
 stopping his flying fingers, " and I'm keepin' my eye 
 upon her." 
 
 She shook her head reproachfully at her husband. 
 "Ay, the mill is workin' indeed, but it's not of the 
 mill you're thinking." 
 
 " Of what then.? " he cried cheerily, still playing. 
 
 " It is of that raising and of the dancing, I'U be 
 bound you." 
 
 " Wrong, mother," replied the little man exultant. 
 " Sure you're wrong. Listen to this. What is it 
 now.?" 
 
 " Nonsense," cried the woman, " how do I know.? " 
 
 " But listen, Elsie, darlin'," he cried, dropping into 
 
 his Irish brogue. " Don't you mind " and on 
 
 he played for a few minutes. " Now you mind, don't 
 you?" 
 
 " Of course, I mind, ' The Lass o' Gowrie.' But 
 what of it ? " she cried, heroically struggling to main- 
 tain her stem appearance. 
 
 But even as she spoke her face, so amazing in its 
 power of swiftly changing expression, took on a 
 softer look. 
 
 " Ah, there you are," cried the little man in tri- 
 umph, " now I know you remember. And it's twenty- 
 four years to-morrow, Elsie, darlin', since " He 
 
 suddenly dropped his violin on some meal bags at his 
 side and sprang toward her. 
 
 " Go away with you." She closed the door quickly 
 
THE OLD STONE MILL 13 
 
 behind her. " Whisht now ! Be quate now, I'm say- 
 in'. You're just as foolish as ever you were." 
 
 "Foolish? No mother, not foolish, but wise yon 
 time, although it's foolish enough I'T:e been often 
 since. And," he added with a sigh, " it's not much 
 luck I've brought you, except for the boys. They'll 
 do, perhaps, what I've not done." 
 
 " Whisht now, lad," said his wife, patting his 
 shoulder gently, for a great tenderness flowed over 
 her eloquent face. " What has come to you to-day? 
 Go away now to your work," she added in her former 
 tone, " there's the hay waiting, you know well. Go 
 now and I'll watch the grist." 
 
 " And why would you watch the grist, mother? " 
 said a voice from the miU door, as a young man of 
 eighteen years stepped inside. He was his mother's 
 son. The same swarthy, rugged face, the same deep- 
 set, sombre eyes, the same suggestion of strength in 
 every line of his body, of power in every move he 
 made and of passion in every glance. " Indeed, you 
 will do no such thing. Dad'U watch the grist and 
 I'll slash down the hay in no time. And do you know, 
 mother," he continued in a tone of suppressed excite- 
 ment, " have you heard the big news? " His mother 
 waited. " He's coming home to-day. He's coming 
 with the Murrays, and Alec will bring him to the 
 raising." 
 
 A throb of light swept across the mother's face, 
 but she only said in a voice calm and steady, " Well, 
 you'd better get that hay down. It'll be late enough 
 before it is in." 
 
14. THE DOCTOR 
 
 " Listen to her, Barney," cried her husband scorn- 
 fully. " And she'll not be going to the raising to- 
 day, either. The boy'Il be home by one in the morn- 
 ing, and sure that's time enough." 
 
 Barney stood looking at his mother with a quiet 
 smile on his face. " We will have dinner early," he 
 said, " and I'll just take a turn at the hay." 
 
 She turned and entered the house without a word, 
 while he took down the scythe from its peg, removed 
 the blade from the snath and handed it to his father. 
 
 " Give it a turn or two," he said ; " you're better 
 than me at this." 
 
 " Here then," replied his father, handing him the 
 violin, " and you're better at this." 
 
 " They would not say so to-night, Dad," replied 
 the lad as he took the violin from his father's hands, 
 looking it over reverently. In a very few minutes 
 his father came back with the scythe ready for work ; 
 and Barney, fastening it to the snath, again set off 
 up the lane. 
 
n 
 
 THE DAUGHTER OF THE MANSE 
 
 TWO hours later, down from the dusty side- 
 road, a girl swinging a milk pail in her hand 
 turned into the mill lane. As she stepped 
 from the glare and dust of the highroad into the 
 lane, it seemed as if Nature had been waiting to find 
 in her the touch that makes perfect; so truly, in all 
 her fresh daintiness, did she seem a bit of that green 
 shady lane with its sweet fragrance and its fresh 
 beauty. 
 
 It had taken sixteen years of wholesome country 
 life to round that supple form into its firm lines of 
 grace, and to tint those moulded cheeks with the 
 dainty bloom that seemed a reflection from the thistle 
 heads that nodded at her through the snake fence. 
 It had taken sixteen years of pure-hearted, joyous 
 living to lend those eyes, azure as the sky above, their 
 brave, clear glance ; sixteen years of unsullied maiden- 
 hood to endow her with that divine something of mys- 
 tery which, with its shy reserve and fearless trust, 
 awakens reverence and rebukes impurity as with the 
 vision of God. 
 
 Her sunbonnet, fallen back from her yellow hair, 
 shining golden in the sun, revealed a face strong, 
 brave and kind, with just a touch of pride. The 
 
 15 
 
16 THE DOCTOR 
 
 pride showed most, however, in the poise of her head 
 and the carriage of her shoulders. But when the 
 mobile lips parted in a smile over the straight rows 
 of white teeth one forgot the pride and thought only 
 of the soft persuasive lips. 
 
 As she sprang up the green turf, she drew in deep 
 breaths of clover-scented air, and exclaimed aloud, 
 " Oh, this is good ! " She peeped through the snake 
 fence at the luscious rich masses of red clover. 
 "What a bed!" she cried; "I beheve TH try it." 
 Over the fence she sprang, and in a thorn tree's shade, 
 deep in the fragrant blossoms, she stretched herself 
 at f uU length upon her back. For some minutes she 
 lay in the luxury of that fragrant bed looking up 
 through the spreading thorn tree branches to the blue 
 sky with its floating, fleecy clouds far overhead. The 
 lazy drone of the bees in the clover beside her, the 
 languorous summer airs swaying into gentle nodding 
 the timothy stalks just above her head, and all the 
 soothing sounds of a summer morning, that many- 
 voiced choir that sings to the great God Nature's 
 glad content that all is so very good, rested and 
 comforted the girl's heart and body, making her know 
 as she had not known before how very weary she 
 had been and how deep an ache her heart had held, 
 
 " Oh, it's good ! " she cried again, stretching her 
 hands at full length above her head. " I wish I could 
 stay for one whole day, just here in the clover with 
 the bees and the birds and the trees and the clouds 
 and the blue sky, no children, no dinner, no tidy- 
 ing up." 
 
THE DAUGHTER OI' THE MANSE 17 
 
 As she lay there it seemed to her as if she had 
 thrown off for the moment the load she had been car- 
 rying for many months. For a year she had tried 
 to fill in the minister's household her mother's place. 
 Without a day's warning the burden had been laid 
 upon her shoulders, but with the fine courage that 
 youth and love combine to give, denying herself even 
 the poor luxury of indulgence of the grief that had 
 fallen upon her young heart, she had given herself, 
 without thought of anything heroic in her giving, to 
 the caring for the house and the household, and the 
 comforting as best she could of her father, suddenly 
 bereft of her who had been to him not wife alone, but 
 comrade and counsellor as well. Without a thought, 
 she had at once surrendered all the bright plans that 
 she, with her mother, had cherished for the cultiva- 
 tion of her varied talents, and had turned to the dull, 
 monotonous routine of household duties with never a 
 thought but that she must do it. There was no one 
 else. 
 
 " I believe I am tired," she said again aloud ; then 
 letting her heart follow her eyes into and beyond the 
 blue above her, she cried softly, " O mother, how 
 tired you must have been with it all, and how much 
 you did for me! For me, great, big lump that I 
 am ! Dear little mother. Oh, if I had only known ! 
 Oh, we were all so thoughtless ! " She stretched up 
 her hands again to the blue sky with its fleecy clouds. 
 " For your sake, mother dear," she whispered. Not 
 often had any seen those brave eyes dim with tears. 
 Not often since that day when they had carried her 
 
18 THE DOCTOR 
 
 mother out from the Manse and left her behind with 
 the weeping, clinging children, and even now she 
 hastily wiped the tears away, chiding herself the 
 while. " I never saw her cry," she said to herself, 
 " not once, except for some of us. And I will try. I 
 must try. It is hard to give up," and again the tears 
 welled up in the brave blue eyes. " Nonsense," she 
 cried impatiently, sitting up straight, " don't be a 
 big, selfish baby. They're just the dearest little 
 darlings in the world, and I'll do my best for 
 them." 
 
 Her moment of self-pity was gone in a flood of 
 shamed indignation. She locked her hands round 
 her knees and looked about her. " It is a beautiful 
 world after all. And how near the beauty is to us ; 
 just over the fence and you are in the thick of it. 
 Oh, but this is great ! " Once more she rolled in an 
 ecstasy of luxurious delight in the clover and lay 
 again supine, revelling in that riot of caressing 
 sounds and scents. 
 
 " Kir-r-r-ink-a-chink, kir-r-r-ink-a-phink " 
 
 She sprang up alert and listening. " That is old 
 Charley, I suppose, or Barney, perhaps, sharpening 
 his scythe." She climbed up the conveniently jut- 
 ting ends of the fence rails and looked over the field. 
 
 " It's Barney," she said, shading her eyes with 
 her hand ; " I wonder he does not cut his fingers." 
 She sat herself down upon the top rail and leaned 
 against the stake. 
 
 " My ! what a sweep," she said in admiring tones as 
 the young man swayed to and fro in all the rhythmic 
 
THE DAUGHTER OF THE MANSE 19 
 
 grace of the mower's stride, swinging easily now back- 
 ward the curving blade and then forward in a cutting 
 sweep, clean and swift, laying the even swath. Alas ! 
 the clattering machine-knives have driven off from 
 our hay-fields the mower's art with all its rhythmic 
 grace. 
 
 Those were days when men were famous according 
 as they could " cut oiF the heels of a rival mower." 
 There are that grieve that, one by one, from field and 
 from forest, are banished those ancient arts of daily 
 toil by which men were wont to prove their might, 
 their skill of hand and eye, their invincible endurance. 
 But there stiU offer in life's stem daily fight full op- 
 portunity to prove manhood in ways less picturesque 
 perhaps, but no less truly testing. 
 
 Down the swath came Barney, his sinewy body 
 swinging in very poetry of motion. 
 
 " Doesn't he do it well ! " said the girl, following 
 with admiring eyes every movement of his well-poised 
 
 frame. " How big he is ! Why " and her blue 
 
 eyes widened with startled surprise, " he's almost a 
 man ! " The tint of the thistle bloom deepened in her 
 cheek. She glanced down and made as if to spring 
 to the ground; then settling herself resolutely back 
 against her fence stake, she exclaimed, " Pshaw ! I 
 don't care. He is just a boy. Anyway, I'm not 
 going to mind Barney Boyle." 
 
 On came the mower in mighty sweeps, cutting the 
 swath clean out to the end. 
 
 " Well done ! " cried the girl. " You'll be cutting 
 off Long John's heels in a year or so." 
 
20 THE DOCTOR 
 
 " A year or so ! If I can't do it to-day I never 
 can. But I don't want to blow." 
 
 " You needn't. They're all talking about you, 
 with your binding and pitching and cradling, and 
 what not." 
 
 "They are, are they.? Who is good enough to 
 waste breath on me.''" 
 
 " Oh, everybody. The McKenzie girls were just 
 telling me the other day." 
 
 " Oh, pshaw ! I ran away from their crowd, but 
 that's nothing." 
 
 " And I suppose you have not an idea how nice you 
 look as you go swinging along.'' " 
 
 " Do I? That's the only time then." 
 
 " Oh, now you're fishing, and I'm not going to bite. 
 Where did you learn the scythe.'' " 
 
 " Where ? Right here where we had to, Dick and 
 I. By the way, he's coming home to-day." He 
 glanced at her face quickly as he said this, but her 
 face showed only a frank pleasure. 
 
 " To-day .'' Good. Won't your mother be glad.? " 
 
 " Yes. And some other people, too," said Bar- 
 ney. 
 
 "And who, particularly.?" 
 
 A sudden shyness seemed to seize the young man, 
 but recovering himself, " Well, I guess I will, myself, 
 a little. This is the first time he has ever been away. 
 We never slept a night apart from each other as long 
 as I can mind till he went to college last year. He 
 used to put his arm just round me here," touching his 
 breast. " I'll tell you the first nights after he went 
 
THE DAUGHTER OF THE MANSE 21 
 
 I used to feel for him in the dark and be sick to find 
 the place empty." 
 
 " Well," said the girl doubtfully, " I hope he won't 
 be diflFerent. College does make a difference, you 
 know." 
 
 "Different! Dick! He'd better not. I'll thrash 
 the daylights out of him. But he won't be different. 
 Not to us, nor," he added shyly, " to you." 
 
 "Oh, to me.?" She laughed lightly. " He had 
 better not try any airs with me." 
 
 " What would you do .'' " inquired Barney. " You 
 couldn't take it out of his hide." 
 
 " Oh, I'd fix him. I'd take him down," she replied 
 with a knowing shake of her head. 
 
 " Poor Dick ! He's in for a hard time," replied 
 Barney. " But nothing can change Dick. And I 
 am awful glad he's coming to-day, in time for the 
 raising, too." 
 
 " The raising.? Oh, yes. The McLeods'. Yes, I 
 remember. And," regretfully, " a big supper and a 
 big spree afterwards in the new barn." 
 
 " Are not you going? " inquired Barney. 
 
 " I don't know. They want me to go to help, but 
 I don't think I'U go. I don't think father would like 
 me to go, and," — a pause — " anyway, I don't think I 
 can get away." 
 
 " Oh, pshaw ! Get Old Nancy In. She can take 
 care of the children for once. You would like the 
 raising. It's great fun." 
 
 "Oh! wouldn't I, though.? It's fine to see them 
 racing. They get so wild and yell so." 
 
22 THE DOCTOR 
 
 " Well, come on then. You must come. They'll 
 all be disappointed, if you don't. And Dick is com- 
 ing that way, too. Alec Murray is to bring him on 
 his way home from town." Again Barney glanced 
 keenly at her face, but he saw only puzzled uncer- 
 tainty there. 
 
 " Well, I don't know. We'll see. At any rate, I 
 must go now." 
 
 " Wait," cried Barney, " I'll go with you. We're 
 having dinner early to-day." He hung up the scythe 
 in the thorn tree and threw the stone at the foot. 
 
 " I wish you would promise to come," he said 
 earnestly. 
 
 " Do you, really ? " The blue eyes turned full 
 upon him. 
 
 " Of course I do. It will be lots better fun if you 
 are there." The frank, boyish honesty of his tone 
 seemed to disappoint the blue eyes. Together in 
 silence they set off down the lane. 
 
 " Well," she said, resuming their conversation, " I 
 don't think I can go, but I'll see. You'll be playing 
 for the dancing, I suppose.'' " 
 
 " No. I won't play if Dan is around, and I guess 
 he'll be there. I may spell him a little perhaps." 
 
 " Then you'll be dancing yourself. You're great 
 at that, I know." 
 
 " Me? Not much. It's Dick. Oh, he's a dandy ! 
 He's a bird ! You ought to see him ! I'll make him 
 do the Highland Fling." 
 
 " Oh, Dick, Dick ! " she cried impatiently, " every- 
 thing is Dick with you." 
 
THE DAUGHTER OF THE MANSE 23 
 
 Barney glanced at her, and after a moment's pause 
 said, " Yes. I guess you're right. Everything is 
 pretty much Dick with me. Next to my mother, 
 Dick is the finest in all the world." 
 
 At the crest of the hiU they stood looking silently 
 upon the scene spread out before them. 
 
 " There," said Barney, " if I live to be a hundred 
 years, I can't forget that," and he waved his hand 
 over the valley. Then he continued, " I tell you 
 what, with the moon just over the pond there making 
 
 a track of light across the pond " She glanced 
 
 shyly at him. The sombre eyes were looking far 
 away. 
 
 " I know," she said softly ; " it must be lovely." 
 
 Through the silence that followed there rose 
 and fell with musical cadence a call long and clear, 
 " Who-o-o-hoo." 
 
 " That's mother," said Barney, answering the call 
 with a quick shout. " You'll be in time for dinner." 
 
 " Dinner ! " she cried with a gasp. " I'll have to 
 get my buttermilk and other things and hurry home." 
 And she ran at full speed down the hill and into the 
 mill yard, followed by Barney protesting that it was 
 too hot to run. 
 
 " How are you, Mrs. Boyle.'' " she panted. " I'm 
 in an awful hurry. I'm after father's buttermilk and 
 that recipe, you know." 
 
 Mrs. Boyle's eyes rested lovingly upon her flushed 
 face. 
 
 " Indeed, there's no hurry, Margaret. Barney 
 should not be letting you run." 
 
m THE DOCTOR 
 
 " Letting me ! " she laughed defiantly. " Indeed, 
 he had aU he could do to keep up." 
 
 " And that I had," said Barney, " and, mother, tell 
 her she must come to the raising." 
 
 "And are you not going?" said the older 
 woman. 
 
 " I don't think so. You know father — ^well, he 
 wouldn't care for me to be at the dance." 
 
 "Yes, yes, I know," quickly replied Mrs. Boyle, 
 " but you might just come with me and look quietly 
 on. And, indeed, the change will be doing you good. 
 I wiU just call for you, and speak to your father this 
 afternoon." 
 
 " Oh, I don't know, Mrs. Boyle. I hardly think 
 I ought." 
 
 " Hoots, lassie ! Come away, then, into the milk- 
 house." 
 
 Back among the overhanging willows stood the 
 little whitewashed log milkhouse, built over a little 
 brook that gurgled clear and cool over the gravelly 
 floor. 
 
 " What a lovely place," said Margaret, stepping 
 along the foot stones. 
 
 " Ay, it's clean and sweet," said Mrs. Boyle. 
 " And that is what you most need with the milk and 
 butter." 
 
 She took up an earthen jar from the gravelly bed 
 and filled the girl's pail with buttermilk. 
 
 " Thank you, Mrs. Boyle. And now for that 
 recipe for the scones." 
 
 " Och, yes ! " said Mrs. Boyle. " There's no recipe 
 
THE DAUGHTER OF THE MANSE 25 
 
 at alL It is just this way " 'And she elucidated 
 
 the mysteries of sconemaking. 
 
 " But they will not taste a bit like yours, I'm sure," 
 cried Margaret, in despair. 
 
 " Never you fear, lassie. You hurry away home 
 now and get your dinner past, and we will call for 
 you on our way." 
 
 " Here, lassie," she cried, " your father wiU like 
 this. It is only churned th' day." She rolled a pat 
 of butter in a clean linen cloth, laid it between two 
 rhubarb leaves and set it in a small basket. 
 
 " Good-bye," said the girl as she kissed the dark 
 cheek. " You're far too kind to me." 
 
 " Poor lassie, poor lassie, I would I could be 
 kinder. It's a good girl you are, and a brave one.'* 
 
 " Not very brave, I fear," replied the girl, as she 
 quickly turned away and ran up the hill and out of 
 sight. 
 
 " Poor motherless lassie," said Mrs. Boyle, looking 
 after her with loving eyes ; " it's a heavy care she has, 
 and the minister, poor man, he can't see it. Well, 
 well, she has the promise." 
 
Ill 
 
 THE RAISING 
 
 THE building of a bank-barn was a watershed 
 in farm chronology. Toward that event 
 or from it the years took their flight. For 
 many summers the big boulders were gathered from 
 the fields and piled in a long heap at the bottom of 
 the lane on their way to their ultimate destination, 
 the foundation of the bank-bam. During the winter 
 previous the " timber was got out." From the forest 
 trees, maple, beech or elm — for the pine was long since 
 gone — the main sills, the plates, the posts and cross- 
 beams were squared and hauled to the site of the new 
 bam. Hither also the sand from the pit at the big 
 Tiill, and the stone from the heap at the bottom of the 
 lane, were drawn. And before the snow had quite 
 gone the lighter lumber — flooring, scantling, sheeting 
 and shingles — were marshalled to the scene of action. 
 Then with the spring the masons and framers ap- 
 peared and began their work of organising from this 
 mass of material the structure that was to be at once 
 ihe pride of the farm and the symbol of its pros- 
 perity. 
 
 From the very first the enterprise was. carried on 
 under the acknowledged, but none the less critical, 
 
 36 
 
THE RAISING 27 
 
 observation of the immediate neighbourhood. For 
 instance, it had been a matter of free discussion 
 whether " them timbers of McLeod's new bam wasn't 
 too blamed heavy," and it was Jack McKenzie's 
 openly expressed opinion that " one of them ' purline 
 plates ' was so all-fired crooked that it would do for 
 both sides at onct." But the confidence of the com- 
 munity in Jack Murray, framer, was sufficiently 
 strong to allay serious forebodings. And by the time 
 the masons had set firm and solid the many-coloured 
 boulders in the foundation, the community at large 
 had begun to take interest in the undertaking. 
 
 The McLeod raising was to be an event of no 
 ordinary importance. It had the distinction of be- 
 ing, in the words of Jack Murray, framer, " the big- 
 gest thing in buildin's ever seen in them parts." In- 
 deed, so magnificent were its dimensions that Ben 
 Fallows, who stood just five feet in his stocking soles, 
 and was, therefore, a man of considerable importance 
 in his estimation, was overheard to exclaim with an 
 air of finality, " What ! two twenty-foot floors and 
 two thirty-foot mows ! it cawn't be did." Such 
 was, therefore, the magnitude of the undertaking, 
 and such the far-famed hospitality of the McLeods, 
 that no man within the range of the family acquaint- 
 ance who was not sick, or away from home, or pre- 
 vented by some special act of Providence, failed to 
 appear at the raising that day. 
 
 It was still the early afternoon, but most of the 
 men invited were already there when the mill people 
 drove up in the ftimily democrat. The varied shouts 
 
28 THE DOCTOR 
 
 of welcome that greeted them proclaimed their 
 popularity. 
 
 " Hello, Barney ! Grood-day, Mrs. Boyle," said 
 Mr. McLeod, who stood at the gate receiving his 
 guests. 
 
 " Ye've brought the baby, I see, Charley, me boy," 
 shouted Tom Magee, a big, good-natured son of Erin, 
 the richness of whose brogue twenty years of hf e in 
 Canada had failed to impoverish. 
 
 " We could hardly leave the baby at home to-day," 
 replied the miller, as with tender care he handed the 
 green bag containing his precious violin to his wife. 
 
 "No, indeed, Mr. Boyle," replied Mr. McLeod. 
 " The girls yonder would hardly forgive us if Charley 
 Boyle's fiddle were not to the fore. You'U find some 
 oats in the granary, Barney. Come along, Mrs. 
 Boyle. The wife wiU be glad of your help to keep 
 those wild colts in order yonder, eh, Margaret, 
 lassie? " 
 
 " Indeed, it is not Margaret Robertson that will be 
 needing to be kept in order," replied Mrs. Boyle. 
 
 " Don't you be too sure of that, Mrs. Boyle," re- 
 plied Mr. McLeod. " A girl with an eye and a chin 
 like that may break through any time, and then woe 
 betide you." 
 
 " Then I warn you, don't try the curb on me," said 
 Margaret, springing lightly over the wheel and 
 turning away with Mrs. Boyle toward the house, 
 which was humming with that indescribable but alto- 
 gether bewitchiag medley of sounds that only a score 
 or two of girls overflowing with life can produce. 
 
THE RAISING 29 
 
 " Come along, Charley," roared Magee. " We're 
 waitin' to make ye the boss." 
 
 " All right, Tom," replied the little man, with a 
 quiet chuckle. " If you make me the boss, here's my 
 orders. Up you get yourself and take hold of the 
 gang. What do you say, men ? " 
 
 « Ay, that's it." « Tom it is." « Jump in, Tom," 
 were the answering shouts. 
 
 " Aw now," said Tom, " there's better than me 
 here. Take Big Angus there. He's the man f er ye ! 
 Or what's the matter wid me f rind, Rory Ross ? It's 
 the f oine boss he'd make fer yez ! Sure, he'll put the 
 fire in til ye ! " 
 
 There was a general laugh at this reference to the 
 brilliant colour of Rory's hair and face. 
 
 " Never you mind Rory Ross, Tom Magee," said 
 the fiery-headed, fiery-hearted little Highlander. 
 " When he's wanted, ye'U not find him far away, 
 I'se warrant ye." 
 
 There was no love lost between the two men. Both 
 were framers, both famous captains, and more than 
 once had they led the opposing forces at raisings. 
 The awkward silence following Rory's hot speech was 
 relieved by Charley Boyle's ready wit. 
 
 " We'll divide the work, boys," he said. " Some 
 men do the liftin' and others the yeUin'. Tom and 
 me*!! do the yeUin'." 
 
 A roar of laughter rose at Tom's expense, whose 
 reputation as a worker was none too brilliant. 
 
 "All right then, boys," roared Tom. "Ye'll 
 have to take it. Git togither an' quit yer blowin'." 
 
30 THE DOCTOR 
 
 He cast an experienced eye over the ground where 
 the huge timbers were strewn about in what to the 
 uninitiated would seem wild confusion. 
 
 "Them's the sills," he cried. "Where's the 
 skids?" 
 
 " Right under yer nose, Tom," said the f ramer 
 quietly. 
 
 " Here they are, lads. Git up thim skids ! Now 
 thin, fer the sills. Grab aholt, min, they're not 
 hot! All togither-r-r — ^heave! Togither-r-r — ^heave! 
 Once more, heave ! Walk her up, boys ! Walk her 
 up! Come on, Angus! Where's yer porridge gone 
 to? Move over, two av ye! Don't take advantage 
 av a little man loike that! " Angus was just six feet 
 four. " Now thin, yer pikes ! Shove her along ! 
 Up she is! Steady! Cant her over! How's that, 
 f ramer? More to the east, is it? Climb up on her, 
 ye cats, an' dig in yer claws! Now thin, east wid 
 her! Togither-r-r — ^heave! Aw now, where are ye 
 goin' ? Don't be too rambunctious ! Ye'll be af ther 
 knockin' a hole in' to-morrow momin'. Back a little 
 now ! Whoa ! How's that, f ramer? Will that suit 
 yer riverence? All right. Now thin, the nixt ! Look 
 lively there! The gurls are comin' down to pick the 
 winners, an' a small chance there'll be fer some of 
 yez." 
 
 And so with this running fire of exhortation, more 
 or less pungent, the sUls were got in place upon the 
 walls, pinned and spliced. 
 
 " Now thin, min, fer the bints ! " 
 
 The " bents " were the cross sections of heavy 
 
THE RAISING 31 
 
 square timbers which, fastened together with cross 
 ties, formed the framework of the bam. Dividing his 
 men into groups, the bents were put together on the 
 bam floor, and, one by one, raised into their places, 
 each one being firmly joined to the one previously 
 erected. 
 
 " Mind yer braces, now, an' yer pins ! " admonished 
 Tom. " We don't want no slitherin' timbers round 
 here when we get into the ruction a little later on ! " 
 
 In spite of all Tom's tumultuous vocal energy, it 
 was nearly five before the last bent was reached. One 
 by one they had fitted into their places, but not with- 
 out some few hitches, each of which was the occasion 
 for an outburst of exhortations on the part of the 
 boss, more or less sulphurous, although the presence 
 of the ladies interfered very considerably with Tom's 
 fluency in this regard. He worked his men like gal- 
 ley slaves, and rowed them unmercifully. But for 
 the most part they took it all with good humour, 
 though some few who had the misfortune to fall 
 specially under his tongue began to show signs that 
 the lash had bitten into the raw. The timbers of the 
 last bent were specially heavy, and the men, more or 
 less fagged with their hard driving, didn't spring to 
 their work with the alacrity that Tom deemed suit- 
 able. 
 
 " At it, min ! " he roared. " Snatch it alive ! Be- 
 gob, ye'd think it was plate glass ye're liftin', ye're 
 so tinder about It ! Now thin ! Togither^r-r — ^heave ! 
 Once again, heave! Ye didn't git it an inch that 
 time ! Stidy there a minute ! Here you min on that 
 
82 THE DOCTOR 
 
 pike, what In the blank, blank are ye bunchin' in one 
 ind loike a swarm av bees on a cowld day! Shift 
 over there, will ye ! " 
 
 In obedience to the word two pike-poles were with- 
 drawn at the same moment, leaving only a single pike 
 with Big Angus and two others to sustain the full 
 weight of the heavy timbers. Immediately the bent 
 swayed backward as if to fall upon the throng below. 
 Some of the men sprang back from under the huge 
 bent. It was a moment of supreme peril. 
 
 " Howld there, f er yer lives, ye divils ! " howled 
 Tom, " or the hull of ye'U be in hell in two howly 
 minutes." 
 
 At the cry Barney and Rory sprang to Angus's 
 side and threw themselves upon the pike. Immedi- 
 ately they were followed by others, and the calamity 
 was averted. 
 
 " Up wid her now thin, me lads, God bliss ye ! " 
 cried Tom. But there was a new note in Tom's voice, 
 the note that is heard when men stand in the presence 
 of serious danger. There was no more pause. The 
 bent was walked up to its place, pinned and made 
 secure. Tom sprang down from the building, his 
 face white, his voice shaking. " Give me yer hand, 
 Barney Boyle, an' yours, Rory Ross, for be all the 
 saints an' the Blessid Virgin, ye saved min's lives this 
 day!" 
 
 Around the two crowded the men, shaking their 
 hands and clapping them on the back with varied ex- 
 clamations. " You're the lads ! " " Good boys ! " 
 " You're the stuff ! " " Put it there ! " 
 
THE RAISING 33 
 
 "What are ye doln' to us? " cried Rory at last; 
 " I didn't see anything happen. Did you, Barney? " 
 
 " We did, though," answered the crowd. 
 
 For once Tom Magee was silent. He walked about 
 among the crowd chewing hard upon his quid of 
 tobacco, fighting to recover his nerve. He had seen 
 as no other of the men the terrible catastrophe from 
 which the men had been saved. It was Charley Boyle 
 that again relieved the strain. 
 
 " Did any of you hear the cowbell? " he said. " It 
 strikes me it's not quitting time yet. Better get your 
 captains, hadn't you ? " 
 
 " Rory and Tom for captains ! " cried a voice. 
 
 *' Not me, by the powers ! " said Tom. 
 
 " Oh, come on, Tom. You'll be aU right. Get 
 your men." 
 
 "All right, am I? Be jabbers, I couldn't hit a 
 pin onct in the same place, let alone twice. By me 
 sowl, min, it's a splash of blood an' brains I've jist 
 been lookin' at, an' that's true fer ye. Take Barney 
 there. He's the man, I kin tell ye." 
 
 This suggestion caught the crowd's fancy. 
 
 "Barney it is!" "Rory and Barney!" they 
 yeUed. 
 
 " Me ! " cried Barney, seeking to escape through 
 the crowd. "I have never done anything but carry 
 pins and braces at a raising all my life." 
 
 There was a loud laugh of scorn, for no man in 
 all the crowd had Barney's reputation for agility, 
 nerve and quickness. 
 
 " Carry pins, is it? " said Tom. " Ye can carry 
 
34 THE DOCTOR 
 
 yer head level, me boy. So at it ye go, an' ye'll bate 
 Rory f er me, so ye will." 
 
 " Well then," cried Barney, " I will, if you give me 
 first choice, and I'll take Tom here." 
 
 " Hooray ! " yelled Tom, " I'm wid ye." So it was 
 agreed, and in a few minutes the sides were chosen, 
 little Ben Fallows falling to Rory as last choice. 
 
 " We'll give ye Ben," said Tom, whose nerve was 
 coming back to him. " We don't want to hog on ye 
 too much." 
 
 " Never you mind, Ben," said Rory, as the little 
 Englishman strutted to his place among Rory's men. 
 " You'U earn your supper to-day with the best of 
 them." 
 
 " If I cawn't heam it I can heat it, by Jove ! " 
 cried Ben, to the huge delight of the crowd. 
 
 And now the thrilling moment had arrived, for 
 from this point out there was to be a life-and-death 
 contest as to which side should complete each its part 
 of the structure first. The main plates, the "pur- 
 line " plates, posts and braces, the rafters and coUar 
 beams, must all be set securely in position. The side 
 whose last man was first down from the building after 
 its work was done claimed the victory. In two oppos- 
 ing lines a hvmdred men stood, hats, coats, vests and, 
 in case of those told off to " ride " the plates, boots 
 discarded. A brawny, sinewy lot they were, quick of 
 eye and steady of nerve, strong of hand and sure of 
 foot, men to be depended upon whether to raise a barn 
 or to build an empire. The choice of sides fell to 
 Rory, who took the north, or bank, side. 
 
THE RAISING 33 
 
 " Niver fret, Barney," cried Tom Magee, who in 
 the near approach of battle was his own man again. 
 " Niver ye fret. It's birrds we are, an' the more air 
 for us the better." 
 
 Between Hie sides stood the framer ready to give 
 the word. 
 
 " Aren't they splendid ! " said Margaret in a low 
 tone to Mrs. Boyle, her cheek pale and her blue eyes 
 blazing with excitement. " Oh, if I were only a 
 boy!" 
 
 " Ay," said Mrs. Boyle, " ye'd be riding the plate, 
 I doubt." 
 
 "Wouldn't I, though! My! they're fine!" an- 
 swered the girl, with her eyes upon Barney. 'And 
 more eyes than hers were upon the young captain, 
 whose rugged face showed pale even at that dis- 
 tance. 
 
 " Now then, men," cried the framer. " Mind your 
 pins. Are you ready? " holding his hat high in the 
 air. 
 
 " Ready," answered Rory. 
 
 Barney nodded. 
 
 " Git then ! " he cried, flinging his hat hard on the 
 ground. Like hounds after a hare in full sight, Uke 
 racers springing from the tape, they leaped at the 
 timbers, every man to his place, yelling like men 
 possessed. At once the admiring female friends 
 broke into rival camps, wildly enthusiastic, fiercely 
 partisan. 
 
 " Well done, Rory ! He's up first ! " cried a girl 
 whose brilliant complexion and still more brilliant 
 
36 THE DOCTOR 
 
 locks proclaimed her relationship to the captain of 
 the north side. 
 
 " Huh ! Bamey'll soon catch him, you'll see," 
 cried Margaret. " Oh, Barney, hurry ! hurry ! " 
 
 " Indeed, he will need to hurry," cried Rory's sis- 
 ter, mercilessly exultant. " He's up ! He's up ! " 
 
 Sure enough, Rory, riding the first half of his plate 
 over the bent, had just " broken it down," and in half 
 a minute, seized by the men detailed for this duty, it 
 was in its place upon the posts. Like cats, three men 
 with mauls were upon it driving the pins home just 
 as the second half was making its appearance over the 
 bent, to be seized and placed and pinned as its mate 
 had been. 
 
 " He's won ! He's won ! " shrieked Rory's admir- 
 ing faction. 
 
 " Barney ! Barney ! " screamed his contingent 
 reproachfully. 
 
 " WeU done, Rory ! Keep at it ! You've got them 
 beaten ! " 
 
 " Beaten, indeed! " was the scornful reply. " Just 
 wait a minute." 
 
 " They're at the ' purlines ' ! " shrieked Rory's sis- 
 ter, and her friends, proceeding to scream wildly 
 after the female method of expressing emotion under 
 such circumstances. 
 
 " My ! " sniffed a contemptuous member of Bar- 
 ney's faction, suffering unutterable pangs of humilia- 
 tion. " Some people don't mind making a show of 
 themselves." 
 
 " Oh, Barney! why don't you hurry.'' " cried Mar- 
 
THE RAISING 37 
 
 garet, to whose eager spirit Barney's movements 
 seemed painfully and almost wilfully slow. 
 
 But Barney had laid his plans. Dividing his men 
 into squads, he had been carrying out the policy of 
 simultaneous preparation, and while part of his men 
 had been getting the plates to their places, others had 
 been making ready the " purlines " and laying the 
 rafters in order so that, although beaten by Rory in 
 the initial stages of the struggle, when once his plates 
 were in position, while Rory's men were rushing about 
 in more or less confusion after their rafters, Barney's 
 purHns and rafters moved to their positions as if 
 by magic. Consequently, though when they arrived 
 at the rafters Barney was half a dozen behind, the 
 rest of his rafters were Ufted almost as one into their 
 places. 
 
 At once the ranks of Barney's faction, which up 
 to this point had been enduring the poignant pangs 
 of what looked Hke humihating defeat, rose in a 
 tumult of triumph to heights of bUss inexpressible, 
 save by a series of ear-piercing but altogether raptur- 
 ous shrieks. 
 
 " They're down ! They're down ! " screamed Mar- 
 garet, dancing in an ecstasy of joy, while hand over 
 hand down posts, catching at braces, slipping, sliding, 
 springing, the men of both sides kept dropping from 
 incredible distances to the ground. Suddenly through 
 all the tumultuous shouts of victory a heart-rending 
 scream rang out, followed by a shuddering groan and 
 dead silence. One-half of Rory's purlin plate slipped 
 from its splicing, the pin having been neglected 
 
88 THE DOCTOR 
 
 in the furious haste, and swinging free, fell crashing 
 through the timbers upon the scurrying, scrambling 
 men below. On its way it swept off the middle bent 
 Rory, who was madly entreating a laggard to drop 
 to the earth, but who, flung by good fortune against 
 a brace, clung there. On the plate went in its path 
 of destruction, missing several men by hairs' breadths, 
 but striking at last with smashing cruel force across 
 the ankle of poor little Ben Fallows, in the act of 
 sliding down a post to the ground. In a moment two 
 or three men were beside him. He was lifted up 
 groaning and screaming and carried to an open 
 grassy spot. After some moments of confusion Bar- 
 ney was seen to emerge from the crowd and hurry 
 after his horse. A stretcher was hastily knocked to- 
 gether, a mattress and pillow placed thereon, to ' 
 which Ben, still groaning piteously, was tenderly 
 hfted. 
 
 " I'U go wid ye," said Tom Magee, throwing on his 
 coat and hat. 
 
 Before they drove out of the yard the little En- 
 glishman pulled himself together. " Stop a bit, Bar- 
 ney," he said. He beckoned Rory to his side. " Tell 
 them," he said between his gasps, " not to spoil their 
 supper for me. I cawn't heat my share, but I guess 
 perhaps I beamed it." 
 
 " And that you did, lad," cried Rory. " No man 
 better, and I'll tell them." 
 
 The men who were standing near and who had 
 heard Ben's words broke out into admiring expletives. 
 "Good boy, Benny!" "Benny's the stuff!" till 
 
THE RAISING 39 
 
 finally someone swinging his hat in the air cried, 
 " Three cheers for Benny ! " and the feelings of the 
 crowd, held in check for so many minutes, at length 
 found expression in three times three, and with the 
 cheers ringing in his ears and with a smile upon his 
 drawn face, poor Ben, forgetting his agony for the 
 time, was borne away on his three-mile drive to the 
 doctor. 
 
 The raising was over, but no man asked which side 
 had won. 
 
IT 
 
 THE DANCE 
 
 THE dance was well on when Barney and Tom 
 drove up to the McLeods' gate. They were 
 met by Margaret and Barney's mother, who, 
 with a group of girls and Mr. McLeod, had been wait- 
 ing for them. As they drove into the yard they were 
 met at once with eager questions as to the condition 
 and fate of the unhappy Ben. 
 
 " Ben, is it? " said Tom. " Indeed, it's a hero we've 
 discovered. He stud it like a brick. An' I'm not 
 sure but there are two av thim," he said, jerking his 
 thumb toward Barney. " Ye ought to have seen 
 him stand there houldin' the light an' passin' the doc- 
 tor sthrings, an' the blood spoutin' like a stuck pig. 
 What happened af ther, it's mesilf can't tell ye at all, 
 for I was restiu' quietly by mesilf on the floor on the 
 broad av me back, an' naither av thim takin' anny- 
 thin' to do wid me except to drown me wid watther 
 betune times. Indeed, it's himsilf is the born doctor, 
 an' so he is," continued Tom, warming to his theme, 
 " for wid his hands red wid blood an' his face as white 
 as yer apron, ma'am, niver a shiver did he give until 
 the last knot was tied an' the last stitch was sewed. 
 Bedad ! there's not a man in the county could do the 
 same." 
 
 m 
 
THE DANCE 41 
 
 There was no stopping Tom in his recital, and after 
 many attempts Barney finally gave it up, and began 
 unhitching his horse. Meantime the sound of the 
 dancing had ceased, and suddenly up through the 
 silence there rose a voice in song to the accompani- 
 ment of some stringed instrument. It wa^ an arrest- 
 ing voice. The group about the horse stood per- 
 fectly still as the voice rose and soared and sank and 
 rose again in an old familiar plantation air. 
 
 " Who in thunder is that? " cried Barney, turning 
 to his mother. 
 
 But his mother shook her head. " Indeed, I know 
 not, but it's likely yon strange girl that came out 
 from town with the Murrays." 
 
 " I know," cried Teenie Ross, Rory's sister, wiffl 
 a little toss of her head, " Alec told me. She is the 
 girl who has come to take the teacher's place for a 
 month. She is the niece of Sheriff Hossie. Her 
 father was a colonel in the Southern army, CaH- 
 fomia or Virginia or some place, I don't just re- 
 member. Oh! I know all about her. Alec told me," 
 continued Teenie with a knowing shake of her ruddy 
 curls. " And she'll have a string of hearts dangling 
 to her apron, if she wears one, before the month is 
 out, so you'd better mind out, Barney." 
 
 But Barney was not heeding her. " Hush ! " he 
 said, holding up his hand, for again the voice was 
 rising up clear and full into the night silence. Even 
 Teenie's chatter was subdued and no one moved till 
 the verse was finished. 
 
 " She'll be needing a boarding house, Barney," 
 
42 THE DOCTOR 
 
 continued Teenie wickedly. " You'll just need to 
 take her with you to the Mill." 
 
 " Indeed, and there wiU be no such lassie as yon 
 in my house," said the mother, speaking sharply. 
 
 " She has no mother," said Margaret softly, " and 
 she will need a place." 
 
 " Yes, that she will," rephed Mrs, Boyle, " and 
 I know very well where she wiU be going, too, and 
 you with four little ones to do for, not to speak of 
 the minister, the hardest of the lot." Mrs. Boyle 
 was evidently seriously angered. 
 
 " Man ! What a voice ! " breathed Barney, and, 
 making fast the horse to the waggon, he set off for 
 the barn apparently oblivious of all about him. 
 
 " Begorra, ma'am, an' savin' yer prisince, there's 
 nobody knows what's in that lad. But he'll stir 
 the world yit, an' so he will. An' that's what the ould 
 Doctor said, so it was." 
 
 When Barney reached the bam floor the Southern 
 girl had just finished her song, and with her guitar 
 still in her hands was idly strumming its strings. 
 The moonlight fell about her in a flood so bright as 
 to reveal the ivory pallor of her face and the lus- 
 trous depths of her dark eyes. It was a face of rare 
 and romantic beauty framed in soft, fluffy, dark 
 hair, brushed high off the forehead and gathered in 
 a Greek knot at the back of her head. But besides 
 the beauty of face and eyes, there was an air of 
 gentle, appealing innocence that awakened the chival- 
 rous instincts latent in every masculine heart, and a 
 lazy, languorous grace that set her in striking con- 
 trast to the alert, vigorous country maids so per- 
 
THE DANCE 4a 
 
 fectly able to care for themselves, asking odds of 
 no man. When the singing ceased Barney came out 
 of the shadow at his father's side, and, reaching 
 for the violin, said, " Let me spell you a bit. Dad." 
 
 At his voice Dick, who was across the floor beside 
 the singer, turned quickly and, seeing Barney, sprang 
 for him, shouting, " Hello ! you old whale, you ! " 
 The father hastily pulled his precious violin out of 
 danger. 
 
 " Let go, Dick ! Let go, I teU you ! " said Bar- 
 ney, struggling in his brother's embrace ; " stop It, 
 now ! " 
 
 With a mighty effort he threw Dick off from him 
 and stood on guard with an embarrassed, half- 
 shamed, half -indignant laugh. The crowd gathered 
 near in delighted expectation. There was always 
 something sure to happen when Dick " got after " 
 his older brother. 
 
 " He won't let me kiss him," cried Dick pitifully, 
 to the huge enjoyment of the crowd. 
 
 " It's too bad, Dick," they cried. 
 
 " So it is. But I'm not going to be put off. It's 
 a shame ! " replied Dick, in a hurt tone. " And me 
 just home, too." 
 
 " It's a mean shame, Dick. Wouldn't stand it a 
 minute," cried his sympathisers. 
 
 " I won't either," cried Dick, preparing to make 
 an attack. 
 
 "Look here, Dick," cried Barney impatiently, 
 " just quit your nonsense or I'll throw you on the 
 floor there and sit on you. Besides, you're spoiling 
 the music." 
 
44 THE DOCTOR 
 
 « Well, well, that's so," said Dick. " So on Miss 
 Lane's account I'll forbear, provided, that is, she 
 sings again, as, of course, she will." 
 
 It was Dick's custom to assume command in every 
 company where he found himself. 
 
 « What is it to be? ' Dixie ' .? " 
 
 " Yes ! Yes ! " cried the crowd. " ' Dixie.' We'll 
 give you the chorus.'* 
 
 After a little protest the girl struck a few chords 
 and dashed off into that old plantation song full of 
 mingling pathos and humour. Barney picked up his 
 father's violin, touched the strings softly till he found 
 her key and then followed in a subdued accompani- 
 ment of weird chords. The girl turned herself toward 
 him, her beautiful face lighting up as if she had 
 caught a glimpse of a kindred spirit, and with a 
 new richness and tenderness she poured forth the full 
 flood of her song. The crowd were entranced with 
 delight. Even those who had been somewhat impa- 
 tient for the renewal of the dance joined in calls 
 for another song. She turned to Dick, who had re- 
 sumed his place beside her. **Who is the man you 
 wanted so badly to kiss.-* " she asked quietly. 
 
 "Who.'"' he cried, so that everyone heard. 
 "What! don't you know? That's Barney, the one 
 and only Barney, my brother. Here, Barney, drop 
 your fiddle and be introduced to Miss lola Lane, late 
 from Virginia, or is it Maryland? Some of those 
 hleathen places beyond the Dixie line." 
 
 Barney dropped the violin from his chin, came over 
 the floor, and awkwardly offered his hand. With 
 
THE DANCE 45 
 
 easy, lazy grace she rose from the block where she 
 had been sitting. 
 
 " You accompany beautifully," she said in her 
 soft Southern drawl ; " it's in you, I can see. No 
 one can ever be taught to accompany like that." 
 
 " Oh, pshaw! That's nothing," said Barney, eager 
 to get back again to his shadow, " but if you don't 
 mind I'll try to follow you if you sing again." 
 
 " Certainly," cried Dick, " she'll sing again. What 
 will you give us now, white or black? " 
 
 " Plantation, of course," said Barney brusquely. 
 
 " All right. ' Kentucky Home,' eh? " cried Dick. 
 
 The girl looked up at him with a saucy, defiant 
 look. " Do they all obey you here? " 
 
 " Ask them." 
 
 " That's what," cried Alec Murray, " especially 
 the girls." 
 
 She hesitated a few moments, evidently meditating 
 rebellion, then turning to Barney, who was playing 
 softly the air that had been asked for, " You, too, 
 obey, I see," she said. 
 
 " Generally — , always when I like," he replied, 
 continuing to play. 
 
 " Oh, well," shrugging her shoulders, " I suppose 
 I must then." And she began: 
 
 "The sun shines bright on de old Kentucky home." 
 
 Again that hush fell upon the crowd. The face of 
 the singer, with its dark, romantic beauty touched 
 with the magic of the moonlight, the voice soft, 
 mellow, vibrant with passion, like the deeper notes 
 
46 THE DOCTOR 
 
 of a 'cello, supported by the weird chords of Barney's 
 violin, held them breathless. No voice joined in 
 the chorus. As she sang, the subtle telepathic waves 
 came back from her audience to the girl, and with 
 ever-deepening passion and abandon she poured forth 
 into the moonlit silence the fuU throbbing tide of 
 song. The old air, simple and time-worn, took on 
 a new richness of tone colour and a fulness of volume 
 suggestive of springs of unutterable depths. Even 
 Dick's gay air of command surrendered to the spell. 
 As before, silence followed the song. 
 
 " But you did not do your part," she said, smiling 
 up at him with a very pretty air of embarrassment. 
 
 " No," said Dick solemnly, " we didn't dare." 
 
 " Sing again," said Barney abruptly. His voice 
 sounded deep and hoarse, and Dick, looking curiously 
 at him, said apologetically, " Music, when it's good, 
 makes him quite batty." 
 
 But lola ignored him. " Did you ever hear this ? " 
 she said to Barney. She strummed a few chords on 
 her guitar.- " It's only a little baby song, one my 
 old mammy used to sing." 
 
 "Sleep, ma baby, close youah 111 winkahs fas'. 
 Loo-la, Loo-la, don' you gib me any sass. 
 Youah mammy's ol', an' want you to de berry las'. 
 So, baby, honey, let dose mean ol' angels pass. 
 
 Chobus: 
 
 "Sleep, ma baby, mammy can't let you go. 
 Sleep, ma baby, de angels want you sho I 
 De angels want you, guess I know. 
 But mammy hoi' you, hoi' you tight jes' so. 
 
THE DANCE 47 
 
 " Sleep, ma baby, close youah lil flngahs, Meah, 
 Loo-la, Loo-la, tight about ma flngahs heah, 
 De dawk come close, but baby don' you nebbeh feah, 
 Youah mammy"!! hoi' you, hoi' you till de mawn appeah. 
 
 " Sleep, ma baby, why you lie so col', so col'? 
 Loo-la, Loo-la, do Massa want you for His fol'? 
 But, baby, honey, don' you know youah mammy's ol' 
 An' want you, want you, oh, she want you jes' to ho!'." 
 
 A long silence followed the song. The girl laid 
 her guitar down and sat quietly looking straight 
 before her, while Barney played the refrain over 
 and over. The simple pathos of the Httle song, 
 its tender appeal to the mother-chords that somehow 
 vibrate in all human hearts, reached the deep places 
 in the honest hearts of her listeners and for some 
 moments they stood silent about her. It was with 
 an obvious effort that Dick released the tension by 
 crying out, " Partners for four-hand reel." In- 
 stantly the company resolved itself into groups of 
 four and stood waiting for the music. 
 
 " Strike up, Barney," cried Dick impatiently, 
 shuffling before lola, whom he had chosen for his 
 partner. But Barney, handing the violin to his 
 father, slipped back into the shadow where his mother 
 and Margaret were standing. The boy's face was 
 pale through its swarthy tan. 
 
 " Come away," he said to his mother in a strained, 
 imnatural voice. 
 
 " Isn't she beautiful.'' " cried Margaret impulsively. 
 
 " Is she.? I didn't notice. But great goodness I 
 What a voice ! " 
 
48 THE DOCTOR 
 
 " Um, some will be thinking so, I doubt," said 
 Mrs. Boyle grimly, with a sharp glance at her son. 
 
 But Barney had become oblivious to her words 
 and glances. He moved away as in a dream to make 
 ready for the home going of his party, for soon 
 the dancers would be at Sir Roger's. Nor did he 
 waken from his dream mood during the drive home. 
 He could hear Dick chattering gaily to Margaret 
 and his mother of his college experiences, but except 
 for an occasional word with his father he sat in 
 silence, gazing not upon the fields and woods that lay 
 in all their moonlit glory about them, but upon that 
 new world, vast, unreal, yet vividly present, whose 
 horizon lay beyond the line of vision, the world of his 
 imagination, where he must henceforth live and where 
 his work must Ue. For the events of the afternoon had 
 summoned a new self into being, a self unfamiliar, but 
 real and terribly insistent, demanding recognition. 
 He could not analyse the change that had come to 
 him, nor could he account for it. He did not try 
 to. He lived again those great moments when, hav- 
 ing been thrust by chance into the command of those 
 fifty mighty men, he had swung them to victory. 
 He remembered the ease, the perfect harmony with 
 which his faculties had wrought through those few 
 minutes of fierce struggle. Again he passed through 
 the awful ordeal of the operation, now holding the 
 light, now assisting with forceps or cord or needle, 
 now sponging away that ghastly red flow that could 
 not be stemmed. He wondered now at his self-mas- 
 tery. He could see again his fingers, bloody, but 
 
THE DANCE 49 
 
 mshaking, handing the old doctor a needle and silk 
 cord. He remembered his surprise and pity, almost 
 contempt, for big Tom Magee lying on the floor 
 unable to lift his head ; remembered, too, the strange 
 absence of anything like elation at the doctor's words, 
 " My boy, you have the nerve and the fingers of a 
 surgeon, and that's what your Maker intended you 
 to be." 
 
 But he let his mind linger long and with thrilling 
 joy through the interlude in the dance. Every de- 
 tail of that scene stood clearly limned before his mind. 
 The bare skeleton of the new barn, the crowding, 
 eager, tense faces of the listeners, his mother's and 
 Margaret's in the hindmost row, his brother stand- 
 ing in the centre foreground, the upturned face of 
 the singer with its pale romantic loveliness, all in 
 the mystery of the moonlight, and, soaring over all, 
 that clear, vibrant, yet softly passionate, glorious 
 voice. That was the final magic touch that rolled 
 back the screen and set before him the new world 
 which must henceforth be his. He could not explain 
 that touch. The songs were the old simple airs worn 
 threadbare by long use in the countryside. It was 
 certainly not the songs. Nor was it the singer. 
 Curiously enough, the girl, her personality, her char- 
 acter, worthy or unworthy, had only a subordinate 
 place in his thought. He was conscious of her pres- 
 ence there as a subtle yet powerful influence, but 
 as something detached from the upturned face illum- 
 ined in the soft moonlight and the stream of heart- 
 shaking song. She was to him thus far simply a 
 
60 THE DOCTOR 
 
 vision and a voice, to which all the psychic element in 
 him made eager response. As he drove into the 
 quiet Mill yard it came upon him with a shock of 
 pain that with the old life he had done forever. He 
 felt himself already detached from it. The new 
 self looking out upon its new world had shaken off 
 his boyhood as the bursting leaf shakes off the husks 
 of spring. 
 
 As Dick's gay exclamation of delight at sight 
 of the old home fell upon his ear a deeper pain struck 
 him, for he vaguely felt that while his brother still 
 held his place in the centre of the stage, that stage 
 had immeasurably extended and was now peopled 
 with other figures, shadowy, it is true, but there, and 
 influential. His brother, who with his mother, or, 
 indeed, perhaps more than his mother, had absorbed 
 his boyish devotion, must henceforth share that de- 
 votion with others. Upon this thought his brother's 
 voice broke in. 
 
 " What's the matter, old chap ? Is there anything 
 wrong? " 
 
 The kindly tone stabbed like a knife. 
 
 " No, no. Nothing, Dick." 
 
 " Yes, but there is. You're not the same." At 
 the anxious appeal in the voice Barney stood for a 
 moment steadily regarding his brother, for whom 
 he could easily give his life, with a troubled sense 
 of change that he could not analyse to himself, much 
 less explain to his brother. 
 
 " I don't know, Dick — ^I can't tell you — ^I don't 
 think I am the same." A look of startled dismay fell 
 
THE DANCE 51 
 
 swiftly down upon the frank, handsome face turned 
 toward him. 
 
 " Have I done anything, Barney? " said the 
 younger boy, his dismay showing in his tone. 
 
 " No, no, Dick, boy, it has nothing to do with you." 
 He put his hands on his brother's shoulders, the 
 nearest thing to an embrace he ever allowed himself. 
 " It is in myself ; but to you, my boy, I am the 
 same." His speech came now hurriedly and with 
 difficulty : " And whatever comes to me or to you, 
 Dick, remember I shall never change to you — ^re- 
 member that, Dick, to you I shall never change." 
 His breath was coming in quick gasps. The younger 
 boy gazed at his usually so undemonstrative brother. 
 Suddenly he threw his arms about his neck, crying 
 in a broken voice, " You won't, Barney, I know you 
 won't. If you ever do I don't want to live." 
 
 For a single moment Barney held the boy in his 
 arms, patting his shoulder gently, then, pushing him 
 back, said impatiently, " Well, I am a blamed old 
 fool, anyway. What in the diggins is the matter 
 with me, I don't know. I guess I want supper, noth- 
 ing to eat since noon. But all the same, Dick," he 
 added in a steady, matter-of-fact tone, " we must 
 expect many changes from this out, but we'll stand 
 by each other till the world cracks." 
 
 After Dick had gone upstairs with his father, Bar- 
 ney and his mother sat together talking over the 
 doings of the day after their invariable custom. 
 
 " He is looking thin, I am thinking," said the 
 mother. 
 
62 THE DOCTOR 
 
 "Oh, he's right enough. A few days after the 
 reaper and a few meals out of your kitchen, mother, 
 and he will be as fit as ever." 
 
 " That was a fine work of yours with the doctor." 
 The indiflFerent tone did not deceive her son for a 
 moment. 
 
 " Oh, pshaw, that was nothing. At least it seemed 
 nothing then. There were things to be done, blood 
 to be stopped, skin to be sewed up, and I just did 
 what I could." The mother nodded slightly. 
 
 " You did no more than you ought, and .that 
 great Tom Magee might be doing something better 
 than lying on his back on the floor like a baby." 
 
 " He couldn't help himself, mother. That's the 
 way it struck him. But, man, it was fine to see 
 the doctor, so quick and so clever, and never a slip 
 or a stop." He paused abruptly and stood upright 
 looking far away for some moments. " Yes, fine ! 
 Splendid ! " he continued as in a dream. " And he 
 said I had the fingers and the nerve for a surgeon. 
 That's it. I see now — smother, I'm going to be a 
 doctor." 
 
 His mother stood and faced him. " A doctor.? 
 You.? " 
 
 The sharp tone recalled her son. 
 
 " Yes, me. Why not? " 
 
 " And Richard.? " 
 
 Her son understood her perfectly. His mind went 
 back to a morning long ago when his mother, putting 
 his younger brother's hand in his as they set forth 
 to school for the first time, said, " Take care of your 
 
THE DANCE 53 
 
 brother, Bernard. I give him into your charge." 
 That very day and many a day after he had stood 
 by his brother, had fought for him, had pulled him 
 out of scraps into which the younger lad's fiery 
 temper and reckless spirit were frequently plunging 
 him, but never once had he consciously failed in the 
 trust imposed on him. And as Dick developed ex- 
 ceptional brilliance in his school work, together they 
 planned for him, the mother and the older brother, 
 the mother painfully making and saving, the brother 
 accepting as his part the Ufe of plodding obscurity 
 in order that the younger boy might have his full 
 chance of what school and college could do for him. 
 True to the best traditions of her race, the mother 
 had fondly dreamed of a day when she should hear 
 from her son's lips the word of life. With never a 
 thought of the sacrifice she was demanding, she had 
 drawn into this partnership her elder son. And thus 
 to the mother it seemed nothing less than an act of 
 treachery, amounting to sacrilege, that Barney for 
 a single moment should cherish for himself an ambi- 
 tion whose realisation might imperil his brother's 
 future. Barney needed, therefore, no explanation 
 of his mother's cry of dismay, almost of horror. 
 He was quick with his answer. 
 
 " Dick.? Oh, mother, do you think I was forget- 
 ting Dick? Of course nothing must stop Dick. I 
 can wait — but I am going to be a doctor." 
 
 The mother looked into her son's rugged face, so 
 like her own in its firm lines, and replied almost grudg- 
 ingly, "Ay, I doubt you will." Then she added 
 
54 THE DOCTOR 
 
 hastily, as if conscious of her ungracious tone, " And 
 what for should you not? " 
 
 " Thank you, mother," said her son humbly, " and 
 never fear we'll stand by Dick." 
 
 Her eyes followed him out of the room and for 
 some moments she stood watching the door through 
 which he had passed. Then, with a great sigh, she 
 said aloud : " Ay, it is the grand doctor he will make. 
 He has the nerve and the fingers whatever." Then 
 after a pause she added : " And he will not fail the 
 laddie, I warrant." 
 
THE NEW TEACHER 
 
 THE new teacher was distinctly phenomenal 
 from every point of view. Her beauty 
 was a type quite unusual where rosy- 
 cheeked, deep-chested, sturdy womanhood was the 
 rule. Even the smallest child was sensible of the 
 fascination of her smile, which seemed to emanate 
 from every feature of her face, so much so 
 that little Ruby Ross was heard to say : " And 
 do you know, mother, she smiles with her nose ! " 
 The almost timid appeal in her gentle man- 
 ner stirred the chivalry latent in every boy's 
 heart. Back of her appealing gentleness, however, 
 there was a reserve of proud command due to the 
 strain in her blood of a regnant, haughty, slave- 
 ruling race. But in her discipline of the school she 
 had rarely to fall back upon sheer authority. She 
 had a method unique, but undoubtedly effective, 
 based upon two fundamental principles: regard for 
 public opinion, and hope of reward. The daily 
 tasks were prepared and rendered as if in the pres- 
 ence of the great if somewhat vague public which 
 at times she individualized, as she became familiar 
 with her pupils, in the person of father or mother 
 or trustee, as the case might be. And with mar- 
 
 £5 
 
56 THE DOCTOR 
 
 vellous skill she played this string, albeit occasion- 
 ally she struck a false note. 
 
 "What would your father think, Lincoln?" she 
 inquired reproachfully of little Link Young. Link's 
 father was a typical Down Easterner, by name 
 Jabez Young or, as he was more commonly known, 
 " Maine Jabe," for his fondness of his reminiscence 
 of his native State. " What would your father think 
 if he saw you act so rudely? " 
 
 " Dad wouldn't care a dang." 
 
 Listantly conscious of her mistake, she hastened 
 to recover. 
 
 "Well, Lincoln, what do you think I think? " 
 
 Link's Yankee assurance sank abashed before this 
 direct personal appeal. He hiuig his head in blush- 
 ing silence. 
 
 " Do you know, Lincoln, you might come to be a 
 right clever gentleman if you tried hard." 'A new 
 idea lodged itself under Link's red thatch of hair 
 and a new motive stirred in his shrewd little soul. 
 Here was one visibly present whose good opinion he 
 valued. At all costs that good opinion he must win. 
 
 The whole school was being consciously trained 
 for exhibition purposes. The day would surely 
 come when before the eyes of the public they would 
 parade for inspection. Therefore, it behooved them 
 to be ready. 
 
 But more important in enforcing discipline was 
 the hope of reward. This principle was robbed of 
 its more sordid elements by the nature of the reward 
 held forth. lA. day of good conduct and of faithful 
 
THE NEW TEACHER 67 
 
 work invariably closed with an hour devoted to his- 
 trionic and musical exercise. To recite before the 
 teacher and to hear the teacher recite was worth 
 considerable effort. To sing with the teacher was 
 a joy, but to hear the teacher sing to the accom- 
 paniment of her guitar was the supreme of bliss. 
 It was not only an hour of pleasure to the pupils, 
 but an hour of training as well. She initiated them 
 into the mysteries of deep breathing, chest tones, 
 phrasing, and expression, and such was their absorb- 
 ing interest in and devotion to this study, that in 
 a few weeks truly remarkable results were obtained. 
 The singing lesson invariably concluded with a plan- 
 tation song from the teacher; and with her memory- 
 gates wide open to the sunny South of her childhood, 
 and with all her soul in her voice, she gave them her 
 best, holding them breathless, laughterful, or tear- 
 choked, according to her mood and song. 
 
 It was by such a song that Mr. Jabez Young, 
 driving along the road on his way to the store, was 
 suddenly arrested and rendered incapable of move- 
 ment till the song was done. In amazed excitement 
 he burst forth to old Hector Ross, the Chairman 
 of the Trustee Board, who happened to be in the 
 store : 
 
 "Gol dang my cats! What hev yeh got in the 
 school up yonder? Say ! I couldn't git my team to 
 move past that there door ! " 
 
 " What's the matter, Mr. Young? " 
 
 " Why, dang it all ! I'll report to the Reeve. Fust 
 thing yeh know there'll be a string-a-teams from 
 
58 THE DOCTOR 
 
 here to the next concession blockin' that there road 
 in front of the school ! " 
 
 "Why, what's the matter with the sdiool, Mr. 
 Young? " inquired old Hector, in anxious surprise. 
 
 " Why, ain't ye heard her.^" Say! down in Maine 
 I paid a dollar one 'time to hear a big singer, forgit 
 her name, but she was 'lowed to be the dangdest 
 singer in all them parts. But, Gol dang my cats 
 to cinders ! she ain't any more like that there teacher 
 of yours than my old Tom cat's like the angel that 
 leads the choir in Abram's bosom ! " 
 
 " That is very interesting, Mr. Young. And I 
 suppose you won't mind paying a little extra school 
 rate now," said Hector, with a shrewd twinkle in 
 his eye. 
 
 " Extra school rate ! I tell yeh what, I'll charge 
 up my lost time to the trustees! But danged if 
 I wouldn't give a day's pay to hear that song 
 again ! " 
 
 In application of this principle of reward for 
 merit, the teacher introduced a subordinate prin- 
 ciple which proved effective when all else failed. 
 The school was made corporately and jointly re- 
 sponsible for the individual. The offence of one 
 was the offence of all, the merit of one the merit of 
 all. Thus every pupil was associated with her in 
 the business of securing good lessons and exemplary 
 conduct. As the day went on each misdemeanour was 
 gravely, and in full view of the school, marked 
 down upon the blackboard. The merits obtained 
 by any pupil were in like manner recorded. The 
 
THE NEW TEACHER 69 
 
 day closing with an adverse balance knew no hour 
 of song. Woe to the boy who, dead to all other 
 motives of good conduct, persisted in robbing the 
 school of its hour of delight. In the case of Ab 
 Maddock, big, impudent, and pachydermous, it took 
 Dugald Robertson, the minister's son, just half an 
 hour's hard fighting to extract a promise of good 
 behaviour. Dugald was in the main a thoughtful, 
 peaceable boy, the most advanced pupil in the en- 
 trance class, and a great mathematician. At first 
 he was inclined to despise the teacher, setting little 
 store by her beautiful face and fascinating smile, 
 for on the very first day he discovered her woful 
 mathematical inadequacy. Arithmetic was her de- 
 spair. With algebraic formulae and Euclid's propo- 
 sitions her fine memory saved her. But with quick 
 intuition she threw herself frankly upon the boy's 
 generosity, and in the evenings together they, with 
 Margaret's assistance, wrestled with the bewilder- 
 ing intricacies of arithmetical problems. Her open 
 confession of helplessness, and her heroic attempts 
 to overcome her defects, made irresistible appeal to 
 the chivalrous heart of the little Highland gentle- 
 man. Thenceforth he was her champion for all that 
 was in him. 
 
 But the teacher's weakness in mathematics was 
 atoned for, if atonement there be for such a weak- 
 ness, by the ample strength of her endowments in 
 those branches of learning in which imagination and 
 artistic sensibility play any large part. And a far 
 larger part, and far more important, do these 
 
60 THE DOCTOR 
 
 Divine gifts play than many wise educationists 
 conceive. The lessons in history, in geography, 
 and in reading ceased to be mere memory tasks and 
 became instinct with life. The whole school would 
 stay its ordinary work to listen while the teacher 
 told tales of the brave days of old to the history 
 class, or transformed the geography lessons into 
 excursions among people of strange tongues dwelling 
 in far lands. But it was in the reading lessons that 
 her artistic talents had full play. The mere pro- 
 nouncing and spelling of words were but incidents 
 in the way of expression of thought and emotion. 
 After a whole week of drilling which she would give 
 to a single lesson, she would arrest the class with 
 the question, "What is the author seeing?" and 
 with the further question, " How does he try to show 
 it to us ? " Reading, to her, consisted in the ability 
 to see what the author saw and the art of telling it, 
 and to set forth with grace that thing in the author's 
 words. 
 
 In the writing class her chief anxiety was to avoid 
 blots. Every blot might become an occasion of 
 humiliation to teacher and pupils alike. " Oh, this 
 will never do ! They must not see this ! " she would 
 cry, rubbing out with infinite care and pains the 
 blot, and rubbing in the horror of such a defile- 
 ment beiixg paraded before the eyes of the vague 
 but terrible " they." 
 
 Thus the pathway trodden in the school routine 
 was, perchance, neither wide nor far extended, but 
 it was thoroughly well trodden. As a consequence, 
 
THE NEW TEACHER 61 
 
 when the day for the closing exercises came around 
 both teacher and pupils had become so thoroughly 
 familiar with the path and so accustomed to the 
 vision of the onlooking public that they faced the 
 ordeal without dread, prepared to give forth what- 
 ever of knowledge or accomplishment they might 
 possess. 
 
 A fortunate rainy day, making the hauling of 
 hay or the cutting of fall wheat equally impossible, 
 filled the school with the parents and friends of the 
 children. The minister and the trustees were duti- 
 fully present. Of the mill people Dick and his 
 mother appeared, Dick because his mother insisted 
 that a student should show interest in the school, 
 his mother because Dick refused to go a step with- 
 out her. Barney came later, not because of his 
 interest in the school, but chiefly, he declared to him- 
 self, conscious of the need of a reason, because there 
 was nothing much else to do. The presence of 
 "Maine" Jabe might be taken as the high water 
 mark of the interest aroused throughout the sec- 
 tion in the new teacher and her methods. 
 
 The closing exercises were, with a single ex- 
 ception, a brilliantly flawless exhibition. That 
 exception appeared in the Euclid of the entrance 
 class. The mathematics were introduced early in 
 the day. The arithmetic, which dealt chiefly with 
 problems of barter and sale of the various products 
 of the farm, was lightly and deftly passed over. 
 The algebra class was equally successful. In the 
 Euclid class it seemed as if the hitherto unbroken 
 
62 THE DOCTOR 
 
 success would come to an unhappy end in the be- 
 wilderment and confusion of Phoebe Ross, from 
 whom the minister had asked a demonstration of 
 the pons asinorum. But the blame for poor Phoebe's 
 bewilderment clearly lay with the minister himself, 
 for in placing the figure upon the board with the 
 letters designating the isosceles triangle he made the 
 fatal blunder of setting the letter B at the right 
 hand side of the base instead of at its proper place 
 at the left, as in the book. The result was that 
 the unhappy Phoebe, ignoring the figure upon the 
 board and depending entirely upon her memory, 
 soon plunged both the minister and herself into 
 confusion hopeless and complete. But the quick 
 eye of the teacher had detected the difficulty, and, 
 going to the board, she erased the unfamihar figure, 
 saying, as she did so, in her gentle appealing voice, 
 " Wait, Phoebe. You are quite confused, I know. 
 We shall wipe the board clean and begin all over." 
 She placed the figure upon the board with the desig- 
 nating letters arranged as in the book. " Now, 
 take your time," she said with deliberate emphasis. 
 " Let A, B, C be an isosceles triangle." And thus, 
 with her feet set firmly upon the familiar path, little 
 Phoebe slipped through that desperate maze of 
 angles and triangles with an ease, speed, and dex- 
 terity that elicited the wonder and admiration of 
 all present, the minister, good man, included. Upon 
 Barney, however, who understood perfectly what 
 had happened, the incident left a decidedly unpleas- 
 ant impression. Indeed, the superficiality of the 
 
THE NEW TEACHER 6^ 
 
 mathematical exercises as a whole awakened within 
 him a feeling of pain which he could not explain. 
 
 When the reading classes were under review the 
 school passed from the atmosphere of the superficial 
 to that of the real. Never had such reading been 
 heard in that or in any other common school. The 
 famihar sing-song monotony of the reading lesson 
 was gone and in its place a real and vivid picturing 
 of the scenes described or enacted. It was all sim- 
 ple, natural, and effective. 
 
 The exercises attained an easy climax with the 
 recitations and singing which closed the day. Here 
 the artistic gifts of the teacher had full scope. 
 There was an absence of all nervous dread in the 
 performers. By some marvellous power she caught 
 hold and absorbed their attention so that for her 
 chiefly, if not entirely, they recited or sang. In the 
 singing, which terminated the proceedings, the tri- 
 umph of the day was complete. A single hymn, two 
 or three kindergarten action songs, hitherto un- 
 heard in that community, a rollicking negro chorus ; 
 and, at the last, " for the children and the mothers," 
 the teacher said, one soft luUaby in which for the 
 first time the teacher's voice was heard, the low, 
 vibrant tones filling the room with music such as in 
 all their Hves they had never listened to. It was 
 a fine sense of artistic values that cut out the 
 speeches and dismissed the school in the ordinary 
 way. The full tide of their enthusiasm broke upon 
 her as minister, trustees, parents, and all crowded 
 about her, offering congratulations. Her air of 
 
64. THE DOCTOR 
 
 shy grace with just a touch of nonchalant reserve 
 served in no small degree to heighten the whole 
 effect of the day. 
 
 The mill people walked home with the minister 
 and Margaret. 
 
 " Isn't she a wonder? " cried Dick. " What has 
 she done to those little blocks? Why, they don't 
 seem the same children ! " 
 
 " Yes, yes," rephed the minister, " it is quite 
 surprising, indeed." 
 
 " In their mathematics, though, there was some 
 thin skating there for a while," continued Dick. 
 
 " Yes, yes, the little lassie became confused. But 
 she recovered herself cleverly." 
 
 " Yes, indeed," said Dick, with a slight laugh. 
 " That was a clever bit of work on the part of the 
 teacher." 
 
 " Oh, shut up, Dick ! " said Barney sharply. 
 
 " Oh, well," replied Dick, " no one expects mathe- 
 matics from a girl, anyway." 
 
 " Do you hear the conceit of him? " said his 
 mother indignantly, " and Margaret there can show 
 all of you the way." 
 
 " Yes, that's true, mother, but Margaret Is a 
 wonder, too. But whatever you say, the reciting 
 and singing were good. Even little Link Young 
 was quite dramatic. They say that ' Maine ' Jabe 
 for the first time In his life Is quite reckless In regard 
 to the school rates." 
 
 " We wiU just wait a year," said his mother. 
 " It Is a new broom that sweeps clean." 
 
THE NEW TEACHER 65 
 
 " Now, mother, you are too hard to please." 
 
 " Perhaps," she replied, grimly closing her lips. 
 
 As they reached the manse gate the minister, who 
 had evidently been pondering Dick's words, said, 
 " Well, Mrs. Boyle, we have had a delightful after- 
 noon, whatever, a remarkable exhibition. Yes, yes. 
 And after all it is a great matter that the children 
 should be taught to read and recite well. And it 
 was no wonder that the poor thing would seek to 
 make it easy for the little girl. And Margaret 
 will need to take Dugald over his mathematics, I 
 fear, before he goes up to the entrance." At which 
 remark the painful feeling which the reciting and 
 singing had caused Barney to forget for the time, 
 returned with even greater poignancy. 
 
 But in all the section there was only one opinion, 
 and that was that, at all costs, the teacher's services 
 must be retained. For once, the trustees realised 
 that no longer would they depend for popularity 
 upon the sole qualification of their ability to keep 
 down the school rate. It was, perhaps, not the most 
 diplomatic moment they chose for the securing of 
 the teacher's services for another year. It might 
 be that they were moved to immediate action by the 
 apparent willingness on her part to leave the mat- 
 ter of reengagement an open question. On all 
 hands, however, they were applauded as having done 
 a good stroke of business when, there and then, they 
 closed their bargain with the teacher, although at 
 a higher salary, as it turned out, than had ever been 
 paid in the section before. 
 
VI . 
 THE YOUNG DOCTOR 
 
 BARNEY'S jaw ran along the side of his 
 face, ending abruptly in a square-cut chin, 
 ' the jaw and chin doing for his face what a 
 ridge and bluff of rock do for a landscape. They 
 suggested the bed rock of character, abiding, firm, 
 indomitable. Having seen the goal at which he 
 would arrive, there remained only to find the path 
 and press it. He would be a doctor. The ques- 
 tion was, how? His first step was to consult the 
 only authority available, old Doctor Ferguson. It 
 was a stormy interview, for the doctor was of a 
 craggy sort like Barney himself, with a jaw and 
 a chin and all they suggested. The boy told his 
 purpose briefly, almost defiantly, as if expecting 
 scornful opposition, and asked guidance. The 
 doctor flung difficulties at his head for half an hour 
 and ended by offering him money, cursing his High- 
 land pride when the boy refused it. 
 
 "What do I want with money?" cried the doc- 
 tor. He had lost his only son three years before. 
 " There's only my wife. And she'll have plenty. 
 Money! Dirt, fit to walk on, to make a path with, 
 that's all! Had my boy lived, God knows I'd have 
 
 made him a surgeon. But " Here the doctor 
 
 snorted violently and coughed, trumpeting hard 
 
 66 
 
THE YOUNG DOCTOR 67 
 
 with his nose. " Confound these foggy nights ! 
 I'll put you through." 
 
 " I'll pay my way," said Barney almost sullenly, 
 " or I'll stay at home." 
 
 " What are you doing here, then.-" " he roared at 
 the boy. 
 
 " I came to find out how to start. Must a man 
 go to college.'' " 
 
 " No," shouted the doctor again ; " he can be a 
 confounded fool and work up by himself, a terrible 
 handicap, going up for the examinations till the last 
 year, when he must attend college." 
 
 " I could do that," said Barney, closing his jaws. 
 
 The doctor looked at his face. The shut jaws 
 looked more than ever like a ledge of granite and 
 the chin like a cliff. " You can, eh? Hanged if 
 I don't believe you ! And I'll help you. I'd like to, 
 if you would let me." The voice ended in a wistful 
 tone. The boy was touched. 
 
 " Oh, you can ! " he cried impulsively, " and I'll 
 be awfully thankfid. You can tell me what books 
 to get and sometimes explain, perhaps, if you have 
 time." His face went suddenly crimson. He was 
 conscious of asking a favour. 
 
 The old doctor sat down, rejoicing greatly in 
 him, and for the first time treated him as an equal. 
 He explained in detail the course of study, making 
 much of the difficulties in the way. When he had 
 done he waved his hand toward his library. 
 
 " Now, there are my books," he cried ; " use them 
 and ask me what you will. It will brush me up. 
 
68 THE DbCTCTR 
 
 And I'll take you to see my cases and, by God's 
 help, we'll make you a surgeon! A surgeon, sir! 
 You've got the fingers and the nerves. A surgeon* 
 That's the only thing worth while. The physician' 
 can't see further below the skin than anyone else.. 
 He guesses and experiments, treats symptoms, trys 
 one drug then another, guessing and experimenting 
 all along the line. But the knife, boy!" Here 
 the doctor rose and began to pace the Boor. 
 " There's no guess in the knife point ! The knife 
 lays bare the evil, fights, eradicates it! Look at 
 that boy Kane, died three weeks ago. 'Inflaanma- 
 tion,' said the physician. Treated his symptoms 
 properly enough. The boy died. At the post- 
 mortem" — ^here the doctor paused in his walk, low- 
 ering his voice almost to a whisper while he bent 
 over the boy — " at the post-mortem the knife dis- 
 covered an abscess on the vermiform appendix. The 
 discovery was made too late." These were the days 
 before appendicitis became fashionable. " Now, lis- 
 ten to me," continued the doctor, even more im- 
 pressively, " I believe in my soul that the knife at 
 the proper moment might have saved that boy's 
 life! A slight incision an inch or two long, the 
 removal of the diseased part, a few stitches, and 
 in a couple of weeks the boy is well ! Ah, boy ! God 
 knows I'd give my life to be a great surgeon! But 
 He didn't give me the fingers. Look at these," and 
 he held up a coarse, heavy hand ; " I haven't the 
 touch. Aud besides. He brought me my wife, the 
 best thing I've got in the world, and my baby, which 
 
THE YOUNG DOCTOR 69 
 
 settled the surgeon business forever. Now Ksten, 
 boy! You've got the nerve — plenty of men have 
 that — ^but you've also got the fingers, which few 
 men have. With your touch and your steady nerve 
 and your mechanical ingenuity — I've seen your ma- 
 chines, boy — ^you can be a great surgeon! But you 
 must know your subject. You must think, dream, 
 sleep, eat, drink bones and muscles and sinewR and 
 nerves. Push everything else aside ! " he cried, 
 waving his great hands. " And remember ! " — 
 here his voice took a solemn tone — " let nothing 
 share your heart with your knife! Leave the 
 women alone. A woman has no business in science. 
 She distracts the mind, disturbs the liver, absorbs 
 the vital powers, besides paralysing the finances. 
 For you, let there be one woman, your mother, at 
 least till you are a surgeon. Now, then, there are 
 my books and all my spare time at your command." 
 At these words the boy's face, which had caught 
 the light and glow of the old man's enthusiasm, 
 feU. 
 
 "Well, what now .J" " cried the doctor, reading his 
 face like a book. 
 
 " I have no right to take your books or your 
 time." 
 
 The doctor sprang to his feet with an oath. The 
 boy also rose and faced him, almost as if expect- 
 ing a blow. For a moment they stood steadfastly 
 regarding each other, then the doctor's old face 
 relaxed, his eyes softened. He put his big hand 
 on the boy's shoulder. 
 
70 THE DOCTOR 
 
 " Now, by the Lord that made you and me ! " he 
 said, " we were meant for a team, and a team we'll 
 make. I'll help you and I'll make you pay." The 
 boy's face brightened. 
 
 " How.'' " he cried eagerly. 
 
 " We'll change work." The doctor's old eyes 
 began to twinkle. " I want fall ploughing done 
 and my cordwood hauled." 
 
 " I'll do it ! " cried Barney. A light broke in his 
 eyes and flooded his face. At last he saw his 
 path. 
 
 " Here," said the doctor, taking down a book, 
 " here's your Gray." And turning the leaves, 
 " Here's what happened to Ben Fallows. Read 
 this. And here's the treatment," pulling down an- 
 other book and turning to a page, " Read that. I'll 
 make Ben your first patient. There's no money in 
 it, anyway, and you can't kill him. He only needs 
 three things, cleanliness, good cheer, and good food. 
 By and by we'll get him a leg. Here's that Buf- 
 falo doctor's catalogue. Take it along. Now, 
 boy, I'll work you, grind you, and you'll go for your 
 first examination next spring." 
 
 " Next spring ! " cried Barney, aghast, " not for 
 three years." 
 
 " Three years ! " snorted the doctor, " three fid- 
 dlesticks ! You can do this first examination by 
 next spring." 
 
 " Yes. I could do it," said Barney slowly. 
 
 The doctor cast an admiring glance at the line 
 of jaw on the boy's face. 
 
THE YOUNG DOCTOR 71 
 
 " But there's the mortgage and there's Dick's 
 college." 
 
 "Dick's college? Why Dick's and not yours?" 
 
 The boy's rugged face changed. A tender light 
 fell over it, filling in its cracks and canyons. 
 
 " Because — ^well, because Dick must go through. 
 Dick's clever. He's awful clever." Pride mingled 
 with the tenderness in look and tone. " Mother 
 wants him to be a minister, and," he added after a 
 pause, " I do, too." 
 
 The old doctor turned from him, stood looking 
 out of the window a few minutes, and then came 
 back. He put his hands on the boy's shoulders. 
 " I understand, boy," he said, his great voice vibrat- 
 ing in deep and tender tones, " I, too, had a brother 
 once. Make Dick a minister if you want, but mean- 
 time we'U grind the surgeon's knife." 
 
 The boy went home to his mother in high exulta- 
 tion. 
 
 " The doctor wants me to look after Ben for 
 him," he announced. " He is going to show me 
 the dressings, and he says all he wants is cleanliness, 
 good cheer, and good food. I can keep him clean. 
 But how he is to get good cheer in that house, and 
 how he is to get good food, are more than I can 
 teU." 
 
 " Good cheer ! " cried Dick. " He'll not lack for 
 company. How many has she now, mother? A 
 couple of dozen, more or less? " 
 
 " There are thirteen of them already, poor 
 thing." 
 
ITS THE DOCTOR 
 
 "Thirteen! That's an unlucky stopping place. 
 Let us hope she won't aUow the figure to remain at 
 that." 
 
 " Indeed!, I am thinking it will not," said his 
 mother, speaking with the confidence of intimate 
 knowledge. 
 
 " Well," replied Dick, with a judicial air, " it's 
 a question whether it's worse to defy the fate that 
 lurks in that unlucky number, or to accept the 
 doubtful blessing of another twig to the already 
 overburdened olive tree." 
 
 " Ay, it is a hard time she is having with the four 
 babies and all." 
 
 " Four, mother ! Surely that's an unusual num- 
 ber even for the prolific Mrs. Fallows ! " 
 
 " Whisht, laddie ! " said his mother, in a shocked 
 tone, " don't talk foolishly." 
 
 " But you said four, mother." 
 
 " Twins the last twice," interjected Barney. 
 
 " Great snakes ! cried Dick, " let us hope she 
 won't get the habit." 
 
 " But, mother," inquired Samey seriously, 
 " what's to be done? " 
 
 " Indeed, I can't tell," said his mother. 
 
 " Listen to me," cried Dick, " I've got an Inspira- 
 tion. I'll undertake the ' good cheer.' I'll impress 
 the yoimg ladies into this worthy service. Light 
 conversation and song. And you can put up the 
 food, mother, can't you? " 
 
 " We will see," said the mother quietly ; " we will 
 do our best." 
 
THE YOUNG DOCTOR 73 
 
 " In that case the ' food department ' is secure," 
 said Dick ; " already I see Ben Fallows making 
 rapid strides toward convalescence." 
 
 It was characteristic of Barney that within a few 
 days he had all three departments in full operation. 
 With great tact he succeeded in making Mrs. Fal- 
 lows thoroughly scour the woodwork and whitewash 
 the walls in Ben's little room, urging the doctor's 
 orders and emphasizing the danger of microbes, the 
 dread of which was just beginning to obtain in 
 popular imagination. 
 
 "Microbes? What's them?" inquired Mrs. Fal- 
 lows, suspiciously. 
 
 " Very small insects." 
 
 "Insects? Is it bugs you mean?" Mrs. Fal- 
 lows at once became fiercely hostile. " I want to 
 teU yeh, young sir, ther' hain't no bugs in this 
 'ouse. If ther's one thing I'm pertickler 'bout, it's 
 bugs. John sez to' me, sez *e, ' What's the hodds 
 of a bug or two, Hianthy? ' But I sez to 'im, sez 
 I, ' No bugs fer me, John. I hain't been brought 
 up with bugs, an' bugs I cawn't an' won't "ave.' " 
 
 It was only Barney's earnest assurance that the 
 presence of microbes was no impeachment of the 
 most scrupulous housekeeping and, indeed, that 
 these mysterious creatures were to be found in the 
 very highest circles, that Mrs. Fallows was finally 
 appeased. With equal skill he inaugurated his 
 " good food" department, soothing Mrs. Fallows* 
 susceptibilities with the diplomatic information that 
 in surgical cases such as Ben's certain articles of 
 
74 THE DOCTOR 
 
 diet specially prepared were necessary to the best 
 results. 
 
 1 Not the least successful part of the treatment 
 prescribed was that furnished by the " good cheer " 
 department. This was left entirely in Dick's 
 charge, and he threw himself into its direction with 
 the enthusiasm of a devotee. lola with her guitar 
 was undoubtedly his mainstay. But Dick was never 
 quite satisfied unless he could persuade Margaret, 
 too, to assist in his department. But Margaret had 
 other duties, and, besides, she had associated herself 
 more particularly with Mrs. Boyle in the work of 
 supplementing Mrs. Fallows' somewhat unappetis- 
 ing though entirely substantial meals with delicacies 
 more suited to the sickroom. Dick, however, in- 
 sisted that with all that Tola and himself , in the 
 " good cheer " department and Barney in what he 
 called the " scavenging " department could achieve, 
 there was still need of Margaret's presence and 
 Margaret's touch. Hence, before the busy harvest 
 time came upon them, he made a practice of calling 
 at the manse, and, relieving her of the duty of get- 
 ting to sleep little five-year-old Tom, with whom he 
 was first favourite, he would carry her off to the 
 Fallows household, whither Barney and lola had 
 preceded them. 
 
 Altogether the " young doctor," as Ben called him, 
 had reason to be proud of the success he was achiev- 
 ing with his first patient. The amputation healed 
 over and the bone knit at the first intention, and in 
 a few weeks Ben was far on the way to convalescence. 
 
THE YOUNG DOCTOR 75 
 
 He was never weary in his praises of the " young 
 doctor." It was the " young doctor " who, by 
 changing the bandages, had eased him of the intol- 
 erable pain which followed the first dressing. It 
 was the " young doctor " who had changed the 
 splints, shaping them cunningly to fit the limb, 
 bringing ease where there had been chafing pain. 
 
 " Let 'em 'ave the old doctor if they want," was 
 Ben's final conclusion, "but fer me, the young 
 /doctor, sez L" 
 
yii 
 
 THE GOOD CHEER DEPARTMENT 
 
 THE " good cheer " department, while osten- 
 sibly for Ben's benefit, wrought profit and 
 cheer for others besides. What Dick got 
 of it no one but himself knew, for that young man, 
 with all his apparent frankness, kept, the veil over 
 his heart drawn close. To Barney, absorbed in his 
 new work, with its wealth of new ideas and his new 
 ambitions, the " good cheer " department was chiefly 
 valued as an important factor in Ben's progress. 
 To lola it brought what to her was the breath of 
 Hfe, admiration, gratitude, affection. But Mar- 
 garet perhaps more than any, not even excepting 
 Ben himself, gathered from this department what 
 might be called its by-products. The daily mo- 
 notony of her household duties bore hard upon her 
 young heart. Ambitions long cherished, though 
 cheerfully laid aside at the sudden call of duty, 
 could not be quite abandoned without a sense of 
 pain and loss. The break offered by the work of 
 the department in the monotony of her life, the 
 companionship of its members, and, as much as any- 
 thing, the irresistible appeal to her keen sense of 
 humour by the genial, loquacious, dirty but irre- 
 sistibly cheery Mrs. Fallows, far more than com- 
 
 76 
 
THE GOOD CHEER DEPARTMENT 7T 
 
 pensated for the extra efFoi't which her membership 
 in the department rendered necessary. 
 
 It was the evening following that of the school 
 closing that Dick with Margaret and lola were 
 making one of their customary calls at the Fallows 
 cottage. It would be for lola the last visit for some 
 weeks, as she was about to depart to town for her 
 holidays. 
 
 " I have come to say good-bye," she announced 
 as she shook hands with Mrs. Fallows. 
 
 " Good-bye, dear 'eart," said that lady, throw- 
 ing up her hands aghast ; " art goin' to leave us f er 
 good? » 
 
 " No, nothing so bad," said Dick ; " only for a 
 few weeks, Mrs. Fallows. The section couldn't do 
 without her, and the trustees have decided that they 
 wouldn't let her out of sight till they had put a 
 string on her." 
 
 "Goin' to come back again, be yeh? I did 'ear 
 as 'ow yeh was goin' to leave. My little Joe was 
 that broken-'earted, an' 'e declared to me as *ow 
 'e wouldn't go to school no more." 
 
 "I don't wonder," said Dick. "Why, if the 
 trustees hadn't engaged her, as ' Maine Jabe ' 
 said, ' there'd be the dangdest kind of riot in the 
 section.' " 
 
 " Don't listen to him, Mrs. Fallows. I'm going 
 in to sing to Ben, if I may." 
 
 " An' that yeh may, bless yer 'eart ! " said Mrs. 
 Fallows, picking up a twin from the doorway to 
 allow lola and Dick to pass into the inner room. 
 
78 THE DOCTOR 
 
 " Ther' now," she continued to Margaret, who was 
 moving about putting things to rights, " don't yeh 
 go tirin' of yerself. I know things is in a muss. 
 Some'ow by Saturday night things piles up terr'ble, 
 an' I'm that tired I don't seem to 'ave no 'eart to 
 straighten 'em up. Jest look at that 'ouse! I sez 
 to John, sez I, ' I cawn't do no 'ousekeepin' with all 
 'em children 'bout my feet. An', bless their 'earts! 
 it's aU I kin do to put the bread in their mouths 
 an keep the rags on their backs.' But John sez to 
 me, sez 'e, ' Don't yeh worry, lass, 'bout the rags. 
 Keep 'em fuU,' sez 'e, ' a fuU beUy never 'eeds a 
 bare back,' sez 'e. That's 'is way. 'E's halways 
 a-comin' over somethin' cleverhke, is John. Lard 
 save us ! will yeh listen to that, now ! " she continued 
 in an awestruck undertone, as lola's voice came in 
 full rich melody from the next room. " An' Ben is 
 fair raptured with 'er. Poor Benny! it's a sore 
 calamity 'as overtaken 'im, a-breakin' of 'is leg an' 
 a-mutilatin' of 'isself. It does seem as if the Lard 
 'ad give me som'at more'n my share. Listen to 
 that ther'. Bless 'er dear 'eart; Benny fergits 'is 
 hamputation an' 'is spKts." 
 
 " His splints," cried Margaret ; " are they all 
 right now.? " 
 
 " Yes. Since the young doctor — ^that's w'at 
 Benny calls 'im — change 'em. Oh, that's a clever 
 young man ! Benney, 'e sez, ' Give me the young 
 doctor,' sez 'e. Yeh see," continued Mrs. Fallows 
 confidentially, and again lowering her voice impres- 
 sively, " yeh see, 'is leg 'urt most orf ul at first, an' 
 
THE GOOD CHEER DEPARTMENT 79 
 
 Benny cried to me, ' It's in me toes, mother, it's in 
 me toes.' ' Why, Benny,' sez I to 'im, ' yeh hain't 
 got no toes, Benny.' ' That's w'ere it 'urts,' sez 
 'e, * toes or no toes.' An' father 'e wakes right up 
 an' 'erd w'at Benny was cryin', an' sez "e, ' Benny's 
 right enough. 'Is toes'll 'urt till they're rotted 
 away in the ground.' An' 'e tells as 'ow 'is sister's 
 boldest boy got 'is leg hamputated, poor soul! an' 
 'ow 'is toes 'urted till they was took an' buried an' 
 rotted away. Some doctors don't bury 'em, an' 
 they do say," and here Mrs. Fallows' voice dropped 
 quite to a whisper, " as 'ow that keeps 'em sore all 
 the longer. Well, jest as father was speakin' in 
 comes the doctor 'isself, an' father' e told 'im as 'ow 
 Benny was feelin' the pain in 'is toes. ' In yer toes, 
 Benny?' sez the doctor surprised-like. ' Tain't yer 
 toes, Ben.' ' Well, I guess it's me as is doin' the 
 feelin',' sez Ben quite sharp, ' an' it's in me toes the 
 feelin' is.' Then father 'e spoke up. ' E's a terr'ble 
 man fer hargument, is father. ' Doctor,' sez 'e, ' is 
 them toes buried, if I might be so bold.'' ' ' Cawn't 
 say,' sez the doctor quite hindiiFerent, though 'e 
 must 'a' knowed. ' Well, my opinion is,' sez father, 
 ' 'e'll feel them toes till they're took an' buried an' 
 rotted away in the ground.' An' then 'e tells 'im 
 'bout 'is sister's boy. ' Nonsense,' sez the doctor, 
 ' tain't 'is toes at all. 'Is toes 'as nothin' to do with 
 it.' 'W'at then?' asks father quite polite. 'It's 
 the feelin' of 'is toes 'e's feelin'.' ' 'Ow can 'e 'ave 
 any f eehn' of 'is toes if 'e hain't got no toes ? ' 
 ' Well,' sez the doctor, ' 'is feelin's hain't in 'is toes 
 
80 THE DOCTOR 
 
 at all.' * Well, that's w'ere mine is,' sez father. 
 'Wen I 'urts my toes it's in my toes I feel 'em. 
 Wen I 'urts my 'and, it's my 'and.' 'My dear 
 sir,' sez the doctor calm-like, ' it hain't in yer 'and, 
 nor yet in yer toes, but in yer brain, in yer mind, 
 yeh feel the pain.' 'P'raps,' sez Ben quite short 
 again. My ! 'e was short ! ' But the feelin' in my 
 mind is that my toes is 'urtin' most orful, an' I'd 
 like to 'ave 'em buried if it's goin' to 'elp any.' 
 ' Oh, come, Benny, that's all nonsense, yeh know,' sez 
 the doctor, puttin' 'im off. But father is terr'ble 
 persistent, an' 'e keeps on an' sez, ' Don't 'is mind 
 know 'e hain't got no toes, doctor? 'Ow can 'is 
 mind feel 'is toes 'urt w'en 'is mind knows 'e hain't 
 got no toes to 'urt? ' ' It hain't 'is toes, I tell yeh,' 
 sez the doctor quite short, 'jest the feelin' of 'is 
 toes in 'is mind.' ' The feelin' of 'is toes in 'is 
 mind? ' sez father. ' But 'e hain't got no toes to 
 give 'im the feelin' of 'is toes in 'is mind or heny- 
 wheres else.' ' Dummed old fool ! ' sez the doctor, 
 quite losin' 'is temper, fer father is terr'ble pro- 
 vokin'. ' It's the feelin' 'is toes used to give 'im, an' 
 that same feeHn' of toes keeps up after 'is toes is 
 gone.' ' Well,' sez father, an' me tryin' to ketch 'is 
 eye to make 'im stop, ' I don't git no feelin' of toes 
 till me toes is 'urt. If I don't 'urt 'em, I don't git 
 no feelin' of toes. 'Ow are yeh goin' to start that 
 ther' toe feelin' 'thout no toes to start it? ' ' Yeh 
 don't need no toes to start it,' sez the doctor, ' it's 
 the old feeUn' of toes a-keepin' up.' ' Ther' hain't 
 no ^ 'Look 'ere,' sez 'e, 'I teU yeh it hain't 
 
THE GOOD CHEER DEPARTMENT 81 
 
 toes, it's the nerves of the toes reachin' up to the 
 brain. Don't yeh see? Wen the toes are 'urt the 
 nerves sends word up to the brain jest like the tele- 
 graph.' Then father 'e ponders aw'ile. ' W'ere's 
 them nerves, doctor?' sez 'e. 'In the toes.' 'In 
 the toes? Then w'en them toes is gone them nerves 
 is gone, hain't they? ' ' Yes.' ' But the nerve feel- 
 in' is ther' still.' This puzzles father some. ' Then,' 
 sez 'e, ' the feelin's in the nerves, an' if ther's no 
 nerves, no feelin's.' 'That's so,' sez the doctor, 
 ' W'en them toes is gone, doctor, the nerves is gone. 
 'Ow could ther' be any feelin's? ' ' Look 'ere,' sez 
 the doctor, an' I was feared 'e was gettin' real mad, 
 'jest quit it right now.' 'Well, well. All right, 
 doctor,' sez father quite polite, ' I've got a terr'ble 
 inquirin' mind, an' I jest wanted to know.' Then 
 the doctor 'e did seem a little ashamed of 'isself, an' 
 'e set right down an' sez 'e, ' Look a-'ere, Mr. Fal- 
 lows, I'll hexplain it to yeh. It's like the telegraph 
 wire'. 'Ere's a station we'll call Bradford, an' 'ere's 
 a station we'll call London. Hevery station 'as 'is 
 own call. Bradford station, we'll say, 'as a call 
 X Y Z, an' w'enever X Y Z sounds yeh know that's 
 Bradford a-speakin'. So if yeh 'eerd X Y Z in 
 London yeh'd know somethin' was wrong with Brad- 
 ford.' ' But if ther' hain't any,' breaks in father, 
 who was gettin' impatient. 'Shut up! will yeh?' 
 sez the doctor, ' till I git through. Well, all 'long 
 that Bradford line yeh can give that Bradford 
 call. D'yeh see?' 'Can yeh make that Bradford 
 call houtside of Bradford? ' sez father. ' Well,' sez 
 
82 THE DOCTOR 
 
 the doctor, an' 'e seemed quite puzzled, *e did, ' I 
 suppose yeh can. 'Any kind of a bang'U do along 
 the line. Now ther's Benny's toes, vr'ea they git 
 'urt they sounds up to the brain, " Toes ! Toes ! 
 Toes ! " an' all 'long that toe line yeh can git the 
 same call to the brain.' This keeps father quiet a 
 long time, then sez 'e, ' I say, doctor, is ther' many 
 of them nerves?' "Undreds of 'em.' ' Hevery 
 part of the body got nerves ? ' ' Yes.' ' Hankies ? 
 calves.? shins.'*' 'Yes, all got nerves.' 'Well, 
 doctor,' sez father, quite triumphant, ' w'en yeh cut 
 through hankies, shins, an' heverythin', all them 
 nerves begin to shout, don't they.? ' ' Yes,' sez the 
 doctor, not seein' w'ere father was at. ' Then,' sez 
 'e quick-like, ' w'at makes 'em all shout " Toes ? " 
 W'y don't the brain 'ear "Hankie" or «'Eel"?' 
 Then the old doctor 'e did git mad an' 'e did swear 
 at father most orful. But father, *e knows 'ow to 
 conduct 'isself , an' sez 'e quite dignified, ' I 'ope as 
 'ow I know 'ow to treat a gentleman.' This pulls 
 the old doctor up an' 'e sez, ' I beg yer pardon, Mr. 
 Fallows,' sez 'e. ' Don't mention it,' sez father. 
 Then the doctor went on quite nice, ' Yeh see, Mr. 
 Fallows, the truth is, we don't hunderstand these 
 things very well,' sez 'e. ' Well, doctor,' sez father, 
 * it would 'a' saved a lot of trouble If yeh'd said 
 so at the first.' An' 'e said no more, but I seed 'im 
 thinkin' 'ard, an' w'en the doctor was goin' 'e speaks 
 up an' sez, sez 'e, ' I think I know w'y it's the shout- 
 in' of toes keeps up an' not 'eels or hankies,' sez 'e. 
 ' W'en my thirteen gits a-shoutin' in this little 'ouse, 
 
THE GOOD CHEER DEPARTMENT 83 
 
 yeh cawn't 'ear the old woman or me. Ther's thir- 
 teen of 'em. An' I suppose w'en them toes gits 
 a-shoutin' yeh cawn't 'ear nothin' of hankie, or 'eel, 
 but it's all toes. Ther's five to one. But, doctor,' 
 'e sez, as 'e druv' away, ' if it's not too bold, would 
 yeh mind buryin' them toes? ' " 
 
 " But," said Mrs. Fallows, pulling herself up, " I 
 do talk. But poor Benny, 'e kep' a-cryin' with 'is 
 toes till that ther' blessed young lady come, the young 
 doctor fetched 'er, an' the minit she begin to sing, 
 poor Benny 'e fergits 'is toes an' 'e soon falls off to 
 sleep, the first 'e 'ad fer two days an' two nights. 
 Poor dear! An' 'e hain't ever done talkin' 'bout 
 that very young lady an' the young doctor. An' 
 a lovely pair they'd make, poor souls." 
 
 Margaret was conscious of a sudden pang at this 
 grouping of names by Mrs. Fallows, but before she 
 had time to analyse her feelings lola reappeared. 
 
 "Well, good-bye," said Mrs. Fallows. " Yeh'U 
 come agin w'en yeh git back. Good-bye, Miss," she 
 said to Margaret. " It does seem to give me a 
 fresh start w'en yeh put things to rights." 
 
 It was not till that night when she was in her 
 own room preparing for bed that Margaret had 
 time to analyse that sudden pang. 
 
 " It can't be that I am jealous," she said. " Of 
 course, she is far more attractive than I am and 
 why shouldn't everyone like her better? " She 
 shook her fist at her reflection in the glass. " Do 
 you know, you are as mean as you can be," she 
 said viciously. 
 
84 THE DOCTOR 
 
 At that moment there came from Tola's room the 
 sound of soft singing. 
 
 " It's no wonder," said Margaret as she listened 
 to the exquisite sound, " it's no wonder that she 
 could catch poor Ben and his mother with a voice 
 like that. Yes, and — and the rest of them, too." 
 
 In a few minutes there was a tap at her door 
 and lola came in, her hair hanging like a dusky 
 curtain about her face. Margaret uttered an in- 
 voluntary exclamation of admiration. 
 
 " My ! you are lovely ! " she cried. " No wonder 
 everyone loves you." With a sudden rush of peni- 
 tent feeling for her " mean thoughts " she put her 
 arms about lola and kissed her warmly. 
 
 " Lovely ! Nonsense ! " she exclaimed, surprised 
 at this display of affection so unusual for Margaret, 
 " I am not half so lovely as you. When I see you 
 at home here with all the things to worry you and 
 the children to care for, I think you are just splen- 
 did and I feel myself cheap and worthless." 
 
 Margaret was conscious of a grateful glow in 
 her heart. 
 
 " Indeed, my work doesn't amount to much, wash- 
 ing and dusting and mending. Anybody could do 
 it. No one would ever notice me. Wherever you 
 go the people just faU down and worship you." As 
 she spoke she let down her hair preparatory to 
 brushing it. It fell like a cloud, a golden-yellow 
 cloud, about her face and shoulders. lola looked 
 critically at her. 
 
 "You are beautiful," she said slowly. "Your 
 
THE GOOD CHEER DEPARTMENT 85 
 
 hair is lovely, and your big blue eyes, and your 
 face has something, what is it? I can't tell you. 
 But I believe people would come to you in difficulty. 
 Yes. That's it," she continued, with her eyes on 
 Margaret's face, " I can please them in a way. I 
 can sing. Yes, I can sing. Some day I shall make 
 people listen. But suppose I couldn't sing, sup- 
 pose I lost my voice, people would forget me. They 
 wouldn't forget you." 
 
 " What nonsense ! " said Margaret brusquely. 
 " It is not your voice alone ; it is your beauty and 
 something I cannot describe, something in your 
 manner that is so fetching. At any rate, all the 
 young fellows are daft about you." 
 
 " But the women don't care for me," said lola, 
 with the same slow, thoughtful voice. " If I wanted 
 very much I believe I could make them. But they 
 don't. There's Mrs. Boyle, she doesn't like me." 
 
 " Now you're talking nonsense," said Margaret 
 impatiently. " You ought to have heard old Mrs. 
 Fallows this evening." 
 
 " Now," continued lola, ignoring her remarlc, 
 " the women all like you, and the men, too, in a way." 
 
 " Don't talk nonsense," said Margaret im- 
 patiently. " When you're around the boys don't 
 look at me." 
 
 " Yes, they do," said lola, as if pondering the 
 question. " Ben does." 
 
 Margaret laughed scornfully. " Ben likes my 
 jeUy." 
 
 " And Dick does," continued lola, " and Barney." 
 
86 THE DOCTOR 
 
 Here she shot a keen glance at Margaret's face. 
 Margaret caught the glance, and, though enraged 
 at herself, she could not prevent a warm flush 
 spreading over her fair cheek and down her bare 
 neck. 
 
 " Pshaw ! " she cried angrily, " those boys ! Of 
 course, they like me. I've known them ever since 
 I was a baby. Why, I used to go swimming with 
 them in the pond. They think of me just like — 
 well — ^just like a boy, you know." 
 
 " Do you think so? They are nice boys, I think, 
 that is, if they had a chance to be anything." 
 
 " Be anything ! " cried Margaret hotly. " Why, 
 Dick's going to be a minister and " 
 
 " Yes. Dick > will do something, though he'll 
 make a funny clergyman. But Barney, what will 
 he be? Just a miUer? " 
 
 *' MiUer or whatever he is, he'll be a man, and 
 that's good enough," replied Margaret indignantly. 
 
 " Oh, yes, I suppose so. But it's a pity. You 
 know in this pokey little place no one will ever hear 
 of him. I mean he'll never make any stir." To 
 lola there was no crime so deadly as the " unheard 
 of." " And yet," she went on, " if he had a 
 chance " 
 
 But Margaret could bear this no longer. 
 "What are you talking about? There are plenty 
 of good men who are never heard of." 
 
 " Oh," cried lola quickly, " I didn't mean — of 
 course your father. Well, your father is a gentle- 
 man. But Barney " 
 
THE GOOD CHEER DEPARTMENT 87 
 
 " Oh, go to bed ! Come, get out of my room ! 
 Go to bed! I must get to sleep. Seven o'clock 
 comes mighty quick. Good-night." 
 
 " Don't be cross, Margaret. I didn't mean to 
 say anything offensive. And I want you to love 
 me. I think I want everyone to love me. I can't 
 bear to have people not love me. But more than 
 anyone else I want you." As she spoke she turned 
 impulsively toward Margaret and put her arms 
 around her neck. Margaret relented. 
 
 " Of course I love you," she said. " There," 
 kissing her, " good-night. Go to sleep or you'll 
 lose your beauty." 
 
 But lola clung to her. " Good-night, dear Mar- 
 garet," she said, her lips trembling pathetically. 
 " You are the only girl friend I ever had. I couldn't 
 bear you to forget me or to give up loving me." 
 
 " I never forget my friends," cried Margaret 
 gravely. " And I never cease to love them." 
 
 " Oh, Margaret ! " said lola, trembling and cling- 
 ing fast to her, " don't turn from me. No matter 
 what comes, don't stop loving me." 
 
 " You little goose," cried Margaret, caressing her 
 as if she were a child, " of course I will qJways love 
 you. Good-night now." She kissed lola tenderly. 
 
 " Good-night," said lola. " You know this is my 
 last night with you for a long time." 
 
 " Not the very last," said Margaret. " We go 
 to the Mill to-morrow night, you remember, and you 
 come back here with me. Barney is going to have 
 Ben there for nursing and feeding." 
 
88 THE DOCTOR 
 
 Next day Barney had Ben down to the Mill, and 
 that was the beginning of a new life to Ben in more 
 ways than one. The old mill became a place of 
 interest and delight to him. Perhaps his happiest 
 hours were spent in what was known as Barney's 
 workroom, where were various labour-saving ma- 
 chines for churning, washing, and apple-paring, 
 which, by Barney's invention, were run by the mill 
 power. He offered to connect the sewing machine 
 with the same power, but his mother would have 
 none of it. 
 
 Before many more weeks had gone Ben was hop- 
 ping about by the aid of a crutch, eager to make 
 himself useful, and soon he was not only " paying 
 his board," as Barney declared, but " earning good 
 wages as well." 
 
 The early afternoon found Margaret and lola 
 on their way to the MiU. It was with great diffi- 
 culty that Margaret had been persuaded to leave 
 her home for so long a time. The stern conscience 
 law under which she regulated her life made her 
 suspect those things which gave her peculiar pleas- 
 ure, and among these was a visit to the Mill and 
 the Mill people. It was in vain that Dick set be- 
 fore her, with the completeness amounting to demon- 
 stration, the reasons why she should make that visit. 
 " Ben needs you," he argued. " And lola wiU not 
 come unless with you. Barney and I, weary with 
 our day's work, absolutely require the cheer and re- 
 freshment of your presence. Mother wants you. 
 I want you. iWe all want you. You must come." 
 
THE GOOD CHEER DEPARTMENT 89 
 
 It was Mrs. Boyle's quiet invitation and her anxious 
 entreaty and command that she should throw off 
 the burden at times, that finally weighed with her. 
 
 The hours of that afternoon, spent partly in row- 
 ing about in the old flat-bottomed boat seeking water 
 lilies in the pond, and partly in the shade of the big 
 willows overlooking the dam, were full of restful 
 delight to Margaret. It was one of those rare 
 summer evenings that fall in harvest weather when, 
 after the burning heat of the day, the cool air is 
 beginning to blow across the fields with long shad- 
 ows. When their work was done the boys hurried 
 to join the little group imder the big willows. They 
 were all there. Ben was set there in the big arm- 
 chair, Mrs, Boyle with her knitting, for there were 
 no idle hours for her, Margaret with a book which 
 she pretended to read, old Charley smoking in silent 
 content, lola lazily strumming her guitar and occa- 
 sionally singing in her low, rich voice some of her 
 old Mammy's songs or plantation hymns. Of these 
 fatter, however, Mrs. Boyle was none too sure. To 
 her they bordered dangerously on sacrilege; nor did 
 she ever quite fuUy abandon herself to delight in the 
 guitar. It continued to be a " foreign" and " feck- 
 less " sort of instrument. But in spite of her there 
 were times when the old lady paused in her knitting 
 and sat with sombre eyes looking far across the pond 
 and into the shady isles of the woods on the other 
 side while lola sang some of her quaint Southern 
 " baby songs." 
 
 Under Dick's tuition the girl learned some of the 
 
90 THE DOCTOR 
 
 Highland laments and love songs of the North, to 
 which his mother had hushed him to sleep through 
 his baby years. To Barney these songs took place 
 with the Psalms of David, if, indeed, they were not 
 more sacred, and it was with a shock at first that 
 he heard the Southern girl with her " foreign instru- 
 ment " try over these songs that none but his mother 
 had ever sung to him. Listening to Tola's soft, 
 thrilling voice carrying these old Highland airs, he 
 was conscious of a strange incongruity. They un- 
 doubtedly took on a new beauty, but they lost some- 
 thing as well. 
 
 " No one sings them like your mother, Barney," 
 said Margaret after Dick had been drilling lola on 
 some of their finer shadings and cadences, " and they 
 are quite different with the guitar, too. They are 
 not the same a bit. They make me see different 
 things and feel different things when your mother 
 sings." 
 
 " Different how? " said Dick. 
 
 " I can't tell, but somehow they give me a differ- 
 ent taste in my mouth, just the difference between 
 eating your mother's scones with rich creamy milk 
 and eating fruit cake and honey with tea to drink." 
 
 " I know," said Barney gravely. " They lose the 
 Scotch with the guitar. They are sweet and beauti- 
 ful, wonderful, but they are a different kind alto- 
 gether. To me it's the difference between a wood 
 violet and a garden rose." 
 
 " Listen to the poetry of him. Come, mother," 
 cried Dick, " sing us one now." 
 
THE GOOD CHEER DEPARTMENT 91 
 
 " Me sing ! " cried the mother aghast. " After 
 yon ! " nodding toward lola. " You would not be 
 shaming your mother, Richard." 
 
 " Shaming you, indeed ! " cried Margaret, indig- 
 nantly. 
 
 " Do, Mrs. Boyle," entreated lola. " I have never 
 heard you sing. Indeed, I did not know you could 
 sing." 
 
 Something in her voice grated upon Barney's ear, 
 but he spoke no word. 
 
 " Sing ! " cried Dick. " You ought to hear her. 
 Now, mother, for the honor of the heather! Give 
 us ' Can Ye Sew Cushions? ' That's a ' baby song,' 
 too." 
 
 " No," said Barney quietly, " Sing ' The Mac'In- 
 tosh,' mother." And he began to play that exquisite 
 Highland lament. 
 
 It was not her son's entreaty so much as some- 
 thing in the soft drawl of the Southern girl that 
 made Mrs. Boyle yield. Something in that tone 
 touched the pride in the old lady's Highland blood. 
 When Barney reached the end of the refrain his 
 mother took up the verse with the violin accom- 
 panying. 
 
 Her voice lacked fulness and power. It was worn 
 and thin, but she had the exquisite hlting note of the 
 Highland maids at their milking or of the fisher folk 
 at the mending of their nets. Clear and sweet and 
 with a penetrating pathos indescribable, the voice 
 rose and fell in all the quaint turns and quavers and 
 cadences that a tune takes on with age. As she sang 
 
92 THE DOCTOR 
 
 her song in the soft Gaelic tongue, with hands lying 
 idly in her lap, with eyes glowing in their gloomy, 
 depths, the spell of mountain and glen and loch 
 fell upon her sons and upon the girl seated at her 
 feet, while lola's great lustrous eyes, fastened upon 
 the stranger's face, softened to tears. 
 
 " Oh, that is too lovely ! " cried lola, when the song 
 was done, clapping her hands. " No, not lovely. 
 That is not the word. Sad, sad." She hid her face 
 in her hands one impulsive moment, then said softly, 
 " I could never do that. Never ! Never ! What is 
 it you put into the songi* What is it.'' " she cried, 
 turning to Barney. 
 
 " It's the moan of the sea," said Barney gravely. 
 
 " It gives a feller a kind of holler pain inside," 
 said Ben Fallows. " There hain't no words fer it." 
 
 " Sing again," entreated lola, all the lazy indif- 
 ference gone from her voice. " Sing just one more." 
 
 " This one, mother," said Barney, playing the 
 tune, " your mother used to sing, you know, ' Fhir 
 a Bhata'." 
 
 " How often haunting the highest hilltop, 
 I scan the ocean thy sail to see; 
 Wilt come to-night, love? wilt come to-morrow? 
 iWilt ever come, love, to comfort me? 
 
 Fhir a bhata, na horo eile, 
 
 Fhir a bhata, na horo eile, 
 
 Fhir a bhata, na horo eile, ■: 
 
 O fare ye well, love, where'er ye be." 
 
 For some moments they sat quiet with the spell 
 of the dreamy, sad music upon them. 
 
THE GOOD CHEER DEPARTMENT 9S 
 
 " One more, mother," entreated Dick. 
 
 " No, laddie. The night is falling. There's 
 work to-morrow for you. Aye, and for Margaret 
 here." 
 
 lola rose and came timidly to Mrs. Boyle. 
 " Thank you," she said, lifting up her great, dark 
 eyes to the old woman's face, " you have given me 
 great pleasure to-night." 
 
 " Indeed, and you're welcome, lassie," said Mrs. 
 Boyle, smitten with a sudden pity for the motherless 
 girl. " And we will be glad to see ye when ye come 
 back again." 
 
 For this, too, it was that lola as well as Margaret 
 could never forget that afternoon. 
 
 " And now, ladies and gentlemen," cried Dick, 
 striking an attitude, " though the ' good cheer ' 
 department may seem to have accomplished the pur- 
 pose for which it was organised, it cannot be said 
 to have outlived its usefulness, in that it appears to 
 have created for itself a sphere of operations from 
 which it cannot be withdrawn without injury to all 
 its members. I, therefore, respectfully suggest that 
 the department be organised upon a permanent 
 basis with headquarters at the Mill and my humble 
 self at its head. All who agree will say ' Aye'." 
 
 " Aye," said Barney with prompt heartiness. 
 
 " Me, too," cried lola, holding up both hands. 
 
 " Mother, what do you say? " 
 
 " Aye, laddie. There's much need for good cheer 
 in the world." 
 
 " And you.'' "turning to Margaret, who stood with 
 
94 THE DOCTOR 
 
 Mrs. Boyle's arm thrown about her, " how do you 
 vote? " 
 
 " This member needs it too much" — ^with a some- 
 what uncertain smile — " to say anything but ' Aye'." 
 
 " Then," said Dick solemnly, " the ' good cheer ' 
 department is hereby and henceforth organised as 
 a permanent institution in the community here rep- 
 resented, and we earnestly hope that its members will 
 continue in their faithful adherence thereto, believ- 
 ing, as we do, that loyalty to this institution will be 
 its highest reward." 
 
 But none of them knew what potencies of joy 
 and of pain lay wrapped up for them all in that 
 same department of " good cheer." 
 
VIII 
 BEN'S GANG 
 
 THE harvest time in Ontario is ever a season 
 of delightful rush and bustle. The fall 
 wheat follows hard upon the haying, and 
 close upon the fall wheat comes the barley, then the 
 oats and the rest of the spring grain. 
 
 It was this year to be a more than usually busy 
 time for the Boyle boys. They had a common purse, 
 and out of that purse the payments on the mort- 
 gage must be met, as well as Dick's college expenses. 
 For the little farm, with the profits from the mill, 
 could do httle more than provide a living for the 
 family. Ordinarily the lads worked for day's wages, 
 the farmers gladly paying the highest going, for 
 the boys were famous binders and good workers 
 generally. This year, however, they had in mind 
 something more ambitious. 
 
 " Mother," said Dick, " did you hear of the new 
 harvesting gang?" 
 
 " And who might they be.'' " asked his mother, 
 always on the lookout for some nonsense from her 
 younger son. 
 
 " Boyle and Fallows — or Fallows and Boyle, I 
 guess it wiU be. Ben's starting with us Monday 
 morning." 
 
 " Nonsense, laddie. There will be no reaping for 
 
 95 
 
96 THE DOCTOR 
 
 Ben this year, I doubt, poor fellow; and, besides, 
 I will be needing him for myself." 
 
 " Yes. But I am in earnest, mother. Ben is to 
 drive the reaper for us. He can sit on the reaper 
 half a day, you know. At least, his doctor here says 
 so. And he will keep us busy." 
 
 " If I cawn't keep the two of you a-humpin', 
 though you are some pumpkins at bindin', I hain't 
 worth my feed." 
 
 " But, Barney," remonstrated his mother, " is he 
 fit to go about that machine.'' Something might 
 happen the lad." 
 
 " I don't think there is any danger, mother. And, 
 besides, we will be at hand all the time." 
 
 " And what will two lads like you do following 
 the machine all day? You will only be hurting 
 yourselves." 
 
 " You watch us, mother," cried Dick. " We'll be 
 after Ben hke a dog after a coon." 
 
 " Indeed," said his mother. " I have heard that 
 it takes four good men to keep up to a machine. It 
 was no later than yesterday that Mr. Morrison's 
 Sam was telling me that they had all they could do 
 to follow up, the whole four of them." 
 
 " Huh ! " grunted Dick scornfully, " I suppose so. 
 Four like Fatty Morrison and that gang of his ! " 
 
 " Hush, laddie. It is not good to be speaking 
 ill of your neighbours," said his mother. 
 
 " It's not speaking ill to say that a man is fat. 
 It's a very fine compliment, mother. Only wish 
 someone could say the same of me." 
 
BEN'S GANG 97 
 
 " Indeed, and you would be the better of it," 
 replied his mother compassionately, " with your 
 bones sticking through your skin ! " 
 
 It was with the spring crop that Ben Fallows 
 began his labours ; and much elevated, indeed, was he 
 at the prospect of entering into partnership with the 
 Boyle boys, who were renowned for the very virtues 
 which poor Ben consciously lacked and to which, in 
 the new spirit that was waking in him, he was begin- 
 ning to aspire. For the weeks spent imder Barney's 
 care and especially in the atmosphere of the Mill 
 household had quickened in Ben new motives and 
 new ambitions. This Barney had noticed, and it 
 was for Ben's sake more than for their own that the 
 boys had associated him with them in their venture 
 of taking harvesting contracts. And as the summer 
 went on they fovmd no reason to regret the new 
 arrangement. But it was at the expense of long 
 days and hard days for the two boys following the 
 reaper, and often when the day's work was done 
 they could with difficulty draw their legs home and 
 to bed. Indeed, there were nights when Dick, hardly 
 the equal of his brother in weight and strength, lay 
 sleepless from sheer exhaustion, while Barney from 
 sympathy kept anxious vigil with him. Morning, 
 however, found them stiff and sore, it is true, but 
 full of courage and ready for the renewal of the 
 long-drawn struggle which was winning for them 
 not only very substantial financial profits, but also 
 high fame as workers. The end of the harvest 
 found them hard, tough, full of nerve and fit 
 
98 THE DOCTOR 
 
 for any call within the limit of their powers. It 
 was Ben who furnished the occasion of such a call 
 being made upon them. A rainy day found him 
 at the blacksmith shop with the Mill team waiting 
 to be shod. The shop was full of horses and men. 
 A rainy day was a harvest day for the blacksmith. 
 All odd jobs allowed to accumulate during the fine 
 weather were on that day brought to the shop. 
 
 Ben, with his crutch and his wooden leg, found 
 himself the centre of a new interest and sympathy. 
 In spite of the sympathy, however, there was a dis- 
 position to chaff poor Ben, whose temper was brittle, 
 and whose tongue took on a keener edge as his 
 temper became more uncertain. Withal, he had a 
 little man's tendency to brag. To-day, however, 
 though conscious of the new interest centring in 
 him, and though visibly swollen with the importance 
 of his new partnership with the Boyle boys, he was 
 exhibiting a dignity and self-control quite unusual, 
 and was, for that very reason, provocative of chaff 
 more pungent than ordinary. 
 
 Chief among his tormenters was Sam Morrison, 
 or " Fatty " Morrison, as he was colloquially desig- 
 nated. , Sam was one of four sons of " Old King " 
 Morrison, the richest and altogether most important 
 farmer in the district. On this account Samuel was 
 inclined to assume the blustering manners of his 
 portly, pompous, but altogether good-natured father, 
 the "Old King." But while bluster in the old 
 man, who had gained the respect and esteem that 
 success generally brings, was tolerated, in Sammy 
 
BEN'S GANG 99 
 
 it became ridiculous and at times offensive. The 
 young man had been entertaining the assembled 
 group of farmers and farm lads with vivid descrip- 
 tions of various achievements in the harvest field on 
 the part of himself or some of the members of his 
 distinguished family, the latest and most notable 
 achievement being the " slashing down and tying 
 up " of a ten-acre field of oats by the four of them, 
 the " Old King " himself driving the reaper. 
 
 " Yes, sir ! " shouted Sammy. " And Joe, he 
 took the last sheaf right off that table ! You bet ! " 
 
 " How many of you.'' " asked Ben sharply. 
 
 " Just four," replied Sammy, turning quickly at 
 Ben's unexpected question. 
 
 " How many shocking.'' " continued Ben, with a 
 judicial air. 
 
 " Why, none, you blamed gander ! An' kep' us 
 humpin', too, you bet ! " 
 
 " I guess so," grunted Ben, " from what I've 
 seed." 
 
 Sam regarded him steadfastly. " And what have 
 you ' seed,' Mr. Fallows, may I ask.'' ' ' he inquired 
 with fine scorn. 
 
 " Seed? Seed you bindin', of course." 
 
 " Well, what are ye hootin' about.'' " Sam was 
 exceedingly wroth. 
 
 " I hain't been talking much for the last hour." 
 In moments of excitement Ben became uncertain of 
 his h's. " I used to talk more when I wasn't so busy, 
 but I hain't been talkin' so much this 'ere 'arvest. 
 We hain't had time. When we're on a job," con- 
 
100 THE DOCTOR 
 
 tinued Ben, as the crowd drew near to listen, " we 
 hain't got time fer talkin', and when we're through 
 we don't feel like it. We don't need to." 
 
 A general laugh of approval followed Ben's words. 
 
 " You're right, Ben. You're a gang of hustlers," 
 said Alec Murray. " There ain't much talkin' when 
 you git a-goin'. But that's a pretty good day's 
 work, Ben, ten acres." 
 
 Ben gave a snort. " Yes. Not a bad day's work 
 fer two men." He had no love for any of the Morri- 
 sons, whose near neighbours he was and at whose 
 hands he had suffered many things. 
 
 " Two men ! " shouted Sammy. " Your gang, I 
 suppose you mean." 
 
 Suddenly Ben's self-control vanished. " Yes, by 
 the jumpin' Jemima!" he cried, facing suddenly 
 upon Sam. " Them's the two, if yeh want to know. 
 Them's binders! They don't stop at hevery comer 
 to swap lies an' to see if it's goin' to rain. They 
 keep a-workin', they do. They don't wait to cool 
 hoff before they drink fer fear they git foundered, 
 as if they was 'osses, like you fellers up on the west 
 side line there." Ben threw his h's recklessly about. 
 " You hain't no binders, you hain't. Yeh never 
 seed any." 
 
 At this moment " Bang " Morrison himself entered 
 the blacksmith shop. 
 
 " Hello, Ben ! What's eatin' you? " he exclaimed. 
 
 Ben grew suddenly quiet. " Makin' a bloomin' 
 hass of myself, I guess," he growled. 
 
 "What's up with Benny? He seems a little 
 
BEN'S GANG 101 
 
 raised," said the " Old Ring," addressing the crowd 
 generally. 
 
 " Oh, blowih' 'bout his harvestin' gang," said his 
 son Sam. 
 
 " Well, you can do a little blowin' yourself, 
 Sammy." 
 
 " Guess I came by it natcherly n'ough," said 
 Sam. He stood in no awe of his father. 
 
 " Blowin's all right if you can back it up, Sammy. 
 But what's the matter, Benny, my boy? We're all 
 glad to see you about, an' more'n that, we're glad 
 to hear of your good work this summer. But what 
 are they doin' to you? " 
 
 " Doin' nothin'," broke in Sam, a little nettled 
 at the " Old King's " kindly tone toward Ben. 
 *' He's blowin' round here to beat the band 'bout his 
 gang." 
 
 " Well, Sam, he's got a right to blow, for they're 
 two good workers." 
 
 " But they can't bind ten acres a day, as Ben 
 blows about." 
 
 " Well, that would be a little strong," said the 
 " Old King." " Why, it took my four boys a good 
 day to tie up ten acres, Ben." 
 
 "I'm taUdn' 'bout binders," said Ben, In what 
 could hardly be called a respectful tone. 
 
 *' Look here, Ben, no two men can bind ten acres 
 m a day, so just quit yer blowin' an' talk sense." 
 
 " I'm talkin' 'bout binders," repeated Ben stub- 
 bornly. 
 
 " And I tell you, Ben," replied the " Old King," 
 
102 THE DOCTOR 
 
 with emphasis, " your boys — and they're good boys, 
 too — can't tie no ten acres in a day. They've got 
 the chance of tryin' on that ten acres of wheat on 
 my west fifty. If they can do it in a day they can 
 have it." 
 
 " They wouldn't take it," answered Ben regret- 
 fully. " They can do it, fast enough." 
 
 Then the " Old King " quite lost patience. " Now, 
 Ben, shut up! You're a blowhard! Why, I'd bet 
 any man the whole field against $50 that it can't 
 be done." 
 
 " I'U take you on that," said Alee Murray. 
 
 " What.? " The " Old King " was nonplussed for 
 a moment. 
 
 " I'll take that. But I guess you don't mean it." 
 
 But the " Old King " was too much of a sport to 
 go back upon his offer. " It's big odds," he said. 
 " But I'U stick to it. Though I want to teU you, 
 there's nearer twelve acres than ten." 
 
 " I know the field," said Alec. " But I'm willing 
 to risk it. The winner pays the wages. How long 
 a day? " continued Alec. 
 
 " Quit at six." 
 
 " The best part of the day is after that." 
 
 "Make it eight, then," said the "Old King;" 
 " And we'll bring it off on Monday. We're thrash- 
 ing that day, but the more the merrier." 
 
 " There's jest one thing," interposed Ben, " an' 
 that is, the boys mustn't know about this." 
 
 " Why not? " said Alec. " They're dead game." 
 
 " Oh, Dick'd jump at it quick enough, but Barney 
 
BEN'S GANG 103 
 
 wouldn't let 'im risk it. He's right careful of that 
 boy." 
 
 After fuU discussion next Sabbath morning by 
 those who were loitering, after their custom, in the 
 churchyard waiting for the service to begin, it was 
 generally agreed that the "Old King" with his 
 usual shrewdness had " put his money on the winning 
 horse." Even Alec Murray, though he kept a bold 
 face, confided to his bosom friend, Rory Ross, that 
 he " guessed his cake was dough, though they would 
 make a pretty big stagger at it." 
 
 " If Dick only had Barney's weight," said Rory, 
 *' they would stand a better chance." 
 
 " Yes. But Dick ties quicker. An' he'U die 
 before he drops." 
 
 " But ten acres, Alec ! And there's more than ten 
 acres in that field." 
 
 " I know. But it's standing nice, an' it's lighter 
 on the knoU in the centre. If I can only get them 
 goin' their best clip — I'll have to work it some way. 
 I'll have to get Barney moving. Dick's such an 
 ambitious little beggar he'd follow till he bust. The 
 first thing," continued Alec, " is to get them a good 
 early start. I'll have a talk with Ben." 
 
 As a result of his conversation with Ben it was 
 hardly daylight on Monday morning when Mrs. 
 Boyle, glancing at her clock, sprang at once from 
 her bed and called her sons. 
 
 "You're late, Barney. It's nearly six, and you 
 have to go to Morrison's to-day. Here's Ben with 
 the horses fed." 
 
104 THE DOCTOR 
 
 "Why, mother, it's only five o'clock by my 
 watch." 
 
 " No, it's six." 
 
 Upon comparison Ben's watch corresponded with 
 the clock. Barney concluded something must be 
 wrong and routed Dick up, and with such good pur- 
 pose did they hasten through breakfast that in an 
 hour from the time the boys were called they were 
 standing in the field waiting for Ben to begin the 
 day's work. 
 
 After they had been binding an hour Alec Murray 
 appeared on the field. " I'm going to shock," he 
 announced. " They've got men enough up at the 
 thrashing, an' the ' Old King ' wants to get this field 
 in shock by to-morrow afternoon so he can get it 
 thrashed, if you hustlers can get it down by then." 
 Alec was apparently in great spirits. He brought 
 with him into the field a breezy air of excitement. 
 
 " Here, Ben, don't take all day oiling up there. 
 I guess I'm after you to-day, remember." 
 
 " Guess yeh'll wait till it's tied, won't yeh.? " said 
 Ben, who thoroughly understood Alec's game. 
 
 " Don't know 'bout that. I may have to jump 
 in an' tie a few myself." 
 
 " Don't you fret yourself," replied Dick. " If 
 yeu shock all that's tied to-day you'll need to hang 
 your shirt on the fence at night." 
 
 " Keep cool, Dick, or you'll be leavin' Barney too 
 far behind. You tie quicker than him, I hear." 
 
 " Oh, I don't know," said Dick modestly, though 
 quite convinced in his own mind that he could. 
 
BEN'S GANG 105 
 
 " Dick's a little quicker, ain't he? " said Alec,, 
 turning to Barney. 
 
 " Oh, he's quick enough." 
 
 " Did you never have a tussle? " inquired Alec^ 
 snatching up a couple of sheaves in each arm and 
 setting them in their places in the shock with a quick 
 swing, then stepping off briskly for others. ' 
 
 " No," said Barney shortly. 
 
 " I guess he didn't want you to hurt yourself," he 
 suggested cunningly to Dick. " When a fellow isn't 
 very strong he's got to be careful." This was Dick's 
 sensitive point. He was not content to do a man's 
 work in the field, but he was miserable unless he took 
 first place. 
 
 " Oh, he needn't be afraid of hurting me," he said,, 
 taking Alec's bait. " I've worked with him att 
 harvest and I'm alive yet." Unconsciously Dick's 
 pace quickened, and for the next few minutes Barney 
 was left several sheaves behind. 
 
 " He's just foolin' with you, Dick," jeered Alec. 
 " He wouldn't hurt you for the world." 
 
 Unconsciously by his hustling manner and by his 
 sly suggestion of superiority now to one and again 
 to the other, he put both boys upon their mettle, and 
 before they were aware they wpre going at a racing 
 pace, though neither would acknowledge that to the 
 other. Alec kept following them close, almost run- 
 ning for his sheaves, flinging a word of encourage- 
 ment now to one, now to the other, shouting at Ben 
 as he turned the comers, and by every means possi- 
 ble keeping the excitement ftt the highest point. But , 
 
106 THE DOCTOR 
 
 he was careful not to overdrive his men. By a pre- 
 vious arrangement and without serious difficulty he 
 had persuaded Teenie Ross, who had come to assist 
 the Morrison girls at the threshing, to bring out 
 a lunch to the field at ten o'clock. For half an hour 
 they sat in the long grass in the shade of a maple 
 tree eating the lunch which Dick at least was begin- 
 ning to feel in need of. But not a minute more did 
 Alec allow. 
 
 " I'm going to catch you fellows," he said, " if 
 I've to take off my shirt to do it." 
 
 Dick was quick to respond and again set off at 
 full speed. But the grain was heavier than Alec had 
 counted upon, and when the noon hour had arrived 
 he estimated that the grain was not more than one- 
 third down. A full hour and a half he allowed his 
 men for rest, cunningly drawing them off from the 
 crowd of threshers to a quiet place in the orchard 
 where they could lie down and sleep, waking them 
 when time was up that there should be no loss of a 
 single precious moment. As they were going out 
 to the field Alec suggested that instead of coming 
 back for supper at five, according to the usual cus- 
 tom, they should have it brought to them in the field. 
 
 " It's a long way up to the house," he explained, 
 " and the days are getting short." And though the 
 boys didn't take very kindly to the suggestion, 
 neither would think of opposing it. 
 
 But in spite of all that Alec and Ben could do, 
 when the threshers knocked off work for the day and 
 sauntered down to the field where the reaping was 
 
BEN'S GANG lOT 
 
 going on, it looked as if the " Old King " were to 
 win his bet. 
 
 " Keep out of this field ! " yelled Alec, as the men 
 drew near ; " you're interf erin' with our work. Gome, 
 get out ! " For the boys had begun to take it easy 
 and chatting with some of them. 
 
 " Get away from here, I tell you ! " cried Alec. 
 " You line up along the fence and we'll show you 
 how this thing should be done ! " 
 
 Realizing the fairness of his demand, the men re- 
 tired from the field. The long shadows of the 
 evening were falling across the field. The boys were 
 both showing weariness at every step they took. 
 Alec was at his wit's end. The grain was all cut, 
 but there was still a large part of it to bind. He 
 determined to take the boys into his confidence. He 
 knew all the risk there was in this step. Barney 
 might refuse to risk an injury to his brother. It 
 was Alec's only chance, however, and walking over 
 to the boys, he told them the issue at stake. 
 
 " Boys," he said, " I don't want you to hurt your- 
 selves. I don't care a dern about the money. I'd 
 like to beat ' Old King ' Morrison and I'd like to 
 see you make a record. You've done a big day's 
 work already, and if you want to quit I won't say 
 a word." 
 
 " Quit ! " cried Dick in scorn, kindling at Alec's 
 story. "What time have we left.'' " 
 
 " We have till eight o'clock. It's now just seven." 
 
 " Come on then, Barney ! " cried Dick. " We're- 
 good for an hour, anyway." 
 
108 THE DOCTOR 
 
 " I don't know, Dick," said Barney, hesitating. 
 
 " Come along ! I can stand it and I know you 
 can." And off he set again at racing pace and mak- 
 ing no attempt to hide it. 
 
 In half an hour there were still left them, taking 
 two swaths apiece, the two long sides and the two 
 short ends. 
 
 "You can't do it, boys," said !Alec regretfully. 
 " Let 'er go." 
 
 " Yes, boys," cried the " Old King," who, with the 
 crowd, had drawn near, " you've done a big day's 
 work. You'll hurt yourselves. You've earned double 
 pay and you'll get it." 
 
 " Not yet," cried Dick. " We'U put in the half 
 hour at any rate. Come on, Barney! Never mind 
 your rake ! " 
 
 His face looked pale and worn, but his eyes were 
 ablaze with light, and but for his pale face there 
 was no sign of weariness about him. He flung 
 away his rake and, snatching up a band, kicked the 
 sheaf together, caught it up, drew, tied, and 
 fastened it as with one single act. 
 
 " We'U show them waltz time, Barney," he called, 
 springing toward the next sheaf. " One " — at the 
 word he snatched up and made the band, " two " — 
 he passed the band around the sheaf, kicking it at 
 the same time into shape, " three " — he drew and 
 knotted the band, shoving the end in with his thumb. 
 After him went Barney. One — two — ^three! and a 
 sheaf was done. One — ^two — three! and so from 
 sheaf to sheaf. It took them fifteen minutes to go 
 
BEN'S GANG 109 
 
 down the long side. Dick, who had the inside, fin- 
 ished and sprang to his place at the outer side. 
 
 " Get inside ! " shouted Barney, " let me take that 
 swath!" 
 
 " Come along ! " replied Dick, tying his sheaf. 
 
 " Fifteen minutes left, boys ! I believe you're 
 going to do it ! " At this Ben gave a yell. 
 
 " They're goin' to do it ! " he shouted, stumping 
 around in great excitement. 
 
 " Double up, Dick ! " cried Barney, carrying one 
 sheaf to the next and tying them both together. 
 Dick followed Barney's example, but here his 
 brother's extra strength told in the race. Close 
 after them came the crowd, Alec leading them, watch 
 in hand, all yelling. 
 
 " Two minutes for that end, boys ! " cried Alec, 
 as they reached the corner. " You're goin' to do 
 it, my hearties ! You're goin' to do it ! " They had 
 thirteen minutes in which to bind a side and an end. 
 
 " They can't do it. Alec," said the « Old King." 
 " They'll hurt themselves. Call them off ! " 
 
 " Are you all right, Dick? " cried Barney, swing- 
 ing on to the outer swath. 
 
 " All right," panted his brother, striding in at his 
 side. 
 
 " Come on ! We'll do it, then !" repHed Barney. 
 
 Side by side they rushed. Sheaf by sheaf they 
 tied together, Barney gradually gaining by the 
 doubling process. 
 
 " Don't wait for me," gasped Dick, " if you can 
 go faster ! " 
 
110 THE DOCTOR 
 
 " One minute and a Half, boys, if you can stand 
 it ! " cried Alec, as they reached the last comer. 
 *' One minute and a half, and we win ! " 
 
 There remained five sheaves on the outer of 
 Barney's two swaths, two on the inner of Dick's. 
 In all, nine for Barney, six for Dick. The sheaves 
 were comparatively small. Springing at this swath, 
 Barney doubled the first two, the second two, the 
 third two, and putting the last three together swung 
 in upon Dick's swath where there were two sheaves 
 left. 
 
 " Don't you touch it ! " gasped Dick angrily. 
 
 " How's the time, Alec ? " panted Barney. 
 
 « Half a minute." 
 
 Before he spoke, Dick flvmg himself on his last 
 two sheaves, crying. " Out of the way there ! " 
 snatched his band, passing it around the sheaf, 
 tied it, flung it over his shoulder, and stood with his 
 hands on his knees, his breath coming in sobbing 
 gasps. 
 
 For a few minutes the men went wUd. Barney 
 stepped to Dick's side, and patting him on the 
 shoulder, said, " Great man, Dick ! But I was a fool 
 to let you ! " 
 
 " That's what you were! " cried the " Old King," 
 slapping Dick on the back, " but there's the greatest 
 day's work ever done in these parts. The wheat's 
 yours," he said, turning to Alec, " but begad ! I 
 wish it was goin' to them that won it ! " 
 
 " An' that's where it is going," said Alec, " every 
 blamed sheaf of it, to Ben's gang." 
 
BEN'S GANG 111 
 
 " We'll take what's coming to us," said Barney 
 shortly, 
 
 " I told yeh so," said Ben regretfully. 
 
 " Why, don't you know it was for you I took the 
 bet? " said Alec, angry that he should be balked in 
 his good intention to help the boys. 
 
 " We'll take our wages," repeated Barney in a 
 tone that settled the controversy. " The wheat is 
 not ours." 
 
 " Then it ain't mine," said Alec, disgusted, remem- 
 bering in how great peril his $50 had been. 
 
 "Well, boys," said the "Old King," "it ain't 
 mine. We'll divide it in three." 
 
 " We'll take our wages," said Barney again, in 
 sullen determination. 
 
 "Confound the boy!" cried the "Old King." 
 " What'U we do with the wheat? I say, we'll give it 
 to Ben ; he's had hard luck this year." 
 
 "No, by the jumpin' Jemima Jebbs!" said Ben, 
 stumping over to Barney's side. " I stand with 
 the boss. I take my wages." 
 
 " Well, dog-gone you all ! Will you take double 
 pay, then? There's two days' good work there. And 
 the rest we'll give to the church. Good thing the 
 minister ain't here or he'd kick, too ! " 
 
 "But," added the "Old King," turning to his 
 son Sam, " after this you crawl into your shell when 
 there's any blowin' bein' done about Ben's gang." 
 
IX 
 
 LOVE'S TANGLED WAYS 
 
 THE mill lane was prinked with aU the June 
 flowers. Over the snake fence massed the 
 clover, red and white. Through the rails 
 peeped the thistle bloom, pink and purple, and higher 
 up above the top rail the whjte crest of the dogwood 
 slowly nodded in the brefeze this sweet summer day. 
 In the clover the bumblebees, the crickets, and the 
 grasshoppers boomed, chirped, crackled, shouting 
 their joy to be alive in so good a place and on so 
 good a day. Above, the sky was blue, pure blue, 
 and all the bluer for the specks of cloud that hung, 
 stiU-poised like white-winged birds, white against the 
 blue. Last evening's rain had washed the world 
 clean. The sky, the air, the flowers, the clover, red 
 and white, the kindly grass that ran green every- 
 where under foot, the dusty road, all were washed 
 clean. In the elm bunches by the fence, in the 
 maples and thorns, the birds, their summer preoccu- 
 pations forgotten at the bidding of this new washed 
 day, recalled their spring songs and poured them 
 forth with fine careless courage. 
 
 In tune to this brave symphony of colour and song, 
 and down this flower-prinked, song-filled, clean 
 washed, grassy lane stepped Dick this summer morn- 
 ing, stepped with the spring and balance of the 
 
 112 
 
LOVE'S TANGLED WAYS 113 
 
 well-trained athlete, stepped with the step of a man 
 whose heart makes him merry music. A clean-look- 
 ing man was Dick, harmonious with the day and with 
 the lane down which he stepped. Against the grey 
 of his suit his hands, his face, and his neck, where 
 the negligee shirt fell away wide, revealing his strong, 
 fuU curves spreading to the shoulders, all showed 
 ruddy brown. He was a man good to look upon, with 
 his springy step, his tan skin, his clear eye, but. 
 chiefly because out of his clear eye a soul looked 
 forth clean and unafraid upon God's good world of 
 wholesome growing things. 
 
 From his three years of 'varsity life he came back 
 unspoiled to his boyhood's love of the open sky and 
 of all things under it. He had just come through 
 a great year in college, his third, the greatest in 
 many ways of the college course. His class had 
 thrust TiiTTi into a man's place of leadership in that 
 world where only manhood counts, and he had " made 
 good." In the literary, in the gym, on the campus 
 he had made and held high place, and on the class 
 lists, in spite of his many distractions, he had ranked 
 a double first. Best of all, it filled him with warm 
 gratitude to remember that none of his fellows had 
 grudged him any of his good things. What a decent 
 lot they were! It humbled him to think of their 
 pride in him. He would not disappoint them. 
 Noblesse oblige. 
 
 At the crest of the hill he paused to look back, and 
 here the pain that had been running below his con- 
 sciousness, like the minor strain in rich music, came 
 
114 THE DOCTOR 
 
 to the top. This was Barney's spot. At this spot 
 Barney always made him pause to look back upon 
 the old mill in its frame of beauty. Poor Barney! 
 Twice he had gone down to the exams, and twice he 
 had failed. Of all in the home circle only Dick could 
 understand the full bitterness of the cup of humilia- 
 tion that his brother had put silently to his lips 
 and drained. To his mother, the failure brought 
 no surprise, and she wouH have been glad enough 
 to have him give up " his notion of being a doctor 
 and be content with the mill." She had no ambitions 
 for poor Barney, who was " a quiet lad and well- 
 doing enough," an encomium which stood for all the 
 virtues removed from any touch of genius. She was 
 not hurt by his failure. Indeed, she could hardly 
 understand how deep the shame had gone into his 
 proud, reserved heart. His father did not talk about 
 it, but carried him off to look at some of the mill 
 machinery which had gone wrong, and it was only 
 by a gentler tone in his voice that Barney knew that 
 his father understood. But Dick, with his fuller 
 knowledge of college life, realized as none other of 
 them did the extent of Barney's miserable sense of 
 defeat. 
 
 !And now, as he looked back upon the mill, Bar- 
 ney's pain became his anew. The causes of his fail- 
 ure were not far to seek. " He had no chance ! " 
 said Dick aloud, leaning upon the top rail and looking 
 with gloomy eyes upon the scene of beauty before 
 him. Things had changed since old Doctor Fergu- 
 son's time. The scientific basis of medicine was 
 
LOVE'S TANGLED WAYS 115 
 
 coming to its place in medical study, and the old 
 doctor's contempt for these new-fangled notions had 
 wrought ill for Barney. Dick remembered how he 
 had gone, hot with indignation for his brother, to 
 the new English professor in chemistry, whose papers 
 were the terror of all pass men and, indeed, all honour 
 men who stuck too closely to the text-book. He 
 remembered the Englishman's drawling contempt as, 
 after looking up Barney's name and papers, he 
 dismissed the matter with the words, " He knows 
 nothing whatever about the subject, couldn't con- 
 duct the simplest experiment, don't you know." 
 Poor Barney! the ancient and elementary chemistry 
 of Dr. Ferguson seemed to hold not even the remot- 
 est affinity to that which Professor Fish expected. 
 Dick was glad this morning that he had had sense 
 enough to hold his tongue in the professor's pres- 
 ence. It comforted him to recall the generous enthu- 
 siasm with which Dr. Trent, the most brilliant 
 surgeon on the staff, had recalled Barney's name. 
 " Your brother, is he? Well, sir, he's a wonder! " 
 " Fish doesn't think so," Dick had replied. 
 " Oh ! Fish be hanged ! " the doctor had answered, 
 with the fine contempt of a specialist in practical 
 work for the theorist in medicine. " He has some 
 idiotic notions in his head that he plucks men for 
 not knowing. I don't say they are not necessary, 
 but useful chiefly for examination purposes. Send 
 your brother down. Send him down. For if ever 
 I saw an embryonic surgeon, he's one! When he 
 comes, bring him to me." 
 
116 THE DOCTOR 
 
 " He'll come," Dick had answered, his face hot to 
 think that it was for his sake Barney had remained 
 grinding at home. 
 
 " And he's going this fall," said Dick aloud, " or 
 no 'varsity for me." He pulled a letter out of his 
 pocket. It was from his football comrade, young 
 Macdonald, offering, in his father's name, to Barney 
 and himself positions in one of the lumber mills far 
 up the Ottawa, where, by working overtime, there 
 was a chance of making $100 a month and all found. 
 " And we'U make it go," said Dick. " There's $300 
 apiece for us, and that's more than we want. Poor 
 old chap ! " he continued, musing aloud, " he'll get 
 his chance at last. Besides, we'U get him away from 
 that girl, confoimd her! though I'm afraid it's no 
 use now." 
 
 A deeper pain surged up from the bottom of Dick's 
 heart. " That girl " was lola. The night before, 
 as they were driving home in the growing dark, with 
 halting words and with shamed face, as if he were do- 
 ing his brother a wrong, Barney had confided to him 
 that lola and he had come to an understanding of 
 their mutual love. Dick remembered this morning, 
 and he would remember to his dying day, the sense 
 of loss, of being forsaken, that had smitten him as 
 he cried, "Oh, Barney! is it possible?" Then, as 
 Barney had gone on to explain how it had come 
 about, almost apologizing, as it seemed to Dick, for 
 his weakness, Dick, seeing in the gloom a gleam of 
 hope, had cried, " We'U get you out of it, Barney. 
 I'U help you this summer." And then again the 
 
LOVE'S TANGLED WAYS 117 
 
 Inevitableness of what had taken place had come over 
 him at Barney's reply : " But, Dick, I don't want 
 to get out of it." At that moment Dick's world 
 changed. No longer was he first with his brother, 
 lola had taken his place. In vain Barney, guessing 
 the thought in his heart, had protested with eager, 
 almost piteous, appeal that Dick would be the same 
 to him as ever. In the first acute moment of his pain 
 he had cried out some quick word of bitter reproach, 
 but the look on Barney's face had checked him. He 
 was glad now that he had said nothing against the 
 girl. And as he thought of her in the saner light of 
 the morning, he felt that he could not be quite fair 
 to her, and yet he wished it had been some other than 
 lola. " It's that confounded voice of hers, and her 
 eyes, and her whole get-up. She's got something 
 diabolically fetching about her." Then, as if he 
 had gone too far, he continued, stiU musing aloud, 
 " She's good enough, I guess, but not for Barney." 
 That was one of the bitter things that had survived 
 the night. She was not good enough for his brother, 
 his hero, his beau ideal of high manhood ever since 
 he could think. " But there is no one good enough 
 for Barney," he continued, " except — yes — ^there is 
 one — Margaret — she is good enough — even for Bar- 
 ney." As Barney among men, so Margaret among 
 women had stood with Dick, peerless. And all his 
 life he had put these two together. Even as a little 
 fellow, when saying his prayers to his mother, next 
 in the list to Barney's name had always come Mar- 
 garet's. She was like Barney in so many ways; 
 
118 THE DOCTOR 
 
 strong like Barney in her relentless devotion to 
 duty ; she had Barney's fine sense of honour, of right- 
 eousness, and Barney's superb courage, and, more 
 than anything else, the same unfathomable heart of 
 love. One could never get to the bottom of it. No 
 matter what the drain, there would still be love there. 
 
 It was the thought of Margaret that had set his 
 heart singing within him this morning. Even last 
 night, after the first few moments of pain, the 
 thought of Margaret had come to him, bringing 
 an odd sense of happiness, and early this morning 
 the first consciousness of loss, that had made him 
 tighten his arm hard about his brother, had been 
 followed by that feeling of happiness, indefinable at 
 first, but soon traced to the thought of Margaret. 
 For the first time in his life he thought of her unre- 
 lated to Barney. He had always loved Margaret, 
 rejoiced in her high spirit, her courage, her down- 
 right sincerity, her deep heart, but never for him- 
 self, always for Barney. The first resentment that 
 Barney should have passed her by for one Hke Tola 
 had given way to a timid fluttering of heart that 
 strengthened and deepened to a great joy that the 
 way to Margaret for him stood open. For himself, 
 now, he might love her. With such marvellous swift- 
 ness does love work that, when his mother bade him 
 go " pay his duty to the minister," his heart re- 
 sponded with so great a leap of joy that he found 
 himself glancing quickly at the faces of those about 
 him, sure that they must have noticed. 
 
 And now he was on his way to Margaret. It was 
 
LOVE'S TANGLED WAYS 119 
 
 as if he had to make acquaintance of her. He won- 
 dered how she would greet him and he wondered 
 what he should say to her. What would she be 
 doing now? He glanced at his watch. It was just 
 ten o'clock. The morning work would be done. She 
 might come for a little stroll in the woods at the 
 back of the manse, but he would say nothing to her 
 to-day. He would wait and watch to read her heart. 
 He sprang up the bank, that ran along beside the 
 fence, to go on his way. A gleam of white through 
 the snake fence against the pink of the clover caught 
 his eye. Under the thorn tree — ^he knew the spot 
 well — and upon the grass, lay a girl. " By Jove ! " 
 he whispered, his heart stopping, thumping, then 
 rushing, " it is Margaret." He would creep up and 
 surprise her. The deep grass deadened his footfalls. 
 He was close to her. He held his breath. She lay 
 asleep, one arm under her head, the other flung wide 
 in an abandonment of weariness. He stood gazing 
 down upon her. Pale she looked to him, and thin 
 and weary. The lines about her mouth and eyes 
 spoke of cares and of griefs, too. How much older 
 she was than he had thought ! " Poor girl ! she has 
 been having a hard time! It's a shame, a downright 
 shame ! And she's only a child yet ! " At the 
 thought of her long sacrifice for those three past 
 years a great pity stole into his heart. At that 
 touch of pity the love that had ever filled his heart, 
 dammed back for so long by his regard for his 
 brother's rights, suddenly finding its new channel, 
 burst forth and swept like a torrent through his 
 
120 THE DOCTOR 
 
 being. He lost grip of himself and, before he knew, 
 he had bent over the sleeping girl and kissed her 
 lips. A long shivering sigh shook her. " Barney," 
 she murmured, a slight smile playing about her lips. 
 She opened her eyes. 'A moment she lay looking up 
 into Dick's face, then, suddenly wide awake, she sat 
 upright. 
 
 " You ! Dick ! " she cried, surprise, indignation, 
 shame, mingling in her voice. "You — ^you dare 
 to " 
 
 " Yes, Margaret," said Dick, aghast at what he 
 had done, " I couldn't help it. You looked so sweet 
 and so sad, and — and I love you so much." 
 
 " You," cried the girl again, as if she could find 
 no other word. " What did you say? " 
 
 " I said, Margaret," he replied, gathering his 
 courage together, " that I love you so much." 
 
 "You love me?" she gasped. 
 
 " Yes, I love you. I never knew till last night." 
 
 " Last night? " she echoed, with her eyes upon his 
 face, now grown pale, but illuminated with a light 
 she had never seen there before. 
 
 " Yes, last night. It was always there, Mar- 
 garet," he hurried to say, " but only last night I 
 found out I might love you. I never let myself go. 
 I thought I had no right. I mean I thought Bar- 
 ney " At the mention of his brother's name, the 
 
 face that had been white with a look almost of horror 
 flamed quickly with red. " Last night," continued 
 Dick, wondering at the change in her, " I found out, 
 and this morning, Margaret, the whole world is just 
 
LOVE'S TANGLED WAYS 121 
 
 humming with joy because I know I may love you 
 all I want to. Oh, it's great! I never imagined 
 a fellow could hold so much love or so much joy. 
 Do you understand me, Margaret? Do you know 
 what I am talking about? " Margaret's faae ha'd 
 grown pale and haggard, as with pain, and her eyes 
 were wide open with pity. 
 
 " Yes, Dick," she said slowly, " I know. I have 
 just been learning." The brave lips quivered, but 
 she kept firm hold of herself. " I know all the joy 
 and — aU the pain." She stopped short at the look 
 in Dick's face. The buoyant, glad light flickered 
 and went out. A look of perplexity, of great fear, 
 and then of desolation, like that on her own face, 
 spread over his. He knew her too well to misundier- 
 stand her meaning. She leaned over to him, still 
 kneeling in the grass. " Oh, Dick, dear ! " she cried, 
 taking his hand in hers with a mother-touch and 
 tone, "must you suffer, too? Oh, don't say you 
 must! Not with my pain, Dick! Not with my 
 pain ! " Her voice rose in a cry, broke into a sob, 
 but still she held him with her eyes. 
 
 " Do you say I must? " he answered in a hoarse 
 tone. " I love you with all my heart." 
 
 " Oh, don't Dick, Hear," she pleaded, " don't 
 say it!" 
 
 " Yes, I will," he said, recovering his veice, " be- 
 cause it's true. And I'm glad it's true. Pm glad 
 that I can at last let myself love you. It was only 
 last night when Barney teld me about lola, you 
 know." 
 
122 THE DOCTOR 
 
 " Yes, yes," she said hurriedly. 
 
 " I had always thought that it was you, and I 
 Uras glad to think so for Barney. But last night " 
 — ^here a quick flash of joy came into his face at 
 the memory — " I found out, and this morning I could 
 hardly help shouting it as I came along to you." 
 He paused, and, leaning toward her, he took her 
 hand. " Don't you think, Margaret, you might 
 perhaps some time." The piteous entreaty in his 
 voice broke down the girl's proud courage. 
 
 "Oh, Dick! Oh, Dick!" she sobbed, "don't! 
 Don't ask me I " Her sobs came tempestuously. 
 
 He put his arms about her and, stroking her yel- 
 low hair, gently said, " Never mind, little girl. 
 Don't do that! I can't stand that, and — well, I 
 won't bother you a bit with my affair. Don't think 
 about me. I'll get hold of myself. There now — 
 hush, hush, girlie. Don't cry like that ! " He held 
 her close to him, caressing her till she grew quiet. 
 
 At length she drew away, saying, " I don't know 
 why I should act hke this. I haven't cried for a 
 year. I think I am tired. It has been a hard 
 winter, Dick. They used to play and sing together 
 for hours. Oh, it was wonderful, music, but I could < 
 have shrieked aloud. Don't think me horrid," she 
 went on hurriedly. " I wonder I am not ashamed 
 to tell you. But I never let anyone know, neither 
 of them nor anyone else. Mind you that, Dick, 
 no one knows." She sat up straight, her courage 
 coming back. " I never meant to tell you, Dick, 
 but you know you took me unaware." A little smile' 
 
LOVE'S TANGLED WAYS 12S 
 
 was struggling to the corners of her mouth and a 
 faint flush touched her pale cheek. " But I am glad 
 you know. And, Dick, can't we go back? Won't 
 you forget what you have said.'' " Dick had been 
 looking at her, wondering at her courage and self- 
 command, but in his eyes a look of misery that went 
 to the girl's heart. 
 
 " Forget ! " he cried. " Tell me how." 
 
 She shook her head, and then, reading his eyes, 
 she cried aloud, " Oh, Dick ! must we go on and on 
 like this.'' " She pressed her hands hard upon her 
 heart. " There's a sore, sore pain right here," she 
 said. " Is there to be no rest, no relief from it.'' 
 It's been there for two years." She was fast losing 
 her grip of herself again. Once more he caught 
 her in his strong brown hands. 
 
 " Now, Margaret dear, don't do that ! We'll 
 help each other somehow. God — ^yes, God wiU help 
 us if He takes any interest in us at all. He can't 
 let us go on like this ! " 
 
 The words steadied her. 
 
 " I know, Dick," she said, a sudden quiet falling 
 upon her, " there has been no one else for aU these 
 months, and He has helped me. He will help you, 
 too. Come," she continued, " let us go." 
 
 " No, sit down and talk," replied Dick. He 
 looked at his watch. " A quarter after ten," he 
 said, in surprise. " Can the whole world change 
 in one Httle quarter of an hour ? " he asked, looking 
 up at her, " it was ten when I stopped at the hiU." 
 
 " Come, Dick," she said again, " we'll talk an- 
 
124. THE DOCTOR 
 
 other time. I can't trust myself just now. I was 
 going to your mother's." 
 
 But Dick remained kneeling in the grass where 
 he was. It seemed to him as if he had been in some 
 strange land remote from this common life, and he 
 shrank from contact with the ordinary day and its 
 ordinary doings. 
 
 "I can't, Margaret," he said. "You go. Let 
 me fight it out." 
 
 She knew too well where he was. "No, Dick, I 
 wiU not leave you here. Come, do." She went 
 quickly to him, kneeled down, put her arms about his 
 neck and kissed him. " Help me, Dick," she whis- 
 pered. 
 
 It was the word he needed. He threw his arms 
 about her, kissed her once, and then, as if seized with 
 a frenzy of passion, he kissed, again and again, her 
 hair, her face, her hands, her lips, murmuring in 
 hoarse, passionate tones, " I love you ! I love you ! " 
 For a few moments she suffered him, and then gently 
 pushed him back and drew apart from him. Her 
 action recalled him to himself. 
 
 "Forgive me, Margaret," he cried brokenly, 
 " I'm a great, selfish brute. I think only of myself. 
 Now I'm ready to go. And when I weaken again, 
 don't think me quite a cad." 
 
 He sprang up, threw back his shoulders as if 
 adjusting them to a load, gave her his hand, and 
 lifted her up, and together they set off down the 
 lane, the shadow a little lighter as each felt the 
 other near. 
 
FOR A LADY'S HONOURS 
 
 ** ARE you going to Trinity convocation to- 
 
 A% morrow?" asked Dr. Bulling of lola. 
 ± J^ They were sitting in what lola called her 
 studio. A poor little room it was, but suggesting 
 in every detail the artistic taste of its occupant. 
 Its adornments, the luxurious arrangement of cush- 
 ions in the cosey comer, the prints upon the walls, 
 and the books on the little table, spoke of a pathetic 
 attempt to reproduce the surroundings of luxurious 
 art without the large outlay that art demands. At 
 one side of the room stood a piano with music lying 
 carelessly about. In another comer was Ida's 
 guitar, which she seldom used now except when inti- 
 mate friends gathered for one of the little suppers 
 she loved to give. Then she took it up to sing the 
 mammy songs of her childhood. On the side oppo- 
 site to that on which the piano stood was a little fire- 
 place. It was the fireplace that had determined 
 the choice of the room. 
 
 As Dr. Bulling asked his question lola's face lil 
 up with a sudden splendour. 
 
 " Yes, of course," she cried. 
 
 " And why ' of course '? " inquired the doctor. 
 
 " Why? Because a great friend of mine is to 
 receive his degree and his gold medal." 
 
 125 
 
126 THE DOCTOR 
 
 " And who Is that, pray? " 
 
 "Mr. Boyle." 
 
 "Oh, you know him? Clever chap, they say. 
 Can't say I know him. Have seen him a few times 
 in the hospital with Trent. Struck me as rather 
 crude. From the country, some place, isn't he? " 
 
 " Yes," replied lola, with ever so slight a hesita- 
 tion, " he Is from the country, where I met him five- 
 yes, it Is actually five — ^years ago. So you see he is 
 quite an old friend. [And as for being crude, I think 
 you can hardly call him that. Of course, he Is not 
 one of society's darlings, a patron of art, and a 
 rising member of his profession as yet" — ^thls with 
 a little bow to her visitor — " but some day he will 
 be great. And, besides, he Is very nice." 
 
 " Of that I have no doubt," said the doctor, " see- 
 ing he Is a friend of yours. But how are you going ? 
 Some friends of mine are to be there and wIU be glad 
 to caU for you." The doctor could hardly prevent 
 a tone of condescension, almost of patronage, In 
 his voice. 
 
 " You are very kind," said lola, with just enough 
 reserve In her manner to make the doctor conscious 
 of his tone, " but I am going with friends." 
 
 " Friends ? " inquired the doctor. " And who, 
 may I ask? " There was an almost rude familiarity 
 In his tone, but lola only smiled at him the more 
 sweetly. 
 
 " Oh, very dear friends, and very old friends, and 
 friends of Mr, Boyle. In fact, his brother, a the- 
 ological student, and a Miss Robertson. I think 
 
FOR A LADY'S HONOUR 127 
 
 you have met her. She is a nurse in the General 
 Hospital." 
 
 "Nurse Robertson?" said Bulling. "Oh, yes, 
 I know her. Pretty much of a saint, isn't she? " 
 
 "A saint?" cried lola, for the first time throw- 
 ing energy into her voice. " Yes, a saint. But the 
 best and sweetest and kindest and j oiliest girl I 
 know." 
 
 "I should hardly have called her jolly," said the 
 doctor, with an air of dismissing her. 
 
 " Oh, she is ! " cried lola, enthusiastically, her 
 large eyes glowing eager enthusiasm. " You ought 
 to have seen her at home. Why, at sixteen years 
 she took charge of her father's manse and the 
 children in the most wonderful way. Looked after 
 me, too." 
 
 " Poor girl ! " murmured the doctor. " She had 
 a handful, sure enough." 
 
 " Yes, you may say so. Then her father went 
 on a trip to the old country, and, to the surprise of 
 everybody, brought back a new wife." 
 
 " And put the girl's nose out of joint," said the 
 doctor. 
 
 " Well, hardly that. But there was no longer 
 need for her at home, and, on the whole, she felt 
 better to be independent, and so here she has been 
 for the last two years. She shares my room when 
 she is at home, which is not often, and still takes 
 care of me." 
 
 " Most fortunate young lady she is," murmured 
 the doctor. 
 
128 THE DOCTOR 
 
 " So I am going with them," continued lola, 
 
 " Then I suppose nobody will see you." The doc- 
 tor's tone was quite gloomy. 
 
 " Why, I love to see all my friends." 
 
 " It will be the usual thing," said the doctor, " the 
 same circle crowding you, the same impossibility of 
 getting a word with you." 
 
 " That depends on how much you " cried lola, 
 
 throwing a swift smile at him. 
 
 "How much I want to?" interrupted the doctor 
 eagerly. "You know quite well I " 
 
 " How much time there is. You see, one can't be 
 rude. One must speak to all one's friends. But, 
 of course, one can always plan one's time. How- 
 ever," she continued, " one can hardly expect to 
 see much of the very popular Dr. Bulling, whose 
 attention is always so fully taken up." 
 
 " Oh, rot ! " said the doctor. " I say, can't we 
 get off a little together? There are nice quiet nooks 
 about the old building." 
 
 " Oh, doctor, how shocking ! " But her eyes be- 
 lied her voice, and the doctor departed with the 
 Hvely expectation of a very pleasant convocation 
 day at Trinity. 
 
 The convocation passed off with the usual uproar 
 on the part of the students and the usual long-suffer- 
 ing endurance on the part of the dean and faculty 
 and those who were fortunate, or unfortunate, 
 enough to be the orators of the day, the fervent 
 enthusiasm of the undergraduate body finding 
 expression, now in college songs, whose chief char- 
 
FOR A LADY'S HONOUR 129 
 
 acteristic was the vigour with which they were 
 rendered, personal remarks in the way of encour- 
 agement, deprecation, pity, or gentle reproof to all 
 who had to take part in the public proceedings, and 
 at intervals in wildly uproarious applause and cheers 
 at the mention of the name of some favourite. At 
 no point was the fervour greater than when Bar- 
 ney was called to receive his medal. To the little 
 group of friends at the left of the desk, consisting 
 of his brother, Margaret, and lola, it seemed ^s if 
 the cheering that greeted Barney's name was almost 
 worthy of the occasion. Dr. Trent presented him, 
 and as he spoke of the diflSculties he had to contend 
 with in the early part of his course, of the persever- 
 ance and indomitable courage the young man had 
 shown, and the singular, indeed the very remarka- 
 ble, ability he had manifested in the special line of 
 study for which this inedal was granted, the dead 
 silence that pervaded the room was even more elo- 
 quent than the tumult of cheers that followed Dr. 
 Trent's remarks and that continued until Barney 
 had taken his place again among the graduating 
 class. 
 
 Then someone called out, " What's the matter with 
 old Carbuncle.'' " eliciting the usual vociferous reply, 
 "He's all right!" 
 
 " By Jove," said Dick to Margaret, who sat next 
 him, "isn't that great .f" And the old boy deserves 
 it every bit ! " But Margaret made no reply. She 
 was sitting with her eyes cast down, pale except 
 for a spot of red in each cheek. At Dick's words 
 
130 THE DOCTOR 
 
 she glanced at him for a moment, and he noticed that 
 the large blue eyes were full of tears. 
 
 " It's all right, little girl," he whispered, giving 
 her hand a little pat. He dared say no more, foi 
 the sight of her face and the look in her eyes set his 
 own heart beating and gave him a choke in his 
 throat. 
 
 On the other side of Margaret sat lola, her face 
 radiant with pride and joy, and as Barney reached 
 his seat, turning half around and in the face of the 
 whole company, she flashed him a look and a smile 
 so full of pride and love that it seemed to him at 
 that moment as if all he had endured for the last 
 three years were quite worth while. 
 
 After the formal proceedings were over. Dr. Bull- 
 ing made his way to the little group about Barney. 
 
 " Congratulations, Boyle," he said, in the some- 
 what patronizing manner of a graduate of some 
 years' standing to one who holds his parchment in 
 his hand and wears his still blushing honours as men 
 wear new clothes, " that was a remarkable fine 
 reception you had to-day." 
 
 Barney's brief word of acknowledgment showed 
 his resentment of BuUing's tone and his dislike of 
 the man. It angered Barney to observe the fa- 
 miliar, almost confidential, manner of Dr. Bulling 
 with lola, but it made him more furious to notice 
 that, instead of resenting, lola seemed to be pleased 
 with his manner. Just now, however, she was giv- 
 ing herself to Barney. Her pride in him, her joy 
 in him, and her quiet appreciation of him, were 
 
FOR A LADY'S HONOUR 131 
 
 evident to all, so evident, indeed, that after a few 
 words Dr. Bulling took himself off. 
 
 " Brute ! " said Barney as the doctor retired. 
 
 " Why, I am sure he seems very nice," said lola, 
 raising her eyebrows in surprise. 
 
 " Nice ! " said Barney contemptuously. " If you 
 knew how the men speak of him about town you 
 wouldn't call him nice. He has money, and he's in 
 the swim, but he's a beast, aU the same." 
 
 " Oh, Barney, you mustn't say ' so ! " cried lola, 
 " for you know he's been a great friend to me. He 
 has been very kind. I am quite devoted to him." 
 Something in the tone of her voice, and more in 
 the smile which she gave Barney, took the sting out 
 of her words. 
 
 Before many minutes had passed the little group 
 was broken up, chiefly because of the fact that lola 
 was soon surrounded by a circle of her own admiring 
 friends, and among them the most insistent was Dr. 
 Bulling, who finally, with bluff, good-natured but 
 almost rude aggressiveness, carried her off to the 
 tearoom. It took all the joy out of the day for 
 Barney, and on his behalf, for Margaret and Dick, 
 that for the rest of the afternoon lola's attention 
 was entirely absorbed by Dr. Bulling and his little 
 coterie of friends. 
 
 And this feeling of disappointment in lola and 
 of resentment against Dr. Bulling he carried with 
 him to a little stag dinner by the hospital staff at 
 the Olympic that evening. The dinner was due 
 chiefly to the exertions of Dr. Trent, and was in- 
 
132 THE DOCTOR 
 
 tended by him not only to bring into closer touch 
 with each other the members of the hospital staff, 
 but also to be a kind of introduction of Barney to 
 the inner circle of medical men in the city. For the 
 past year Barney had acted as his clerk, almost as 
 his assistant, and, indeed. Dr. Trent had made the 
 formal proposition of an assistantship to him. Out 
 of compliment to Barney, Dick had been invited, 
 and young Drake also, who owed his parchment that 
 day to Barney's merciless grinding in surgery, and 
 perhaps more to his steadying friendship. Dr. 
 Bulling, who, more for his great wealth and his 
 large social connection than for his professional 
 standing, had been invited, was present with Fox- 
 more, Smead, and others who followed him about ap- 
 plauding his coarse jokes and accepting his favours. 
 The dinner was purely informal in character, the 
 menu well chosen, the wines abundant, and the drink- 
 ing hard enough with some, with the result that as 
 the dinner neared its end the men, and especially the 
 group about Bulling, became more and more hilari- 
 ous. Barney, who was drinking water and keeping 
 his hand upon Drake's wineglass, found his atten- 
 tion divided between his conversation with Trent 
 and the talk of BulHng, who, with his friends, sat 
 across the table. As this group became more bois- 
 terous, they absorbed to themselves the attention of 
 the whole company. Conscious of the prestige his 
 wealth and social position accorded him, and in- 
 flamed by the wine he was drinking, Bulling became 
 increasingly offensive. The talk degenerated. The 
 
FOR A LADY'S HONOUR 
 
 stories and songs became more and more coarse in 
 tone. It was Barney's first experience of a dinner 
 of this kind, and it filled him with disgust and 
 horror. Even Trent, by no means inexperienced in 
 these matters, was disgusted with Bulling's tone. 
 Following Barney's glances and aware of his wan- 
 dering attention, he was about to propose a break- 
 up of the party when he was arrested by a look 
 of rigid and eager attention upon the face of his 
 friend. 
 
 " Disgusting brute ! " said Trent, in a low voice. 
 
 But Barney heeded him not. His attention was 
 concentrated upon Bulling. He had his glass in 
 his hand. 
 
 " Here's to the Lane ! " he was saying, " the 
 sweetest little Lane in all the world ! " 
 
 " She's divine ! " replied Foxmore. " And what 
 a voice! She'll make Canada famous some day. 
 Where did you discover her. Bulling?" 
 
 " In church," replied Bulling solemnly, to the 
 uproarious delight of his followers. " That's 
 right," he continued, " heard her sing, set things 
 in motion, and now she's the leading voice in the 
 cathedral. Introduced her to a few people, and 
 there she is, the finest thing in her line in the city ! 
 Yes, and some day on the continent! A dear, sweet 
 little lane it is," he continued in a tone of afi'ec- 
 tionate proprietorship that made Barney grind his 
 teeth in furious rage. 
 
 " That she is," said Smead enthusiastically, " and 
 thoroughly straight, too ! " 
 
184 THE DOCTOR 
 
 " Oh," said Foxmore, " there's no lane but has a 
 turning. And trust Bulling," he added coarsely, 
 " for finding it out." 
 
 " Well," said Bulling, with a knowing smile, " this 
 little Lane is straight. Of course there may be a 
 slight deflection. Nature's lines run in curves, you 
 know." And again liis wit provoked applauding 
 laughter. But before the laughter had quite faded 
 out a voice was heard, clear and cutting. 
 
 " Dr. Bulling, you are a base liar ! " The words 
 were plainly audible to every man in the room. A 
 dead silence fell upon the company. 
 
 "What?" said the doctor, sitting up straight, 
 as if he had not heard aright. 
 
 " I say you are a cowardly liar ! " 
 
 " What the deuce do you mean ? " 
 
 " You have just made an insinuation against the 
 honour of a young lady. I say again you are a 
 mean and cowardly liar. I want you to say so." 
 
 For a moment or two BuUing's surprise kept him 
 silent. 
 
 " Quite right," said Trent. " Beastly cad ! " 
 
 Then Dr. Bulling broke forth. " You imperti- 
 nent young cub ! What do you mean? " 
 
 For answer, Barney seized Drake's wineglass, half 
 full of wine, and flung glass and contents full in 
 BuUing's face. In an instant every man was on his 
 feet. Above the din rose Foxmore's voice. 
 
 " Give it to him. Bulling ! Give it to the young 
 prig ! " 
 
 " No hurry about this, boys," said Bulling quietly ; 
 
FOR A LADY'S HONOUR 135 
 
 " I'll make him eat his words before he's half an 
 hour older." 
 
 Meantime Dick was entreating his brother. " Let 
 me at him. He's a great knocker. Held the 'var- 
 sity championship. You don't know anything about 
 itc Let me at him, Barney. I can do him up." Dick 
 had been 'varsity champion in his own time. But 
 Barney put Dick aside with quiet, stem words. 
 
 " Don't interfere, Dick. No matter what hap- 
 pens, don't interfere to-night. I won't have it, 
 Dick, remember. It may take us an hour or it 
 may take all night, but he'll say he lied before I'm 
 through witb him." 
 
 Meantime the men, and chief among them Trent, 
 were seeking to appease the doctor and to patch 
 up the peace. 
 
 " If he apologizes I shall let the young cub off," 
 were the doctor's terms. 
 
 " If he says he lied," was Barney's condition. 
 
 " Don't disturb yourselves, gentlemen," said Bull- 
 ing ; " it will not take more than two minutes, and 
 then we can finish our smoke." 
 
 The moment they stood facing each other Bar- 
 ney rushed, only to receive a heavy blow which 
 hurled him backward. It was plain he knew nothing 
 of the game. It was equally plain that the doctor 
 was entirely master of it. Again and again Bar- 
 ney rushed in wildly, the doctor easily blocking, 
 avoiding and sending in killing blows, tiU at length 
 bloody, dazed, panting, Barney had to lean against 
 his friends to recover his wind and strength. Oppo- 
 
136 THE DOCTOR 
 
 site him, cool, smiling, and untouched, stood his 
 adversary. 
 
 " This is easy, boys," he smiled. " Now, you 
 young whipper-snapper," he continued, addressing 
 Barney, "perhaps you've had enough. Let me tell 
 you, it's time for you to quit fooling, or, by the 
 Eternal, I'll send you to sleep ! " As he spoke he 
 closed his teeth with a savage snap. 
 
 "WiU you say you're a liar.?" said Barney, 
 facing his opponent again, and disregarding Dick's 
 entreaties and warnings. 
 
 " Ah, quit it ! " said the doctor contemptuously, 
 " Come along, you fool, if you must have it ! " 
 
 Once more Barney rushed. As he did so BuUing 
 stopped, him with a heavy left-hander on the face 
 which sent him reeling backward, quickly following 
 with his right and again with a last terrific blow 
 upon the jaw of his dazed and reeling victim. Bar- 
 ney fell with a crash upon the floor, and lay quiet. 
 With a cry Dick sprang at Bulling, but half a 
 dozen men pulled him oflF. 
 
 " Let him come," said Bulling, with a laugh, " I've 
 a very fine assortment of the same kind. Families 
 supplied on reasonable terms." 
 
 Meantime, while the men were struggling with 
 Dibk, Dr. Trent and Drake were trying to revive 
 pear Barney, bathing his face and hands. 
 
 " Stand back ! Don't crowd about, men ! Bring 
 me a Httle brasdy, someone," said Dr. Trent. " A 
 more cowardly brute I've never seen. You're a dis- 
 grace tb the profession, BuUing." 
 
FOR A LADY'S HONOUR 137 
 
 " Oh, thanks. I don't need your credentials, 
 Trent," said Bulling cynically. 
 
 But Trent, ignoring him, devoted himself to Bar- 
 ney, who showed signs of reviving. It was some 
 minutes, however, before he could sit up. Mean- 
 while Bulling with his friends retired to the lavatory. 
 
 " Here, Boyle," said Trent, holding a glass to 
 his lips as Barney sat up, " a little more brandy and 
 water." 
 
 For a few moments after he drank the liquor Bar- 
 ney sat gazing stupidly about. Then, as full con- 
 sciousness returned, cried out, "Where is he? He's 
 not gone?" He seized the glass of brandy and 
 water from Dr. Trent's hands and drank it off. 
 " Get me another," he said. " Is he gone? " he 
 repeated, making an effort to rise. 
 
 " Never mind, Boyle, he's gone." 
 
 " Wait tiU another day, Barney," entreated Dick. 
 " Never mind to-night." 
 
 At this moment the sound of Dr. Bulling's voice, 
 followed by loud laughter, came from the lavatory. 
 At once Barney stood up, walked to the table, 
 poured out a glass of brandy and drank it raw. For 
 a minute he stood stretching his arms. 
 
 "Ah, that's better," he said, and started toward 
 the lavatory, but Dick clung to him. 
 
 " Barney, listen to me," he entreated, his voice 
 coming In broken sobs. " He'U kiU you- Let me 
 take your place." 
 
 "Dick, keep out of it," said Barney. "Don't 
 yroTTj. He'll hurt me no more, but he'U say it be» 
 
138 THE DOCTOR 
 
 fore I'm done." And, throwing off the restraining 
 hands, he made his way into the lavatory. Dr. Bull- 
 ing was arranging his coUar before a glass. As 
 Barney entered he turned around. 
 
 " I'm sorry, Boyle," he began, " but you brought 
 it on yourself, you know." 
 
 Barney walked straight up to him. 
 
 " I didn't hear you say you are a liar." 
 
 " Look here," cried Bulling, " haven't you got 
 enough. Be thankful you're not killed. Go on! 
 Get home ! I don't run a butcher shop ! " 
 
 " Will you say you're a Kar and a cowardly 
 liar.? " 
 
 Barney's voice had in it the ring of cold steeL 
 
 " I say, boys," said Bulling, appealing to the 
 crowd, " keep this fool off. I don't want to kill 
 him." 
 
 Foxmore, with some of the others, approached 
 Barney. 
 
 " Now, Boyle, quit It," said Foxmorcc " There's 
 no use, you see." He laid his hand on Barney's 
 arm. 
 
 Barney put his hand against his breast, appear- 
 ing to brush him aside, but Foxmore touched noth- 
 ing till he struck the wall ten feet away. 
 
 " Get back ! " cried Barney, springing away from 
 the men approaching him. As he spoke, he seized a 
 small oaJc dressing table by one of its legs, swung It 
 rcMind his head, dashed it to pieces on the marble 
 floor, and, putting his foot upon the wreckage, with 
 «ae mighty wrench had the leg free in his hand. 
 
FOR A LADY'S HONOUR 1S9 
 
 *' You men stand back," he said in a low voice, 
 '* and don't any of you interfere." 
 
 Amazed at this exhibition of furious strength, the 
 men started back to their places, leaving a wide 
 space about him. 
 
 " Good heavens ! " said Bulling, his face turning 
 a shade pale, " the man is mad ! CaU a policemanj. 
 some of you." 
 
 " Drake, lock that door and bring me the key," 
 said Barney. 
 
 As Barney put the key in his pocket and turned 
 again toward Bulling, the latter's pallor increased. 
 " I take you men to witness," he said, appealing to 
 the company, " if murder is done I'm not responsi- 
 ble. I'm defending my life. Remember, I'll strike 
 to kill." 
 
 " No, Dr. Bulling," said Barney, handing his clul> 
 to Drake, " you won't strike at all. I've had my 
 lesson. You'll strike me no more. The boxing ex- 
 hibition is over. This is a fight till you can fight 
 no more." 
 
 The doctor's nerve was fast going. Barney stood 
 cool, quiet, and terrible. 
 
 " I'll give you your chance once again," he said. 
 " Will you say you are a cowardly liar? " 
 
 Dr. Bulling glanced at the group back of him, 
 read pain in their faces, hesitated a moment, then, 
 pulling himself together, said, with an evident effort 
 
 at bluster, " Not by a sight ! Come on ! Take 
 
 your medicine ! " But the lesson of the last half 
 hour had not been lost on Barney. Up and down 
 
140 THE DOCTOR 
 
 the long room, circling about his man, feinting to 
 draw his attack, eluding, and again feinting, Barney 
 kept his antagonist in such rapid motion and so 
 intensely on the alert that his wind began to fail 
 him, and it soon became evident that he could not 
 stand the pace for very long. 
 
 " You've got him ! " cried Dick, in an ecstasy of 
 expectation. " Keep it up, Barney ! That's the 
 game ! You'll have him in five minutes more ! " 
 
 " Quite evident," echoed Dr. Trent quietly, hugely 
 enjoying the change in the situation. 
 
 Dr. Bulling heard the words. His pallor deep- 
 ened. Red blotches began to appear on his cheek. 
 The sweat stood out upon his forehead. His breath 
 came in short gasps. He knew he could not last 
 much longer. His only hope lay in immediate at- 
 tack. He must finish off his man within the next 
 minute or accept defeat. Nature was now taking 
 revenge upon him for his long outraging of her 
 laws. Barney, on the other hand, though bruised 
 and battered about the face, was stepping about 
 easily and lightly, without any sign of the terrible 
 punishment he had sufi'ered. Reading his op- 
 ponent's face he knew that the moment for a su- 
 preme effort had arrived, and waited for his plan 
 to develop. There was only one thing for Bulling 
 to do. Edging his opponent toward the comer and 
 summoning his fast failing strength for a final at- 
 tack, he forced him hard back into the angle of 
 the wall. He had him now. One clean blow and 
 aU would be over. 
 
FOR A LADY'S HONOUR 141 
 
 " Look out, Barney ! " yelled Dick. 
 
 Suddenly, as if shot from a steel spring, Barney 
 crouched low and leaped at his man, and disregard- 
 ing two heavy blows, thrust one long arm for- 
 ward and with his sinewy fingers gripped his 
 enemy^s throat. " Ha ! " he cried with savage ex- 
 ultation, holding off his foe at arm's length. " Now ! 
 Now ! Now ! " As he uttered each word between his 
 clenched teeth he shook the gasping, choking wretch 
 as a dog shakes a rat. In vain his victim struggled 
 to get free, now striking wild and futile blows, now 
 clutching and clawing at those terrible gripping 
 fingers. His face grew purple; his tongue pro- 
 truded ; his breath came in rasping gasps ; his hands 
 fell to his side. " Keep your hands so," hissed Bar- 
 ney, loosening his grip to give him air. " Ha ! 
 would you? Don't you move!" gripping him hard 
 again. " There ! " loosening once more, " now, are 
 you a liar.? Speak quick! " The blue lips made an 
 attempt at the affirmation of which the head made 
 the sign. " Say it again. Are you a liar? " Once 
 more the head nodded and the lips attempted to 
 speak. "Yes," said Barney, still through his 
 clenched teeth, "you are a cowardly liar!" The 
 words came forth with terrible deliberation. " I 
 could kill you with my hands as you stand. But 
 I won't, you cur! I'll just do this." As he spoke 
 he once more tightened his grip upon the throat and 
 swung his open hand on the livid cheek. 
 
 "For God's sake, Boyle," cried Foxmore, "let 
 up! That's enough!" 
 
142 THE DOCTOR 
 
 " Yes, it's enough," said Barney, flinging the 
 semi-conscious man on the floor, " it's enough for 
 him. Foxmore, you laughed, I think, when he 
 uttered that lie," he said in a voice smooth, almost 
 sweet, but that chiUed the hearts of the hearers, 
 "you laughed. You were a beastly cad, weren't 
 you.? Speak!" 
 
 "What? I — ^I " gasped Foxmore, backing 
 
 into the corner. 
 
 " Quick, quick ! " cried Barney, stepping lightly 
 toward him on his toes, " say it quick ! " His 
 fingers were working convulsively. 
 
 " Yes, yes, I was ! " cried Foxmore, backing 
 further away behind the others. 
 
 " Yes," cried Barney, his voice rising hoarse, 
 " you would all of you laugh at that brute ruin the 
 name and honour of a lonely girl ! " He walked up 
 and down before the group which stood huddled in 
 the corner in abject terror, more like a wild beast 
 than a man. " You're not fit to live ! You're 
 beasts of prey ! No decent girl is safe from you ! " 
 His voice rose loud and thin and harsh. He was 
 fast losing hold of himself. His ghastly face, 
 bloody and horribly disfigured, made an appalling 
 setting for his blazing eyes. Nearer and nearer 
 the crowd he walked, gnashing and grinding his 
 teeth till the foam fell from his lips. The wild fury 
 of his Highland ancestors was turning him into a 
 wild beast with a wild beast's lust of blood. Further 
 and further back cowered the group without a word, 
 so utterly panic-stricken were they. 
 
FOR A LADY'S HONOUR 143 
 
 " Barney," said Dick quietly, " come home." 
 He stopped short, with a mighty effort recall- 
 ing his reason. For a few moments he stood silent 
 looking at the floor, then, raising his eyes, he let 
 them rest upon the doctor, who was leaning against 
 the wall, and, without a word, turned and slowly 
 passed out of the room. 
 
 " Gad ! " said Foxmore, with a horrible gasp of 
 rehef, " if the devil looks like that I never want 
 to see him." 
 
KI 
 
 lOLA'S CHOICE 
 
 IOLA. was undoubtedly pleased ; her lips parting 
 in a half smile, her eyes shining through half- 
 closed lids, her whole face glowing with a warm 
 light proclaimed the joy in her heart. The morning 
 letters lay on her table. She sat some moments 
 holding one which she had opened, while she gazed 
 dreamily out through the branches of the big elms 
 that overshadowed her window. She would not move 
 lest the dream should break and vanish. As she lay 
 back in her chair looking out upon the moving leaves 
 and waving boughs, she allowed the past to come 
 back to her. How far away seemed the golden days 
 of her Southern childhood. Almost her first recol- 
 lection of sorrow, certainly the first that made any 
 deep impression upon her heart, was when the men 
 carried out her father in a black box and when, leav- 
 ing the big house with the wide pillared veranda, 
 she was taken to the chilly North. How terribly 
 vivid was the memory of her miserable girlhood, pov- 
 erty pressed and loveless, her soul beating like a 
 caged bird against the bars of the cold and rigid 
 discipline of her aunt's well-ordered home. Then 
 came the first glad freedom from dependence when 
 first she undertook to earn her own bread as a 
 teacher. Freedom and love came to her together, 
 
 144 
 
lOLA'S CHOICE 145 
 
 freedom and love and friendship in the Manse and 
 the Old Stone Mill. With the memory of the Mill, 
 there rose before her, clear-limned and vividly real, 
 one face, rugged, strong, and passionate, and the 
 thought of him brought a warmer light to her eyes 
 and a stronger beat to her heart. Every feature 
 of the moonlight scene on the night of the barn-rais- 
 ing when first she saw him stood out with startling 
 distinctness, the new skeleton of the barn gleaming 
 bony and bare against the sky, the dusky forms 
 crowding about, and, sitting upon a barrel across 
 the open moonlit space of the bam floor, the dark- 
 faced lad playing his violin and listening while she 
 sang. At that point it was that life for her began. 
 A new scene passed before her eyes. It was the 
 Manse parlour, the music professor with dirty, claw- 
 like fingers but face ahght with rapturous delight 
 playing for her while she sang her first great ora- 
 torio aria. She could feel to-day that mysterious 
 thriU in the dawning sense of new powers as the old 
 man, with his hands upon her shoulders, cried in his 
 trembling, broken voice, " My dear young lady, the 
 world will listen to you some day ! " That was the 
 beginning of her great ambition. That day she 
 began to look for the time when the world would 
 come to listen. Then followed weary days and weeks 
 and months and years, weary with self-denials new 
 to her and with painful struggling with unmusical 
 pupils, for she needed bread ; weary with heart-break- 
 ing strivings and failings in the practice of her art, 
 but, worst of all, weary to heart-break with the pat- 
 
146 THE DOCTOR 
 
 ronage of the rich and flattering friends — ^how she 
 loathed it — of whom Dr. Bulling was the most insist- 
 ent and the most objectionable. And then this last 
 campaign, with its plans and schemes for a place 
 in the great Philharmonic which would at once insure 
 not only her standing in the city, but a New York 
 engagement as well. And now the moment of tri- 
 umph had arrived. The letter she held in her hand 
 was proof of it. She glanced once more at the 
 written page, her eye falling upon a phrase here 
 and there, " We have succeeded at last — ^the DufF 
 Charringtons have surrendered — you only want a 
 chance — ^here it is — ^you can do the part well." She 
 smiled a httle. Yes, she knew she could do the part. 
 " And now let nothing or nobody prevent you from 
 accepting Mrs. DufF Charrington's invitation for 
 next Saturday. It is a beautiful yacht and well 
 found, and I am confident the great lady will be 
 gracious — ^bring your guitar with you, and if you 
 will only be kind, I foresee two golden days in store 
 for me." She allowed a smile slightly sarcastic to 
 curl her lips. 
 
 " The doctor is inclined to be poetical. Well, we 
 shall see. Saturday.'' That means Sunday spent on 
 board the yacht. I wish they had it made another 
 day. Margaret won't hke it, and Barney won't 
 either." 
 
 For a moment or two she allowed her mind to go 
 back to the Sundays spent in the Manse. She had 
 never known the meaning of the day before. The 
 utter difference in feeling. In atmosphere, between 
 
lOLA'S CHOICE 147 
 
 that day and the other days of the week, the sub- 
 duing quiet, the soothing peace, and the sense of 
 sacredness that pervaded Hfe on that day, made the 
 Sabbaths in the Manse like blessed isles of rest in the 
 sea of time. Never, since her two years spent there, 
 had she been able to get quite away from the sense 
 of obligation to make the day differ from the ordi- 
 nary days of the week. No, she was sure Barney 
 would not like it. Still, she could spend its hours 
 quietly enough upon the yacht. 
 
 She picked up another letter in a large square 
 envelope, the address written in bold characters. 
 " This is the Duff Charrington invitation, I sup- 
 pose," she said, opening the letter. " Well, she does 
 it nicely, at any rate, even if, as Dr. Bulling sug- 
 gests, somewhat against her inclination." 
 
 Again she sat back in silent dreaming, her eyes 
 looking far away down the coming years of triumph. 
 Surely enough, the big world was drawing near to 
 listen. All she had read of the great queens of song, 
 Patti, Nilsson, Rosa, Trebelli, Sterling, crowded in 
 upon her mind, their regal courts thronged by the 
 great and rich of every land, their country seats, 
 their luxurious lives. At last her foot was in the 
 path. It only remained for her to press forward. 
 Work.'' She well knew how hard must be her daily 
 lot. Yes, but that lesson she had learned, and thor- 
 oughly well, during these past years, how to work 
 long hours, to deny herself the things her luxurious 
 soul longed for, and, hardest of aU, to bear with and 
 smile at those she detested. All these she would 
 
148 THE DOCTOR 
 
 endure a little longer. The days were coming when 
 she would have her desire and do her will. 
 
 She glanced at the other letters upon the table. 
 " Barney," she cried, seizing one. An odd compunc- 
 tion struck into her heart. " Barney, poor old 
 boy ! " A sudden thought stayed her hand from 
 opening the letter. Where had Barney been in this 
 picture of the future years upon which she had 
 been feasting her soul? Aghast, she realized that, 
 amid its splendid triumphs, Barney had not appeared. 
 " Of course, he'll be there," she murmured some- 
 what impatiently. But how and in what capacity 
 she could not quite see. Some prima donnas had 
 husbands, mere shadowy appendages to their courts. 
 Others there were who found their husbands most 
 useful as financial agents, business managers, or 
 upper servants. lola smiled a proud little smile. 
 Barney would not do for any of these discreetly 
 shadowy, conveniently colourless or more useful hus- 
 bands. Would he be her husband? A warm glow 
 came into her eyes and a flush upon her cheek. Her 
 husband? Yes, surely, but not for a time. For 
 some years she must be free to study, and — well, it 
 was better to be free till she had made her name and 
 her place in the world. Then when she had settled 
 down Barney would come* to her. 
 
 But how would Barney accept her programme? 
 Sure as she was of his great love, and with all her 
 love for him, she was a little afraid of him. He was 
 so strong, so silently immovable. Often in the past 
 three years she had made trial of that immovable 
 
lOLA'S CHOICE 149 
 
 siarength, seeking to draw him away from his work 
 to some social engagement, to her so important, to 
 him so incidental. She had always failed. His work 
 absorbed him as her art had her, but with a difference. 
 With Barney, work was his reward; with her, a 
 means to it. To gain some further knowledge, to 
 teach his fingers some finer skill, that was enough 
 for Barney. lola wrought at her long tasks and 
 practised her unusual self-denials with her eye upon 
 the public. Her reward would come when she had 
 brought the world, listening, to her feet. Seized in 
 the thrall of his work, Barney grimly held to it, come 
 what might. No such absorbing passion possessed 
 lola. And lola, while she was provoked by what she 
 called his stubbornness, was yet secretly proud of 
 that silently resisting strength she could neither 
 shake nor break. No, Barney was not fitted for the 
 role of the shadowy, pliant, convenient husband. 
 
 What, then, in her plan of life would be his place? 
 It startled her to discover that her plan had been 
 complete without him. Complete? Ah, no. Her 
 life without Barney would be like a house without its 
 back wall. During these years of study and toil, 
 while Barney could only give her snatches of his 
 time, she had come to feel with increasing strength 
 that her life was built round about him. When 
 others had been applauding her successes, she waited 
 for Barney's word; and though beside the clever, 
 brilliant men that moved in the circle into which her 
 art had brought her he might appear awkward and 
 dull, yet it was Barney who continued to be the 
 
160 THE DOCTOR 
 
 standard by which she judged men. With all his 
 need of polish, his poverty of small talk, his hopeless 
 ignorance of the conventions, and his obvious disre- 
 gard of them, the massive strength of him, his fine 
 sense of honour, his chivalrous bearing toward women, 
 added a touch of reverence to the love she bore him. 
 But more than all, it was to Barney her heart turned 
 for its rest. She knew well that she held in all its 
 depth and strength his heart's love. He would never 
 fail her. She could not exhaust that deep well. But 
 the question returned, where would Barney be while 
 she was being conducted by acclaiming multitudes 
 along her triumphal way.-" " Oh, he will wait — we 
 will wait," she corrected, shrinking from the heart- 
 lessness of the former phrasing. How many years 
 she could not say. But deep in her heart was the 
 determination that nothing should stand in the way 
 of the ambition she had so long cherished and for 
 which she had so greatly endured. 
 
 She opened the note with lingering deliberation as 
 one dallies with an approaching delight. 
 
 "My Deae, Iola: I have always told you the 
 truth. I could not see you last evening, nor can I 
 to-day, and perhaps not for a day or two, because 
 my face is disfigured. These are the facts: At the 
 dinner, night before last. Dr. Bulling lied about you. 
 I made him swallow his lie and in the process got 
 rather badly marked, though not at all hurt. The 
 doctor and his friends will, I think, guard their 
 tongues in future, at least in my hearing. Dr. Bull- 
 
lOLA'S CHOICE 151 
 
 ing IS a man of vile mind and of unclean life. He 
 should not be allowed to appear with decent people. 
 I have written to forbid him ever approaching you 
 in public. You will know how to treat him if he 
 attempts it. This will be a most disgusting business 
 to you. I hate to make you suffer, but it had to be 
 done, and by no one but me. Would I could bear it 
 aU for you, my darling. The patronage of these 
 people, I mean Dr. Bulling's set, cannot, surely, be 
 necessary to your success. Your great voice needs 
 not their patronage; if so, failure would be better. 
 When I am fit for your presence I shall come to you. 
 Good-bye. It is hard not to see you. Ever yours, 
 
 " Baeney." 
 
 Alas ! for her dreams. How rudely they were dis- 
 pelled! Alas! for her castle in Spain. Already it 
 was tottering to ruin, and by Barney's hand. She 
 read the note hurriedly again. 
 
 " He wants me to break with Dr. Bulling." She 
 recalled a sentence in the doctor's letter. " Let no 
 one or nothing keep you from accepting this invi- 
 tation." " He's afraid Barney will keep me back. 
 Nonsense! How stupid of Barney! He is so terri- 
 bly particular ! He doesn't imderstand these things. 
 There has been a horrid row of some kind and now 
 he asks me to cut Dr. Bulling ! " She glanced at 
 Barney's letter. " Well, he doesn't ask me, but it's 
 all the same — ' you will know how to treat him.' 
 He's too proud to ask me, but he expects me to. It 
 would be sheer madness! Wouldn't the Duff Char- 
 
152 THE DOCTOR 
 
 rington's and Evelyn Redd be delighted! It is pre- 
 posterous ! I must go ! I shall go ! " 
 
 Rarely did lola allow herself the luxury of a 
 downright burst of passion. With her, it was hardly 
 ever worth while to be seriously angry. It was so 
 much easier to avoid straight issues. But to-day 
 there was no avoiding. She surprised herself with 
 a storm of indignant rage so heart-shaking that 
 after it had passed she was thankful she had been 
 alone. 
 
 " What's the matter with me? " she asked herself. 
 She did not know that the whole volume of her ambi- 
 tion, which had absorbed so great a part of her life, 
 had come, in all its might, against the massive rock 
 of Barney's will. He would never yield, she knew 
 well. "What shall I do.^" " she cried aloud, begin- 
 ning to pace the room. " Margaret will tell me. 
 No, she would be sure to side with Barney. She 
 would think it was wicked to go on Sunday, anyway, 
 and, besides, she has Barney's rigid notions about 
 things. I wish I could see Dick. Dick will under- 
 stand. He has seen more of this life and — oh, he's 
 not so terribly hidebound. And I'll get Dick to see 
 Barney." She would not acknowledge that she was 
 grateful that Barney could not come to see her, 
 but she could write him a note and she could send 
 Dick to him, and in the meantime she would accept 
 the invitation. " I will accept at once. I wish I 
 had before I read Barney's note. I really had 
 accepted in my mind, and, besides, the arrangements 
 jrere all made. I'll write the letters now." She 
 
lOLA'S CHOICE 153 
 
 hastened to bum her bridges behind her so that 
 retreat might be impossible, " There," she cried, 
 as she sealed, addressed, and stamped the letters, 
 " I wish they were in the box. I'm awfully afraid 
 I'll change. But I can't change! I cannot let this 
 chance go! I have worked too long and too hard! 
 Barney should not ask it ! " A wave of self-pity 
 swept over her, bringing her temporary comfort. 
 Surely Barney would not cause her pain, would not 
 force her to give up her great opportunity. She 
 sought to prolong this mood. She pictured herself 
 a forlorn maiden in distress whom it was Barney's 
 duty and privilege to rescue. " I'U just go and post 
 these now," she said. Hastily she put on her hat 
 and ran down with the letters, fearing lest the pass- 
 ing of her self-pity nught leave her to face again 
 the thought of Barney's inevitable and immovable 
 opposition. 
 
 " There, that's done," she said to herself, as the 
 lid of the post box clicked upon her letters. " Oh, I 
 wonder — ^I wish I hadn't ! " What she had feared 
 had come to pass. She had committed herself, and 
 now her self-pity had evaporated and left her face 
 to face with the inevitable results. With terrible 
 clearness she saw Barney's dark, rugged face with 
 the deep-seeing eyes. " He always makes you feel in 
 the wrong," she said impatiently. " You can never 
 think what to say. He always seems right, and,'* 
 she added honestly, " he is right generally. Never 
 mind, Dick will help me." She shook off her Joad 
 and ran on, At her door she met Dr. Foxmore. 
 
154 THE DOCTOR 
 
 " Ah, good-morning," smiled the doctor, showing 
 a double row of white teeth under his waxed mus- 
 tache. " And how does the fair Miss Lane find her- 
 self this fine morning? " 
 
 It took the whole force of lola's self-mastery to 
 keep the disgust which was swelling her heart from 
 showing in her face. Here was one of Dr. BulHng's 
 friends, one of his toadies — and he had a number of 
 them — ^who represented to her all that was most 
 loathsome in her hfe. The effort to repress her 
 disgust, however, only made her smile the sweeter. 
 Foxmore was greatly encouraged. It was one of 
 his fixed ideas that his manner was irresistible with 
 " the sex." Bulling might hold over him, by reason 
 of his wealth and social position, but give him a 
 fair field without handicap and see who would win 
 out! 
 
 " I was about to do myself the honour and the 
 pleasure of calling upon you this morning." 
 
 " Oh, indeed. Well — ah — come in." lola was 
 fighting fiercely her loathing of him. It was against 
 this man and his friends that Barney had defended 
 her name. She led to way to her studio, ignoring 
 the siUy chatter of the man following her upstairs, 
 and by the time he had fairly got himself seated she 
 was coolly master of herself. 
 
 " Just ran in to give you the great news." 
 
 " To wit? " 
 
 " Why, don't you know? The Philharmonic thing 
 is settled. You've got it." 
 
 lola looked blank. 
 
lOLA'S CHOICE 155 
 
 "Why, haven't yqu heard that the Duff Char- 
 ringtons have surrendered? " lola recognized Dr. 
 Bulling's words. 
 
 " Surrendered? Just what, exactly? " 
 
 " Oh, d-dash it all! You know the big fight that 
 has been going on, the Duff Charringtons backing 
 that little Redd girl." 
 
 " Oh ! So the Duff Charringtons have been back- 
 ing the little Redd girl? Miss Evelyn Redd, I 
 suppose? It sounds a little like a horse race or a 
 pugilistic encounter." 
 
 " A horse race ! " he exclaimed. " Ha, ha, ha ! 
 A horse race isn't in it with this! But BulKng 
 pulled the wires and you've got it." 
 
 " But this is extremely interesting. I was not 
 aware that the soloists were chosen for any other 
 reason than that of merit." 
 
 In spite of herself lola had adopted a cool and 
 somewhat lofty manner. 
 
 " Oh, well, certainly on merit, of course. But you 
 know how these things go." Dr. Foxmore was begin- 
 ning to feel uncomfortable. The lofty air of this 
 struggling, as yet unrecognized, country girl was 
 both bailing and exasperating. " Oh, come. Miss 
 Lane," he continued, making a desperate effort to 
 recover his patronizing tone, " you know just what 
 we all think of your ability." 
 
 "What do you think of it?" lola's tone was 
 calmly curious. 
 
 " Why, I think — ^well — I know you can do the 
 work infinitely better than Evelyn Redd." 
 
156 THE DOCTOR 
 
 " Have you heard Miss Redd in oratorio ? I know 
 you have never heard me." 
 
 " No, can't say I have ; but I know your voice 
 and your style and I'm confident it will suit the 
 part." 
 
 " Thank you so much," said lola sweetly ; " I 
 am so sorry that Dr. Bulling should have given so 
 much time, and he is such a busy man." 
 
 " Oh, that's nothing," waved Dr. Foxmore, recov- 
 ering his self-esteem, " we enjoyed it." 
 
 " How nice of you ! And you were pulling wires, 
 too. Dr. Foxmore.? " 
 
 " Ah, well, we did a little work in a quiet way," 
 rephed the doctor, falling into his best professional 
 tone. 
 
 " And this yachting party, I suppose Dr. Bulling 
 and you worked that, too? Really, Dr. Foxmore, 
 you have no idea what a relief it is to have one's 
 affairs taken charge of in this way. It quite saves 
 one the trouble of making up one's mind. Indeed, 
 one hardly needs a mind at aU." lola's face and 
 smile were those of innocent childhood. Dr. Fox- 
 more shot a suspicious glance at her and hastened 
 to change the subject. 
 
 " Well, you will go next Saturday, will you 
 not? » 
 
 " I am really a little uncertain at present," 
 replied lola. 
 
 " Oh, you must, you know ! Mrs. DufF Charring- 
 ton will be awfully cut up, not to speak of Bulling. 
 He had no end of trouble to bring it off." 
 
TOLA'S CHOICE 157 
 
 " You mean, to persuade Mrs. Duff Charrington 
 to Invite me? " 
 
 " Oh, well," said the doctor, plunging wildly, " I 
 wouldn't put it that way. But the whole question 
 of the Philharmonic was involved, and this invitation 
 was a flag of truce, as it were." 
 
 " Your metaphors certainly have a warlike flavour, 
 Dr. Foxmore; I cannot pretend to follow the work- 
 ings of your mind. But seeing that this invitation 
 has been secured at the expense of such effort on the 
 part of Dr. Bulling and yourself, I rather think I 
 shall decline it." In spite of all she could do, lola 
 could not keep out of her voice a slightly haughty 
 tone. Dr. Foxmore's sense of superiority was fast 
 deserting him. " And as to the Philharmonic solos," 
 continued lola, " if the directors see fit to make me 
 an offer of the part I shall consider it." 
 
 " Consider it ! " gasped Dr. Foxmore. It was time 
 this young girl with her absurd pretensions were 
 given to understand the magnitude of the favour 
 that Dr. Bulling and himself were seeking to confer 
 upon her. He became brutal. " Well, all I say is 
 that if you know when you are well off, you'll take 
 this chance." 
 
 lola rose with easy grace and stood erect her full 
 height. Dr. Foxmore had not thought her so tall. 
 Her face was a shade paler than usual, her eyes a 
 little wider open, but her voice was as smooth as 
 ever, and with just a little ring as of steel in it she 
 inquired, " Did you come here this morning to make 
 this threat, Dr. Foxmore.'' " 
 
158 THE DOCTOR 
 
 " I came," he said bluntly, " to let you know your 
 good fortune and to warn you not to allow any 
 of your friends to persuade you against your own 
 best interests." 
 
 " My friends ? " lola threw her head slightly 
 backward and her tone became frankly haughty. 
 
 " Oh, I know your friends, and especially — I may 
 as well be plain — that young medical student, Boyle, 
 don't like Dr. Bulling, and might persuade you 
 against this yacht trip." 
 
 lola was furiously aware that her face was aflame, 
 but she stood without speaking for a few moments 
 till she was sure her voice was steady. 
 
 " My friends would never presume to interfere 
 with my choosing." 
 
 " Well, they presume, or at least that young Boyle 
 presumed, to interfere once too often for his own 
 good. But he'll probably be more careful in 
 future." 
 
 " Mr. Boyle is a gentleman in whom I have the 
 fullest confidence. He would do what he thought 
 right." 
 
 " He will probably correct his judgments before 
 he interferes with Dr. Bulling again." The doctor's 
 tone was insolently sarcastic. 
 
 "Dr. Bulling?" 
 
 " Yes. He was grossly insulting and Dr. Bulling 
 was forced to chastise him." 
 
 " Chastise ! Mr. Boyle ! " cried lola, her anger 
 throwing her off her guard. " That is quite impos- 
 sible, Dr. Foxmore ! That could not happen ! " 
 
TOLA'S CHOICE 159 
 
 " But I am telling you it did ! I was present 
 and saw it. It was this way '* 
 
 Tola put up her hand imperiously. " Dr. Fox- 
 more," she said, recovering her self-command, " there 
 is no need of words. I tell you it is quite impossible ! 
 It is quite impossible ! " 
 
 Dr. Foxmore's face flushed a deep red. He flung 
 aside the remaining shreds of decency in speech. 
 
 " Do you mean to call me a liar? " he shouted. 
 
 "Ah, Dr. Foxmore, would you also chastise me 
 as well? " 
 
 The doctor stood in helpless rage looking at the 
 calm, smiling face. 
 
 " I was a fool to come ! " he blurted. 
 
 " I would not presume to contradict you, nor to 
 stand in the way of returning wisdom." 
 
 The doctor swore a great oath under his breath 
 and without further words strode from the room. 
 
 lola stood erect and silent till he had disappeared 
 through the open door. " Oh ! " she breathed, her 
 hands fiercely clenched, " if I were a man what a joy 
 it would be just now ! " She shut the door and sat 
 down to think. " I wonder what did happen.*' I 
 must see Dick at once. He'll tell me. Oh, it is 
 all horribly loathsome ! " For the first time she 
 saw herself from Dr. Bulling's point of view. If 
 she sang in the Philharmonic it would be by virtue 
 of his good oflSces and by the gracious permission of 
 the Duff Charringtons. That she had the voice for 
 the part and that it was immeasurably better than 
 Evelyn Redd's counted not at all. How mean she 
 
160 THE DOCTOR 
 
 felt! And yet she must go on with it. She would 
 not allow anything to stand in the way of her suc- 
 cess. This was the first finn stepping-stone in her 
 climb to fame. Once this was taken, she would be 
 independent of Bulling and his hateful associates. 
 She would go on this yacht trip. She need not have 
 anything to do with Dr. Bulling, nor would she, 
 for Barney would undoubtedly be hurt and angry. 
 It looked terribly like disloyalty to him to associate 
 iierself on terms of friendship with the man who had 
 beaten him so cruelly. Oh, how she hated herself! 
 But she could not give up her chance. She would 
 explain to Barney how helpless she was and she 
 would send Dick to him. He would listen to Dick. 
 Poor lola ! Without knowing it, she was standing 
 at the cross roads making choice of a path that 
 was to lead her far from the faith, the ideals, the 
 friends she now held most dear. Through all her 
 years she had been preparing herself for this hour 
 of choice. With her, to desire greatly was to bend 
 her energies to attain. She would deeply wound the 
 man who loved her better than his own life; but the 
 moment of choice found her helpless in the grip 
 of her ambition. And so her choice was made. 
 
XII 
 HE THAT LOVETH HIS LIFE 
 
 MRS. DUFF CHARRINGTON at close 
 range was not nearly so formidable 
 as when seen at a distance. The huge 
 bulk of her, the pronouncedly masculine dress 
 and manner, the loud voice, the red face with 
 its dark mustache line on the upper lip, all of 
 which at a distance were calculated to overawe if 
 not to strike terror to the heart of the beholder, 
 were very considerably softened by the shrewd, 
 kindly twinkle of the keen grey eyes which a nearer 
 view revealed. Her welcome of lola was blulF and 
 hearty, but she was much too busy ordering her 
 forces and disposing of her impedimenta, for she was 
 her own commodore, to pay particular attention in 
 the meantime to her guests. The wharf at which the 
 Petrel was tied was crowded this Saturday afternoon 
 with various parties of excursionists making for the 
 steamers, ferries, yachts, and other craft that lay 
 along the water front. Already the Petrel had 
 hoisted her mainsail and, under the gentle breeze, 
 was straining upon her shore lines awaiting the word 
 to cast off. As lola stood idly gazing at the shift- 
 ing scene, wondering how Dick had succeeded on his 
 mission to his brother, she observed Dr. Bulling 
 approaching with his usual smiling assurance. Just 
 
 161 
 
162 THE DOCTOR 
 
 as he was about to speak, however, she noticed him 
 start and gaze fixedly toward the farther side of 
 the wharf. Ida's eye, following his gaze, fell upon 
 the figure of a man pushing his way through the 
 crowd. It was Barney. She saw him pause, evi- 
 dently to make inquiry of a dockhand. With a mut- 
 tered oath, Bulling sprang to the aft line. 
 
 " Let go that line, MurdoflF ! " he shouted to the 
 man at the bow. " Look lively, there ! " 
 
 As he spoke he cast off the stern line and seized 
 the wheel, making it imperative that Murdoff should 
 execute his command in the liveliest manner. At 
 once the yacht swung out and began to put a space 
 of blue water between herself and the dock. She 
 was not a moment too soon, for Barney, having 
 received his direction, was coming at a run, scatter- 
 ing the crowd to right and left. As he arrived at 
 the dock edge he caught sight of lola and Dr. Bull- 
 ing. He took a step backwards and made as if to 
 attempt the spring. lola's cry, " Don't, Barney ! " 
 arrested Mrs. Duff Charrington's attention. 
 
 " What's up.? " she shouted. " How's this.? We're 
 off ! Bulling, what the deuce — who gave orders ? " 
 Mrs. Duff Charrington for once in her life was, as 
 she would have said herself, completely flabbergasted. 
 At a single glance she took in the white face of 
 lola, and that of Dr. Bulling, no less white. 
 
 " What's up ? " she cried again. " Have you seen 
 a ghost. Miss Lane? You, too. Bulling.'"' She 
 glanced back at the dock. " There's someone left 
 behind! Who is that young man, Daisy? Why, it's 
 
HE THAT LOVETH HIS LIFE 163 
 
 our medallist, isn't it? Do you know him, Bulling? 
 Shall we go back for him? " 
 
 " No, no ! For Heaven's sake, no ! He's a mad- 
 man, quite ! " 
 
 " Pardon me, Dr. Bulling," said lola, her voice 
 ringing clear and firm in contrast with BuUing's 
 agitated tone, " he is a friend of mine, a very dear 
 friend, and, I assure you, very sane." As she spoke 
 she waved her hand to Barney, but there was no 
 answering sign. 
 
 " Your friend, is he? " said Mrs. Duff Charring- 
 ton. " Then doubtless very sane. Does he want 
 you. Miss Lane? Shall we go back for him?" 
 
 " No, he doesn't want me," said lola. 
 
 " Mrs. Charrington," said Dr. Bulling, " he has 
 a grudge against me because of a fancied insult." 
 
 " Ah," said Mrs. Duff Charrington, " I under- 
 stand. What do you say. Miss Lane? We can easily 
 go back." 
 
 " Oh, let us not talk about it, Mrs. Charrington," 
 said lola hurriedly ; " he is gone." 
 
 " As you wish, my dear. Daisy, take Dr. Bulling 
 down to the cabin. I declare he looks as if he needed 
 bracing up. I shall take the wheel." 
 
 " Mrs. Charrington," said lola in a low voice, as 
 Bulling disappeared down the companionway, " that 
 was Mr. Boyle, my friend, and I want you to think 
 him a man of the highest honour. But he doesn't 
 like Dr. Bulling. He doesn't trust him." 
 
 " My dear, my dear," said Mrs. Charrington 
 brusquely, " don't trouble yourself about him. I 
 
164 THE DOCTOR 
 
 haven't lived fifty years for nothing. Oh! these 
 men, these men ! They take themselves too seriously, 
 the dear creatures. But they are just like ourselves, 
 with a little more conceit and considerably less wit. 
 And they are not really worth all the trouble we 
 take for them. I must get to know your medallist, 
 my dear. That was a strong face and an honest 
 face. I have heard John rave about him. John is 
 my young son, first year in medicine. His judg- 
 ment, I confess, is not altogether reliable — ^worships 
 brawn, and there are traditions afloat as to that 
 young man's doings when they were initiating him. 
 But I have no doubt that, however sane on other 
 subjects, he is quite mad about you, and, hang me! 
 if I can wonder. If I were a young man I'd get my 
 arms round you as soon as possible." 
 
 As she chattered along, lola found her heart 
 warm to Mrs. DuiF Charrington, who, with all her 
 sporty manners and masculine ways, was an honest 
 soul, with a shrewd wit and a kindly heart. 
 
 " I'm glad now I came," said lola gratefully ; " I 
 
 was afraid you weren't " She paused abruptly 
 
 in confusion. 
 
 " Oh, I'm not so bad as I'm painted, I assure you." 
 
 " Oh, dear Mrs. Charrington, it was not you I was 
 
 afraid of, it was what Dr. Bulling " Again 
 
 lola hesitated. 
 
 " Don't bother telling me," said Mrs. Duff Char- 
 rington, observing her confusion. " No doubt Bull- 
 ing gave you to understand that he worked me to 
 invite you. Confess now." There was a shrewd 
 
HE THAT LOVETH HIS LIFE 165 
 
 twinkle in her keen grey eye. " Bulling is a liar, 
 a terrible liar, with large possibilities of self -appre- 
 ciation. But he had nothing to do with this 
 invitation, though he flatters himself he had. He's 
 not without ability, but he can't teach his grand- 
 mother to suck eggs. I'll tell you why you are here. 
 I pride myself upon having an eye for a winner, 
 and I pick you as one, and that's why you are 
 to sing in the Philharmonic. Evelyn Redd has a 
 pretty voice. She is a niece of a very dear friend, 
 and for a time I thought she might do. But she 
 has no soul, no passion, and music, hke a man, must 
 have passion. Music without passion Is a crime 
 against art. So I just told Duff, he's chairman, 
 you know, of the Board of Directors, that she was 
 impossible and that we must have you. I have heard 
 you sing, my dear, and I know the singer's face and 
 the singer's throat and eye. You have them all. 
 You have the voice and the temperament and the 
 passion. You'll be great some day, much greater 
 than I, and, with the hope of sharing your glory, 
 I have decided to put my money on you." 
 
 lola murmured some words of thanks, not know- 
 ing just what to say, but Mrs. Duif Charrington 
 waved them aside. 
 
 " Purely selfish," she said, " purely selfish, my 
 dear. Now don't let Bulling worry you. I pick him 
 for a winner, too. He has force. He'U be a power 
 in the country. Inclines to politics. He's a kind 
 of brute, of course, but he'll succeed, for he has 
 wealth and social prestige, neither to be sniffed at, 
 
166 THE DOCTOR 
 
 my child. But, especially, he has driving power. 
 But I'll have my eye on him this trip, so enjoy your 
 outing." 
 
 Mrs. Duff Charrington was as good as her word. 
 She knew nothing of the finesse of diplomacy in the 
 manipulation of her company. Her method was 
 straightforward dragooning. Observing the per- 
 sistent attempts of Dr. Bulling during the early 
 part of the trip to secure lola for a tete-ct-tefe, she 
 called out across the deck in the ears of the whole 
 company, " See here, Bulling, I won't have you try- 
 ing to monopolise our star. We're out for a good 
 time and we're going to have it. Miss Lane is not 
 your property. She belongs to us aU." Thence- 
 forth Dr. Bulling, with what grace he could sum- 
 mon, had to content himself with just so much of 
 lola's company as his hostess decided he should have. 
 
 It was lola's first experience of yachting, and it 
 brought her a series of sensations altogether new and 
 delightful. As the yacht skimmed, like a great 
 white-winged bird, over the blue waters of Ontario, 
 the humming breeze, the swift rush through the part- 
 ing waves, the sense of buoyant life with which the 
 yacht seemed to be endowed made her blood jump. 
 She abandoned herself to the joys of the hour and 
 became the life and soul of the whole party. And 
 were it not for Barney's haunting face, the two days* 
 outing would have been for lola among the happiest 
 experiences of her life. But Barney's last look across 
 the widening strip of water pursued her and filled 
 her with foreboding. It was not rage; it was more 
 
HE THAT LOVETH HIS LIFE 16Y 
 
 terrible than rage. lola shuddered as she recalled 
 it. She read in it the despair of renunciation. She 
 dreaded meeting him again, and as the end of her 
 trip drew near her dread increased. 
 
 Nor did Mrs. Duif Charrington, who had become 
 warmly interested in the girl during the short voy- 
 age, fail to observe her imeasiness and to guess the 
 cause. Foremost among the crowd awaiting them 
 at the dock, lola detected Barney. 
 
 " There he is," she cried under her breath. 
 
 "My dear," said Mrs. Duff Charrington, who 
 was at her side, " it is not possible that you are 
 afraid, and of a man! I would give something to 
 have that feeling. It is many years since a man 
 could inspire me with any feeling but that of con- 
 tempt or of kind pity. They are really siUy crea- 
 tures and most helpless. Let me manage him. Intro- 
 duce him to me and leave him alone." 
 
 Mrs. Duff Charrington's confidence in her supe- 
 rior powers was more than justified. Through the 
 crowd and straight for lola came Barney, his face 
 haggard with two sleepless nights. By a clever 
 manoeuvre Mrs. Duff Charrington swung her mass- 
 ive form fair in his path and, turning suddenly, 
 faced him squarely. lola seized the moment to pre- 
 sent him. Barney made as if to brush her aside, 
 but Mrs. Duff Charrington was not of the kind 
 to be lightly brushed aside by anyone, much less 
 by a young man of Barney's inexperience. 
 
 " Ah, young man," she exclaimed, " I tlunk I have 
 seen you before." The strong grip of her hand and 
 
168 THE DOCTOR 
 
 the loud tone of her voice at once arrested his prog- j 
 ress and commanded his attention. " I saw you get 
 your medal the other day, and I have heard my 
 young hopeful rave about you — John Charrington, 
 you know, medical student, first year. He is some- 
 thing of a fool and a hero-worshipper. You, of 
 course, won't have noticed him." 
 
 Barney halted, gazed abstractedly at the strong 
 face with the keen grey eyes compelling his atten- 
 tion, then, with an effort, he collected his wits. 
 
 " Charrington? Yes, of course, I know him. Very 
 decent chap, too. Don't see much of him." 
 
 " No, rather not. He doesn't haunt the same 
 spots. The dissecting-room wouldn't recognize him, 
 I fancy. He's straight-going, .however, but he can't 
 pass exams. Good thing, too, for unless he changes 
 considerably, the Lord pity his patients." She be- 
 came aware of a sudden hardening in Barney's face 
 and a quick flash in his eye. Without turning her 
 head she knew that Dr. Bulling was approaching 
 lola from the other side. She put her hand on 
 Barney's arm. " Mr. Boyle, please take Miss Lane 
 to my carriage there.'' Bulling," she said, turning 
 sharply upon the doctor, " will you help Daisy to 
 collect my stuff.-' I am sure things wiU be left on 
 the yacht. There are always some things left. Serv- 
 ants are so stupid." There was that in her voice 
 that made BuUing stand sharply at attention and 
 promptly obey. And ere Barney knew, he was lead- 
 ing lola and Mrs. Duff ChairiTigton to the waiting 
 carriage. 
 
HE THAT LOVETH HIS LIFE 16^ 
 
 ** So sorry I didn't inow you were a friend of 
 Miss Lane's, or we ^ould liave had you on our trip, 
 Mr. Boyle," said Mrs. DuS Charriagton as he closed 
 the carriage door. 
 
 " I thank you. But I am very busy, und, be- 
 sides, I would not fit in with some of your party." 
 There was war in Barney's tone. 
 
 " Good Heavens, young man ! " cried Mrs. Duff 
 Charrington, in no way disturbed, " you don't ex- 
 pect to make the world fit in with you or you with 
 the world, do you? Life consists in adjusting one's 
 self. But you will be glad to know that Miss Lane 
 has made us all have a very happy little holiday." 
 
 " Of that I am sure," cried Barney gravely. 
 
 " And we gave her, or we tried to give her, a good 
 time." 
 
 " It IS for that some of us have lived." Barney's 
 deep voice, thrilling with sad and tender feeling, 
 brought the quick tears to lola's eyes. To her, 
 the words had in them the sound of farewell. Even 
 Mrs. Duff Charrington was touched. She leaned 
 over the carriage door toward him. 
 
 "Mr. Boyle, I am taking Miss Lane ^ome to 
 dinner. Come with us." 
 
 Barney felt the kindly tone. *' Thank you, Mrs. 
 Charrington, it would give none of us pleasure, and 
 I have much to do. I am leaving to-morrow for 
 Baltimore." 
 
 lola could not check a quick gasp. Mrs. Duff 
 Charrington glanced at her white face. 
 
 " Young man," she said sternly, leaning out 
 
170 THE DOCTOR 
 
 toward him and looking Barney in the eyes, " don't 
 be a fool. The man that would, from pique, will- 
 ingly hurt a friend is a mean and cruel coward." 
 
 " Mrs. Charrington," replied Barney in a steady 
 voice, " I have just come from an operation by which 
 a little girl, an only child, has lost her arm. It 
 was the mother that desired it, not from cruelty, 
 but from love. It is because it is best, that I go 
 to-morrow. Good-bye." Then turning to lola he 
 said, " I shall see you to-night." He lifted his hat 
 and turned away." 
 
 " Drive home, Smith," said Mrs. Charrington 
 sharply ; " the others will find their way." 
 
 " Take me home," whispered lola, with dry lips. 
 
 " Do you love him? " said Mrs. Duff Charrington, 
 taking the girl's hand in hers. 
 
 " Ah, yes. I never knew how much." 
 
 "Tut! tut! child, the world still moves. Balti- 
 more is not so far and he is only a man." Mrs. 
 Duff Charrington's tone did not indicate a high 
 opinion of the masculine section of humanity. 
 " You'U just come with me for dinner and then I 
 shall send you home. Thank God, we can still eat." 
 
 For some minutes they drove along in silence. 
 
 " Yes," said Mrs. Charrington, following up the 
 line of her thought, " that's a man for you — thinks 
 the whole world moves round the axis of his own 
 life. But I hke him. He has a good face. Still," 
 she mused, " a man isn't everything, although once 
 I — ^but never mind, there is always a way of bring- 
 ing them to time." 
 
HE THAT LOVETH HIS LIFE 171 
 
 " You don't know Barney, Mrs. Charrington," 
 said lola ; " nothing can ever change him." 
 
 " Pish ! You think so, and so, doubtless, does 
 he. But none the less it is sheer nonsense. Can 
 you tell me the trouble.'' " 
 
 " No, I think not," said Tola softly. 
 
 " Very well. As you like, my dear. Few things 
 are the better for words. If ever you wish to come 
 to me I shall be ready. Now let us dismiss the thing 
 till after dinner. Disagreeable thoughts hinder di- 
 gestion, I have found, and nothing is quite worth 
 that." 
 
 With such resolution did she follow her own sug- 
 gestion that, during the drive and throughout the 
 dinner hour and, indeed, until the moment of her 
 departure, lola was not permitted to indulge her 
 anxious thoughts, but with Mrs. DuflF Charrington's 
 assistance she succeeded in keeping them deep in her 
 heart under guard. 
 
 As Mrs. Duff Charrington kissed her good-night 
 she whispered: 
 
 " Don't face any issue to-night. Don't settle 
 anything. Give time a chance. Time is a wonder- 
 fully wise old party." 
 
 And lola, sitting back in the carriage, decided 
 she would act upon the advice which suited so thor- 
 oughly her own habit of mind. That Barney had 
 made up his mind to a line of action she knew. She 
 would set herself to gain time, and yet she was fear- 
 ful of the issue of the Interview before her. The 
 fear and anxiety which she had been holding down 
 
172 THE DOCTOR 
 
 for the last two hours came over her in floodsi As 
 she thought of Barney's last words she found her- 
 self searching wildly, but in vain, for motives with 
 which to brace her strength. If he had only been 
 angry! But that sad, tender solicitude in his voice 
 unnerved her. He was not thinking of himself, she 
 Imew. He was, as ever, thinking of and for her. 
 
 A storm of wind and rain was rapidly drawing 
 on, but she heeded not the big drops driving into 
 her face, nor did she notice that before she reached 
 her door she was quite wet. She found Barney 
 waiting for her. As she entered he arose and stood 
 silent. 
 
 " Barney ! " she exclaimed, and paused, waiting. 
 But there was no reply. 
 
 " Oh, Barney ! " she cried again, her voice quiv- 
 ering, "won't you tell me to come?" 
 
 " Come," he said, holding out his arms. 
 
 With a little cry of timid joy she ran to him, 
 wreathed her arms about his neck, and clung sob- 
 bing. For some moments he held her fast, gently 
 caressing with his hand her face and her beautiful 
 hair tiU she grew quiet. Then disengaging her 
 arms, he kissed her with grave tenderness and put 
 her away from him. 
 
 " Go and take off your wet things first," he said. 
 
 " Say you forgive me, Barney," she whispered, 
 putting her arms again about his neck. 
 
 " That's not the word," he replied sadly ; " there's 
 nothing to forgive. Go, now ! " 
 
 She hurried away, praying that Barney's mood 
 
HE THAT LOVETH HIS LIFE ITS 
 
 might not change. If she could only get her arms 
 about his neck she could win and hold him, and, 
 what was far more important, she could conquer 
 herself, for great as she knew her love to be, she 
 was fully aware of the hold her ambition had upon 
 her and she dreaded lest that influence should be- 
 come dominant In this hour. She knew well their 
 souls would reach each other's secrets, and according" 
 to that reading the issue would be. 
 
 "I will keep him! I wiU keep him!" she whis- 
 pered to herself as she tore off her wet clothing. 
 "What shall I put on?" She could afford to lose 
 no point of vantage and she must hasten. She 
 chose her simplest gown, a soft creamy cjvpe de 
 chene trimmed with lace, and made so as to show 
 the superb modelling of her perfect body, leaving 
 her arms bare to the elbow and falling away at the 
 neck to reveal the soft, f uU curves where they flowed 
 down to the swell of her bosom. She shook down her 
 hair and gathered it loosely In a knot, leaving it 
 as the wind and rain had tossed it into a bewilder- 
 ing tangle of ringlets about her face. One glance 
 she threw at her mirror. Never had she appeared 
 more lovely. The dead ivory of her skin, reKeved 
 by a faint flush in her cheeks, the lustrous eyes, now 
 aglow with passion, all set in the frame of the night- 
 black masses of her hair — this, and that indescribable 
 but all-potent charm that love lends to the face, she 
 saw in her glass. 
 
 " Ah, God help me ! " she cried, clasping her 
 hands high above her head, and went forth. 
 
174 THE DOCTOR 
 
 These few moments Barney had spent in a fierce 
 struggle to regain the mastery over the surging 
 passion that was sweeping like a tempest through 
 his soul. As her door opened he rose to meet her; 
 but as his eyes fell upon her standing in the soft 
 rose-shaded light of the room, her attitude of mute 
 appeal, the rare, rich loveliness of her face and 
 form again swept away all the barriers of his con- 
 trol. She took one ^tep toward him. With a swift 
 movement he covered his face with his hands and 
 sank to his chair. 
 
 "O God! O God! O God!" he groaned. 
 " And must I lose her ! " 
 
 "Why lose me, Barney?" she said, gliding 
 swiftly to him and dropping to her knees beside 
 him. "Why lose me?" she repeated, taking his 
 head to her heaving bosom. 
 
 The touch of pity aroused his scorn of himself 
 and braced his manhood. Not for himself must 
 he think now, but for her. The touch of self 
 makes weak, the cross makes strong. What matter 
 that he was giving up his life in that hour if only 
 she were helped? He rose, lifted her from her 
 knees, set her in a chair, and went back to his 
 place. 
 
 " Barney, let me come to you," she pleaded. 
 " I'm sorry I went ^" 
 
 " No," he said, his voice quiet and steady, " you 
 must stay there. You must not touch me, else I 
 cannot say what I must." 
 
 " Barney," she cried again, " let me explain." 
 
HE THAT LOVETH HIS LIFE 176 
 
 "Explain? There is no need. I know all you 
 would say. These people are nothing to you or 
 to me. Let us forget them. It matters not at all 
 that you went with them. I am not angry. I was 
 at first insane, I think. But that is all past now." 
 
 "What is it, Barney? " she asked in a voice awed 
 by the sadness and despair in the even, quiet tone. 
 
 " It is this," he replied ; " we have come to the 
 end. I must not hold you any more. For two 
 years I have known. I had not the courage to face 
 it. But, thank God, the courage has come to me 
 these last two days." 
 
 " Courage, Barney? " 
 
 "Yes, Courage to do right. That's it, to do 
 right. That is what a man must do. And I must 
 think for you. Our lives are already far apart and 
 I must not keep you longer." 
 
 " Oh, Barney ! " cried lola, her voice breaking, 
 " let me come to you ! How can I listen to you say- 
 ing such terrible things without your arms about 
 me? Can't you see I want you? You are hurting 
 me!" 
 
 The pain, the terror in her voice and in her eyes, 
 made him wince as from a stab. He seemed to 
 hesitate as if estimating his strength. Dare he 
 trust himself? It would make the task infinitely 
 harder to have her near him, to feel the touch of 
 her hands, the pressure of her body. But he would 
 save her pain. He would help her through this 
 hour of agony. How great it was he could guess 
 by his own. He led her to a sofa, sat down beside 
 
176 THE DOCTOR 
 
 her, and took her in his arms. With a long, shud- 
 dering sigh, she let herself sink down, with muscles 
 relaxed and eyes closed. 
 
 " Now go on, dear," she whispered. 
 
 " Poor girl ! Poor girl ! " said Barney, " we 
 have made a great mistake, you and 1. I was not 
 made for you nor you for me." 
 
 " Why not.? " she whispered. 
 
 "Listen to me, darling. Do I love you.'"' 
 
 "Yes," she answered softly. 
 
 " With all my heart and soul.'' " 
 
 " Yes, dear," she answered again. 
 
 " Better than my own life.'' " 
 
 " Yes, Barney. Oh, yes," she replied with a little 
 sob in her voice. 
 
 " Now we win speak simple truth to each other," 
 said Barney in a tone solemn as if in prayer, " the 
 truth as in God's sight." 
 
 She hesitated. "Oh, Barney!" she cried pite- 
 ously, " must I say all the truth.!" " 
 
 " We must, darling. You promise? " 
 
 " Oh-h-h ! Yes, I promise." She flung her arms 
 upward about his neck. " I know what you will 
 ask." 
 
 " Listen to me, darling," he said again, taking 
 down her arms, " this is what I would say. You 
 have marked out your life. You will follow your 
 great ambition. Your glorious voice calls you and 
 you feel you must go. You love me and you would be 
 my wife, make my home, mother my children if God 
 should send them to us ; but both these things you 
 
HE THAT LOVETH HIS LIFE 177 
 
 cannot do, and meantime you have chosen your great 
 career. Is not this true?" 
 
 " I can't give you up, Barney ! " she moaned. 
 
 To neither of them did it occur as an alternative 
 that Ba,rney should give up his hfe's work to ac- 
 company her in the path she had marked. Equally 
 to both this would have seemed unworthy of him. 
 
 " Is not this true, lola? " Barney's voice, in 
 spite of him, grew a little stern. And though she 
 knew it was at the cost of Hfe she could not deny it. 
 
 " God gave me the voice, Barney," she whispered. 
 
 " Yes, darling. And I would not hinder you nor 
 turn you from your great art. So it is better that 
 there should be no bond between us." He paused 
 a moment as if to gather his strength together for 
 a supreme effort. " lola, when you were a girl I 
 bound you to me. Now you are a woman, I set you 
 free. I love you, but you are not mine. You are 
 your own." 
 
 Convulsively she clung to him moaning, " No, 
 no, Barney 1" 
 
 " It is the only way." 
 
 " No, not to-night, Barney ! " 
 
 " Yes, to-night. To-morrow I go to Baltimore. 
 Trent has got me an appointment in Johns Hop- 
 kins. You wiU never forget me, but your life will 
 be fun again of other people and ottier things." 
 He hurried his words,, seeking to strike the note of 
 her ambitioa and so turn her mind from her present 
 pain. " Your Philharmonic will bjring youi fame. 
 That means engagements, great masters, and then 
 
178 THE DOCTOR 
 
 you will belong to the great world." How clearly 
 he had read her mind and how closely he had fol- 
 lowed the path she herself had outlined for her feet ! 
 He paused, as if to take breath, then hurried on 
 again as through a task. " And we will all be proud 
 of you and rejoice in your success and in your — 
 your — your— happiness." The voice that had gone 
 so bravely and so relentlessly through the terrible 
 lesson faltered at the word and broke, but only for 
 an instant. He must think of her. " Dick will be 
 here," he went on, " and Margaret, and soon you 
 will have many friends. Believe me, it is the best, 
 lola, and you will say it some day." 
 
 Like a flash of inspiration it came to her to say, 
 '' No, Barney, you are not helping me to my best." 
 
 In his soul he felt that it was a true word. For 
 a moment he had no answer. Eagerly she followed 
 up her advantage. 
 
 " And who," she cried, " will help me up and take 
 care of me? " 
 
 Ah, she struck deep there. Who, indeed, would 
 care for her, guard her against the world with its 
 beasts of prey that batten their lusts upon beauty 
 and innocence.'' And who would help her against 
 herself.'' The desire to hold her for himself and for 
 her sprang up fierce within him. Could he desert 
 her, leave her to fight her fights, to find her way 
 through the world's treacherous paths alone? That 
 was the part of his renunciation that had been the 
 heart of his pain. Not his loss, but her danger. 
 Not his loneliness, but hers. For a moment he for- 
 
HE THAT LOVETH HIS LIFE 179 
 
 got everything. AU the great love in him gathered 
 itself together and massed its weight behind this 
 desire to protect her and to hold her safe. 
 
 " Could you, lola," he cried hoarsely, " don't you 
 think you could let me care for you? Couldn't you 
 come to me, give me the right to guard you? I 
 can make wealth, great wealth, for you. Can't you 
 come? " 
 
 Wildly, with the incoherent logic and eloquence of 
 great passion, he poured forth his soul's desire for 
 her. To work for her, to suffer for her, to live for 
 her, yes, and to give himself to her and to keep her 
 only for himself! Helpless in the sweeping tide of 
 his mighty passion, he poured forth his words, plead- 
 ing as for his life. By an inexplicable psychic law 
 the exhibition of his passion calmed hers. The 
 sight of his weakness brought her strength. For 
 one fleeting moment she allowed her mind to rest 
 upon the picture his words made of a home, made 
 rich with the love of a strong man, and sweet with 
 the music of children's voices, where she would be 
 safe and sheltered in infinite peace and content. But 
 only for a moment. Swifter than the play of light 
 there flashed before her another scene, a crowded 
 amphitheatre of faces, tier upon tier, eager, rapt, 
 listening, and upon the stage the singer holding, 
 swaying, compelling them to her will. Barney felt 
 her relaxed muscles tone up into firmness. The 
 force of her ambition was being transmitted along 
 those subtle spiritual nerves that knit soul and mind 
 and body into one complex whole, into the very 
 
180 THE DOCTOR 
 
 sinews and muscles of her frame. She had hold 
 of herself again. She would set herself to gain 
 time. 
 
 " Let us wait, Barney," she said, " let us take 
 time." 
 
 An intangible something in her tone pulled him 
 to a sharp stop. What a weak fool he had been 
 and how he had been thinking of himself! He sat 
 up, straight and strong, his own man again. 
 
 " Forgive me, darling." he said, a faint, wan 
 smile flitting across his face. " I was weak and 
 selfish. I allowed myself to think for a moment that 
 it might he, but now I know we must say good-bye 
 to-night." 
 
 " Good-bye.? " The sting of her pain made her 
 irritable. He was so stubborn. " Surely, Barney, 
 it is unreasonable to ask me to decide at once 
 to-night." 
 
 He rose to his feet and lifted her gently. 
 
 " You have decided. You have already chosen 
 your life's path, and it lies apart from mine. Let 
 me go quietly away." His voice was toneless, pas- 
 sionless. His fight of two days and two nights had 
 left him exhausted. His apparent apathy chiUed 
 her to the heart. It was a supreme moment in their 
 lives, and yet she could not fan her soul's fires into 
 flame. He was tearing up the roots of his love out 
 of her life, but there was no acute sense of lacera- 
 tion. The inevitable had come to pass. A silence, 
 dense and throbbing, fell upon them. Outside the 
 storm was lashing the wet leaves against the window. 
 
HE THAT LOVETH HIS LIFE 181 
 
 " If ever you should want me to come to you, 
 Tola, one word will bring me. I shall be waitingj 
 waiting. Remember that, always waiting." He 
 tightened his arms about her and without passion, 
 but gravely, tenderly he lifted her face. " Good-byei 
 my love," he said, and kissed her lips. " My heart's 
 love!" Once more he kissed her. "My life! My 
 love!" 
 
 She let the full weight of her body lie in his arms, 
 lifeless but for the eyes that held his fast and for 
 the lips that gave him back his kisses. Gently he 
 placed her on the couch. 
 
 " God keep you, darling," he whispered, bend- 
 ing over her and touching her dusky hair with his 
 lips. 
 
 Be found his hat, walked with imsteady feet as 
 a man walks under a heavy load, her eyes following 
 his every step, and reached the door. There he 
 paused, his hand fumbling at the knob, opened the 
 door, halted yet an instant, but without turning he 
 passed out of her sight. 
 
 An hour later Margaret came in and found 
 her sitting where Barney had left her, dazed and 
 tearless. 
 
 " He is gone," she said dully. 
 
 Margaret turned upon her. " Gone.!" Yes. I 
 have just seen him." 
 
 "And I love him," continued lola, looking up 
 at her with heavy eyes. 
 
 " Love him ! You don't know what love means ! 
 Love him! And for your paltry, selfish ambition 
 
182 THE DOCTOR 
 
 you send from you a man whose shoes you are not 
 worthy to tie ! " 
 
 " Oh, Margaret ! " cried Tola piteously. 
 
 " Don't talk to me ! " she repKed, her lip quiver- 
 ing. " I can't bear to look at you ! " and she passed 
 into her room. 
 
 It was intolerable to her that this girl should 
 have regarded lightly the love she herself would 
 have died to gain. But long after lola had sobbed 
 herself to sleep in her arms Margaret lay wakeful 
 for her own pain and for that of the man she loved 
 better than her life. 
 
 But next day, as lola was planning to go to the 
 station, Margaret would not have it. 
 
 " Why should you go .'' You have nothing to say 
 but what would give him pain. Do you want him 
 to despise you and me to hate you.'' " 
 
 But lola was resolved to have her way. It was 
 Mrs. Duff Charrington who fortunately intervened 
 and carried lola off with her to spend the afternoon 
 and evening. 
 
 " Just a few musical friends, my dear. So brush 
 up and come away. Bring your guitar with you." 
 
 lola demurred. 
 
 " I don't feel like it." 
 
 " Tut ! Nonsense ! The lovelorn damsel reads 
 well in erotic novels, but remember this, the men 
 don't like stale beer." 
 
 This bit of worldly wisdom made lola put on her 
 smartest gown and lay aside the role she had uncon- 
 sciously planned to adopt, so that even Mrs. Duff 
 
HE THAT LOVETH HIS LIFE 183 
 
 Charrington had no fault to find with the sparkling 
 animation of her protegee. 
 
 But to the three who stood together waiting for 
 the train to pull out that night there was only 
 dreary, voiceless misery. There was no pretence at 
 anything but misery. To the brothers the moment 
 of parting would be the end of all that had been so 
 delightful in their old life. The days of their long 
 companionship were over, and to both the thought 
 brought grief that made words impossible. Only 
 Margaret's presence forced them to self-control. As 
 to Margaret, Dick alone knew the full measure of 
 her grief, and her quiet, serene courage filled him 
 with amazed admiration. At length came the 
 call of the bustling, businesslike conductor, " All 
 aboard ! " 
 
 " Good-bye, Margaret," said Barney simply, hold- 
 ing out his hand. But the girl quietly put back 
 her veil and lifted up her face to him, her brave blue 
 eyes looking all their love into his, but her lips only 
 said^ " Good-bye, Barney." 
 
 " Good-bye, dear Margaret," he said again, bend- 
 ing over her and kissing her. 
 
 " Me, too, Barney," said Dick, his tears openly 
 streaming down his face. " I'm a confounded baby ! 
 But hanged if I care ! " 
 
 At Dick's words all Barney's splendid self-mastery 
 vanished. He threw his arms about his brother's 
 neck, crying " Good-bye, Dick, old man. We've had 
 a great time together; but oh, my boy, my boy, 
 it's all come to an end ! " 
 
184 THE DOCTOR 
 
 Already the train was moving. 
 
 "Go, old chap," cried Dick, pushing him away 
 bnt still clinging to him. And then, as Barney 
 swung on to the step he called back to them what 
 had long been in his heart to say. 
 
 " Look after her, will you.'' " 
 
 "Yes, Barney, we will," they both cried together. 
 And as they stood gazing through dimming tears 
 after the train as it sped out through the network 
 of tracks and the maze of green and red hghts, they 
 felt that a new bond drew them closer than before. 
 And it was the tightening of that bond that brought 
 them all the comfort that there was in that hour 
 of misery unspeakable. 
 
XIII 
 A MAN THAT IS AN HERETIC REJECT 
 
 THE college year had come to an end. The 
 results of the examinations had been pub- 
 Kshed. The Juniors were preparing to 
 depart for their summer work in the mission field. 
 Of the graduating class, some were waiting with 
 calm confidence the indications of the will of Provi- 
 dence as to their spheres of labour, a confidence un- 
 doubtedly strengthened by certain letters in their 
 possession from leading members of influential con- 
 gregations. Others were preparing with painful 
 shrinking of heart to tread the weary and humiliat- 
 ing " trail of the black bag," while others again, 
 to whom had come visions of high deeds and sounds 
 of distant battle, were making ready outfits sup- 
 posed to be suitable for life and work in the great 
 West, or in the far lands across the sea. 
 
 Two high functions of coUege life yet remained, 
 one, the Presbytery examination, the other. Pro- 
 fessor MacdougaU's student party. The annual 
 examination before Presbytery was ever an event 
 of nerve-racking uncertainty. It might prove to 
 be an entirely perfunctory performance of the most 
 innocuous kind. On the other hand; it might de- 
 velop features of a most sensational and perilous 
 nature. The college barometer this year was un- 
 
 185 
 
186 THE DOCTOR 
 
 usually depressed, for rumour had gone abroad that 
 the Presbytery examination was to be of the more 
 serious type. It was a time of searchings of heart 
 for those who had been giving, throughout the ses- 
 sion, undue attention to the social opportunities 
 afforded by college life, and more especially if they 
 had allowed their contempt for the archaic and 
 oriental to become unnecessarily pronounced. To 
 these latter gentlemen the day brought gloomy fore- 
 bodings. Even their morning devotions, which were 
 marked by unusual sincerity and earnestness, failed 
 to bring them that calmness of mind which these 
 exercises are supposed to afford. For their slender 
 ray of hope that their memory of the English text 
 might not fail them in the hour of trial was very 
 materially clouded by the dread that in their em- 
 barrassment they might assign a perfectly correct 
 English version to the wrong Hebrew text. The 
 result of such mischance they would not allow them- 
 selves to contemplate. On the other hand, however, 
 there was the welcome possibility that they might 
 be so able to dispose themselves among the oriental- 
 ists in their class that a word dropped at a critical 
 moment might save them from this mischance. And 
 there was the further, and not altogether unreal, 
 ground of confidence, that the examiner himself 
 might be uneasily conscious of the ever-present possi- 
 bility that some hidden Hebrew snag might rudely 
 jag a hole in his own vessel while sailing the mare 
 ignotum of oriental literature. Of course, the ex- 
 amination would also include other departments of 
 
MAN THAT IS HERETIC REJECT 187 
 
 sacred learning, for it was the province and duty 
 of Presbytery to satisfy itself as to the soundness 
 in the faith of the candidates before them. On this 
 score, however, few indulged serious anxiety. Once 
 the Hebraic shoals and snags were safely passed, 
 both examiner and examined could disport them- 
 selves with a jaunty self-confidence born of a thor- 
 ough acquaintance with the Shorter Catechism re- 
 ceived during the plastic years of childhood. 
 
 It was, however, just in these calm waters that 
 danger lurked for Boyle. On the side of scholar- 
 ship he was known to be invulnerable. Boyle was 
 the hero and darling of the college men, more espe- 
 cially of the " sinners " among them, not simply 
 by reason of his prowess between the goal posts 
 where, times without number, he had rescued the 
 college from the contempt of its foes; but quite as 
 much for the modesty with which he carried off his 
 brilliant attainments in the class lists. Through- 
 Cut the term, in the college halls after tea, there 
 had been carried on a series of discussions extend- 
 ing over the whole range of the " fundamentals," 
 and Boyle had the misfortune to rouse the wrath 
 and awaken the concern of Finlay Finlayson, the 
 champion of orthodoxy. Finlay was a huge, gaunt, 
 broad-shouldered son of Uist, a theologian by birth, 
 a dialectician by training, and a man of war by 
 the gift of Heaven. Cheerfully would Finlay, for 
 conscience' sake, have given his body to the flames, 
 as, for conscience' sake, he had shaken off the hereti- 
 ~^&l dust of New College, Edinburgh, from his shoes, 
 
188 THE DOCTOR 
 
 unhesitatingly surrendering at the same time, Scot 
 though he was, a scholarship of fifty pounds. The 
 hope that he had cherished of being able to find, 
 in a colonial institution of sacred learning, a safe 
 haven where he might devote himself to the perfect- 
 ing of the defences of his faith within the citadel of 
 orthodoxy was rudely shattered by the discovery 
 that the same heresies which had driven him from 
 New College had found their way across the sea 
 and were being championed by a man of such win- 
 ning personality and undoubted scholarship as 
 Richard Boyle. The effect upon Finlayson's mind 
 of these discussions carried on throughout the term 
 was such that, after much and prayerful delibera- 
 tion, and after due notice to the person immediately 
 affected, he discovered it to be his duty to inform 
 the professor in whose department these subjects 
 lay of the heresies that were threatening the very 
 life of the college, and, indeed, of the Canadian 
 Church. 
 
 The report of his interview with the professor 
 came back to college through the realistic if some- 
 what irreverent medium of the professor's son, 
 Tom, presently pursuing a somewhat leisurely course 
 toward a medical degree. As Tom appeared in the 
 college hall he was immediately surrounded by an 
 eager crowd, the most eager of whom was Robert 
 Duff, the sworn ally of Mr, Finlayson. 
 
 "Did Finlayson see your father?" inquired Mr. 
 Duff anxiously. 
 
 " Sure thing," answered Tom. 
 
MAN THAT IS HERETIC REJECT 189 
 
 " And did he inform him of what has been going 
 on in this college?" 
 
 " You bet your life ! Give him the whole tip ! " 
 
 " And what did the professor say? " inquired Mr. 
 DufF, with bated breath. 
 
 " Told him to go to the devil." 
 
 " To what? " gasped Mr. DufF, to whom it ap- 
 peared for the moment that the foundations of 
 things in heaven and on earth had indeed been re- 
 moved. It was only after the shout of laughter on 
 the part of the " sinners " had subsided that Mr. 
 DufF realised that it was the spirit only, and not 
 the ipsissima verba, of the devout and reverent pro- 
 fessor, that had been translated in the vigorous 
 vernacular of his son. 
 
 Unhappily, however, for Boyle, the report of his 
 heretical tendencies had reached other ears than 
 those of the sane and liberal-minded professor, those, 
 namely, of that stem and rigid churchman, the Rev. 
 Alexander Naismith, some time minister of St. Co- 
 lumba's. Not through Finlayson, however, be it 
 understood, did this report reach him. That 
 staunch defender of orthodoxy might, under stress 
 of conscience, find it his duty to inform the proper 
 authority of the matter, but sooner than retail gos- 
 sip to the hurt of his fellow-student he would have 
 cut off his big, bony right hand. 
 
 The Rev. Alexander Naismith was a little man 
 with a shrill voice, which gained for him the cog- 
 nomen of " Squeaky Sandy," and a most irritat- 
 ingly persistent temper. Into his hands, while can- 
 
190 THE DOCTOR 
 
 didates and examiners were disporting themselves 
 in the cahn waters of Systematic Theology, fell poor 
 Dick, to his confusion and the temporary withhold- 
 ing of his hcense. It was impossible but that in 
 the college itself, and in the college circles of so- 
 ciety, this event should become a subject of much 
 heated discussion. 
 
 Professor Macdougall's student parties were not 
 as other student parties. They were never attended 
 from a sense of duty. This was undoubtedly due, 
 not so much to the popularity of the professor with 
 his students, as to the shrewd wisdom and profound 
 knowledge of human nature generally and of stu- 
 dent nature particularly, on the part of that gentle 
 lady, the professor's wife. Mrs. MacdougaU was of 
 the old school, with very beautiful if very old- 
 fashioned notions of propriety. Her whole life was 
 one poetic setting forth of the manners and deport- 
 ment proper to ladies, both young and old. But 
 none the less her shrewd mother wit and kindly 
 heart instructed her in things not taught in the 
 schools. The consequence was that, while she her- 
 self sat erect in fine scorn of the backs of her 
 straight-backed Sheratons, her drawing-room was 
 furnished with an abundance of easy chairs and 
 lounges, and arranged with cosey nooks and comers 
 calculated to gratify the luxurious tastes and lazy 
 manners of a decadent generation. Her shrewd wit 
 was further discovered in the care she took to assem- 
 ble to her evening parties the prettiest, brightest, 
 wickedest of the young girls in the wide circle of 
 
MAN THAT IS HERETIC REJECT 191 
 
 her friends. As young Robert Kidd put it with 
 more vigour than grace, " There were no last roses 
 in her bunch." Moreover, the wise little lady took 
 pains to instruct her young ladies as to their duties 
 toward the yoimg men of the college. 
 
 " You must exert yourselves, my dears," she would 
 explain, " to make the evening pleasant for the young 
 men. And they require something to distract their 
 attention from the too earnest pursuit of their 
 studies." 
 
 And it is a tradition that so heartily did the 
 young ladies throw themselves into this particular 
 duty that there were, even of the saintliest of the 
 saints, who found it necessary to take their lec- 
 tures in absentia for at least two days in order that 
 they might recover from the all too successful dis- 
 tractions of the Macdougall party. 
 
 Among the guests invited was Margaret, beloved 
 for her own sake, but even more for the sake of her 
 mother, who had been Mrs. Macdougall's college 
 companion and lifelong cherished friend. The ab- 
 sorbing theme of conversation, carried on in a 
 strictly confidential manner, was the sensational 
 feature of the Presbytery examination. The pro- 
 fessor himself was deeply grieved, and no less so his 
 stately little lady, for to both of them Dick was 
 as a son. But from neither of them could Mar- 
 garet extract anything but the most meagre outline 
 of what had happened. For full details of the whole 
 dramatic scene she was indebted to Robert Kidd, 
 second year theologue, whose brown curly locks and 
 
192 THE DOCTOR 
 
 cherubic face and fresh innocence of manner won for 
 him the sobriquet of " Baby Kidd," or more shortly, 
 « Kiddie." 
 
 " Tell us just what happened," entreated Miss 
 Belle Macdougall, with a glance of such heart-pene- 
 trating quality that Kiddie promptly acquiesced. 
 
 " Well, I'll teH you," he said, adopting a low con- 
 fidential tone. " I could see from the very start 
 that old Squeaky Sandy was out after Dick. He 
 couldn'i get him on his Hebrew, so the old chap lay 
 low till everything was lovely and they were falling 
 on each others' necks over the Shorter Catechism, 
 and things every fellow is supposed to be quite safe 
 on. All at once Sandy sqeaked in, ' Mr. Boyle, will 
 you kindly state what you consider the correct 
 theory of the Atonement.?' 'I don't know,' said 
 Boyle ; ' I haven't got any.' By Jove ! everyone sat 
 up. 'You believe in the doctrine, I suppose.'*' 
 Boyle waited a while and my heart stopped till he 
 went on again. ' Yes, sir, I believe in it.' ' How 
 is that, sir.P If you believe in it you must have a 
 theory. What do you believe about it.^" 'I be- 
 lieve in the fact. I don't understand it, and I have 
 no theory of it as yet.' And Boyle was as gentle 
 as a sucking dove. Then the Moderator, decent 
 old chap, chipped it." 
 
 " Who was it? " inquired Miss Belle. 
 
 " Dr. MitchelL Fiae old boy. None too sound 
 himself, I guess. Pre-miU, too, you know. Well, 
 he chipped in and got him past that snag. But old 
 Sandy was not done yet by a long shot. He went 
 
MAN THAT IS HERETIC REJECT 193 
 
 after Boyle on every doctrine in the catalogue 
 where it was possible for a man to get off the track, 
 Inspiration, Inerrancy, the Mosaic Authorship, and 
 the whole Robertson Smith business. You know 
 that last big heresy himt in Scotland." 
 
 " No," said Miss Belle, " I don't know. And you 
 don't, either, so you needn't stop and try to tell 
 us." 
 
 " I don't, eh? " said Bob, who was finding it dif- 
 ficult to keep himself in a perfectly sane condition 
 under the bewildering glances of Miss Belle's black 
 eyes. "Well, perhaps I don't. At any rate, I 
 couldn't make you understand." 
 
 " Hear him ! " said Miss Belle, with supreme scorn. 
 " Go on. We are interested in Boyle, aren't wcj 
 Margaret? " 
 
 "WeD, where was I? Oh, yes. Well, sir, in 
 about five minutes it seemed to me that Boyle's the- 
 ology was a tattered remnant. Some of the breth- 
 ren interfiered, explaining and apologizing for the 
 young man after their kinQly custom, but Squeaky 
 wouldn't have it. ' This is most serious, Mr. Mod- 
 erator ! ' he sung out. ' This demands the most 
 searching investigation! We all know what is go- 
 ing on in the Old Land, how the great doctrines of 
 our faith are being undermined by so-called scholar- 
 ship, which is nothing less than blasphemy and im- 
 pudent scepticism.* And so he went on shrieking 
 more and more wildly a lot of tommy-rot. But the 
 worst was yet to come. All at once Sandy changed 
 his line of attack and proceeded to take Boyle on 
 
194 THE DOCTOR 
 
 the flank. ' Mr. Boyle, are you a smoker ? ' he 
 asked. ' Yes,' stammered poor Boyle, getting red 
 in the face, ' I smoke some.' ' Are you a total ab- 
 stainer ? ' And then Boyle got on to him, and I 
 saw his head go back for the first time. Before 
 this he had been sitting like a convicted criminal. 
 ' No, sir,' he answered, turning square around and 
 facing old Squeaky, ' I am not pledged to total 
 abstinence.' Don't suppose he ever took a drink in 
 his life. ' Did you ever attend the theatre? ' This 
 was the limit. It seemed to strike the brethren all 
 at once what the old inquisitor was driving at. The 
 words were hardly out of his mouth when there was 
 a weird sound, a cross between a howl and a roar, 
 and Grant was at the Moderator's desk. It will 
 always be a mystery to me how he got there. There 
 were three pews between him and the desk, and I 
 swear he never came out into the aisle. ' Mr. Mod- 
 erator, I protest', he shouted. And then the dust 
 began to fly. Say! it was a regular sand storm! 
 About the only thing visible was the lightning from 
 Grant's eyes. By Jingo ! ' Mr. Moderator, I pro- 
 test,' he cried, when he could get a hearing, ' against 
 these insinuations. We all know what Mr. Naismith 
 means by this method of inquisition. But let me 
 
 tell Mr. Naismith ' Don't know what in thunder 
 
 he was going to tell him, for the next few moments 
 they mixed it up good and hot. Say ! it was a circus 
 with all the monkeys loose and the band playing 
 seventeen tunes all at once! But finally Grant had 
 his say and treated the Presbytery to a pretty full 
 
MAN THAT IS HERETIC REJECT 195 
 
 disquisition of his own theology, and when he wa8 
 done my pity was transferred from Boyle to himi 
 for it seemed that on every doctrine where Boyle was 
 a heretic Grant had gone him one better. And I 
 believe the whole Presbytery were vastly reUeved to 
 discover how slight, by contrast, were the errors to 
 which Boyle had fallen. Then Henderson, good old 
 soul, took his innings and poured on oil, with the 
 result that Boyle was turned over to a committee— 
 and that's where he is now. But he'U never appear. 
 He's going in for journalism. The Telegraph 
 wants him." 
 
 " Journalism? " cried Margaret faintly. She was 
 thinking of the dark-faced old lady up in the coun- 
 try who was counting the days till her son should 
 be sent forth a minister of the Gospel. 
 
 "Yes," said Kiddie. "And there's where he'll 
 shine. See what he's done with the Monthty. He's 
 got great style. But wasn't there a row at the col- 
 lege ! " continued Kiddie. " Old Father Finlayson 
 there," nodding across the room at the Highlander, 
 who was engaged in what appeared to be an extremely 
 interesting conversation with his hostess, " orthodox 
 old beggar as he is, was ready to lead a raid on 
 Squeaky Sandy's house. You know he has been at 
 war with Boyle all winter on every and all possible 
 themes. But he fights fair, aild this hitting below, 
 the belt was too much for him. He was raging up 
 and down the hall like a wild man when Boyle came 
 in. ' Mr. Boyle,' he roared, rushing up to him and 
 seizing him by the hand and working it like a pump- 
 
196 THE DOCTOR 
 
 handle in a fire, ' it was a most iniquitous proceed- 
 ing! I wish to assure you I have no sympathy 
 whatever with that sort of thing ! ' And so he went 
 on till he had Boyle almost in tears. By Jove! he's 
 a rum old party ! Look at his socks, will you ! " 
 
 The young ladies glanced across and beheld in 
 amused but amazed horror the Highlander's great 
 feet encased in a new pair of carpet slippers adorned 
 with pink roses and green ground, which made a 
 startling contrast with his three-ply worsted stock- 
 ings, magenta in colour, which his fond aunt had 
 knit as part of his outfit for the Arctic regions of 
 Canada. 
 
 " You may laugh," continued Bob. " So would I 
 yesterday. But, by Jingo ! he can wear magenta 
 socks on his head if he likes for me ! He's all white, 
 and he has the heart of a gentleman ! " Little Kidd's 
 voice went shaky and his eyes had the curious shine 
 that appeared in them only in moments of deepest 
 excitement, but if he had only known it, he had never 
 been so near storming the gate of Miss Belle's heart 
 as at that moment. She showed her sympathy with 
 Kiddie's attitude by giving Mr. Finlayson " the time 
 of his life," as Kiddie himself remarked. So assidu- 
 ously, indeed, did she devote herself to the promotion 
 of Mr. Pinlayson's comfort and good cheer that that 
 gentleman's fine sense of honour prompted him to 
 inform her incidentally of the existence of Miss 
 Jennie McLean, who was to " come out to him as 
 soon as he was placed." He was surprised, but 
 entirely delighted, to discover that this announce- 
 
MAN THAT IS HERETIC REJECT 197 
 
 ment made no difference whatever in Miss Belle's 
 attentions. At the supper hour, however, Miss Belle, , 
 moved by Kiddie's lugubrious countenance, yielded 
 her place to Margaret, who continued the operation 
 of giving Mr. Finlayson " the time of his Kf e." But 
 not a word could she extract from him regarding 
 the heresy case, for, with a skill that might have 
 made a Queen's Counsel green with envy, he baffled 
 her leading questions with a density of ignorance 
 unparalleled in her experience, until she let it be 
 known that Dick was an old schoolmate and dear 
 friend. Then Mr. Finlayson poured forth the grief 
 and rage swelling in his big heart at the treatment 
 his enemy had received and his anxious concern for 
 his future both here and hereafter. In a portion of 
 this concern, at least, Margaret shared. And as 
 Mr. Finlayson continued to unburden himself, during 
 the walk home, regarding the heresies in Edinburgh 
 from which he had fled and the heresies that had 
 apparently taken possession of Dick's mind, her 
 heart continued to sink within her, for it seemed that 
 the opinions attributed to Dick were subversive of 
 all she had held true from her childhood. With such 
 intelligence and sympathy, however, did she listen 
 to Mr. Finlayson discoursing, that that gentleman 
 carried back with him to college a heart somewhat 
 lightened of its burden, but withal seriously impressed 
 with the charm and the mental grasp of the young 
 ladies of Canada. And so enthusiastically did he 
 dwell upon this theme in his next letter, that Miss 
 Jessie McLean set herself devoutly to pray, eithec 
 
198 THE DOCTOR 
 
 that Finlayson might soon be placed, or that the 
 professors might cease giving parties. 
 
 The brand of heresy almost invariably works ill 
 to him who bears it. For if he be young and shallow 
 enough to enjoy the distinction, it will only increase 
 his vanity and render his return to sure and safe 
 paths more difficult. But if his doubts are to him a 
 grief and a horror of darkness, the brand will burn 
 in and drive him far from his fellows, and change 
 the kindly spirit in him to bitterness unless, per- 
 chance, he light upon a friend who gives him love 
 and trust unstinted and links him to wholesome 
 living. After all, in matters of faith every man must 
 blaze his own path through the woods and make his 
 own clearing in which to dwell. And he may well 
 thank God if his path lead him some whither where 
 there is space enough to work his day's work and 
 light enough to live by. 
 
 With Dick it was mostly dark, for it was not given 
 him to have a friend who could understand. But 
 he was not allowed to feel himself to be quite aban- 
 doned, for in the darkest of his hours there stood at 
 his side Margaret Robertson, whose strong, cheery 
 good sense and whose loyalty to right-doing helped 
 him and strengthened him and so made it possible to 
 wait till the better day dawned. 
 
XIV 
 WHOSOEVER LOOKETH UPON A WOMAN 
 
 THE Journalistic World has its own diversity 
 of mountain and plain, and its own variety 
 of inhabitants. There are its mountain 
 ranges and upland regions of clear skies and pure 
 airs, where are wide outlooks and horizons whose 
 dim lines fade beyond the reach of clear vision. 
 Amid these mountain ranges and upon these uplands 
 dwell men among the immortals to whom has come 
 the " vision splendid " and whose are the voices that 
 in the crisis of a man or of a nation give forth the 
 call that turns the face upward to life eternal and 
 divine. To these men such words as Duty, Honour, 
 Patriotism, Purity, stand for things of intrinsic 
 value worth a man'sr while to seek and, having found, 
 to die for. 
 
 Level plains there are, too, where harvests are 
 sown and reaped. But there these same words often 
 become mere implements of cultivation, tools for 
 mechanical industries or currency for the conduct 
 of business. Here dwell the practical men of affairs* 
 as they love to call themselves, for whom has faded 
 the vision in the glare of opportunism. 
 
 And far down by the water-fronts are the slum 
 wastes where the sewers of poUtics and business and 
 
 199 
 
300 THE DOCTOR 
 
 social life pour forth their fetid filth. Here the 
 journals of yellow shade grub and fatten. In this 
 ooze and slime puddle the hordes of sewer rats, 
 scavengers of the world's garbage, from whose col- 
 lected stores the editor selects his daily mess for the 
 delectation of the great unwashed, whether of the 
 classes or of the masses, and from which he grabs 
 in large handfuls that viscous mud that sticks and 
 stings where it sticks. 
 
 The Daily Telegraph was born yellow, a 
 frank yellow of the barbaric type that despises 
 neutral tints. By the Daily Telegraph things 
 were called by their uneuphemistic names. A spade 
 was a spade, and mud was mud, and nothing was 
 sacred from its sewer rats. The highest paid offi- 
 cial on its staff was a criminal lawyer celebrated iu 
 the libel courts. Everybody cursed it and every- 
 body read it. After a season, having thus firmly 
 established itself in the enmities of the community, 
 and havibg become. In consequence, financially se- 
 cure, it began to aspire toward the uplands, where 
 the harvests were as rich and at the same time less 
 perilous as well as less offensive In the reaping. It 
 began to study euphemism. A spade became an 
 agricultural implement and mud alluvial deposit. 
 Having become by long experience a specialist In 
 the busaiess of moral scavenging, It proceeded to 
 devote itself with most vehement energy to the busi- 
 ness of inoral reform. All Indecencies that could 
 not successfully cover themselves with such gilding 
 as good hard gold can give were ruthlessly held up 
 
WHOSO LOOKETH UPON A WOMAN 201 
 
 to public contempt. It continued to be cursed, but 
 gradually came to be respected and feared. 
 
 It was to aid in this upward climb that the editor 
 of the Daily Telegraph seized upon Dick. That 
 young man was peculiarly fitted for the part which 
 was to be assigned to him. He was a theological 
 student and, therefore, his ethical standards were 
 unimpeachable. His university training guaran- 
 teed his literary sense, and his connection with the 
 University and College papers had revealed him a 
 master of terse English. He was the very man, 
 indeed, but he must serve his apprenticeship with 
 the sewer rats. For months he toiled amid much 
 slime and filth, breathing in its stinking odours, 
 gaining knowledge, it is true, but paying dear for 
 it in the golden coin of that finer sensibility and that 
 vigorous moral health which had formerly made 
 his life, to himself and to others, a joy and beauty. 
 For the slime would stick, do what he could, arid 
 with the smells he must become so familiar that they 
 no longer offended. That delicate discrimination 
 that immediately detects the presence of decay de- 
 parted from him, and in its place there developed a 
 coarser sense whose characteristic was its power to 
 distinguish between sewage and sewage. Hence, 
 morality, with him, came to consist in the choosing 
 of sewage of the less offensive forms. On the other 
 hand, consciousness of the brand of heresy drove hira 
 from those scenes where the air is pure and from 
 association with those high souls who by mere living 
 exhale spiritual health and fragrance. 
 
802 THE DOCTOR 
 
 " We do not see much of Mr. Boyle these days, 
 Margaret," Mrs. Macdougall would say to her 
 friend, carefully modulating her tone lest she should 
 betray the anxiety of her gentle, loyal heart. " But 
 I doubt not he is very busy with his new duties." 
 
 " Yes, he is very busy," Margaret would reply, 
 striving to guard her voice with equal care, but 
 with less success. For Margaret was cursed, nay 
 blessed, with that heart of Infinite motherhood that 
 yearns over the broken or the weak or the straying 
 of humankind, and makes their pain its own. 
 
 " Bring him with you to tea next Sabbath even- 
 ing, my dear," the little lady would say, with never 
 a quiver or inflection of voice betraying that she 
 had detected the girl's anxiety for her friend. 
 
 But more infrequently, as the days went on, could 
 she secure Dick for an hour on Sabbath evening in 
 the quiet, sweet little nook of the professor's dining- 
 room. He was so often held by his work, but more 
 often by his attendance upon lola, for between lola 
 and him there had grown up and ripened rapidly 
 an intimacy that Margaret regarded with distrust 
 and fear. How she hated herself for her suspicions ! 
 How she fought to forbid them harbour in her heart ! 
 But how persistently they made entrance and to 
 abide. 
 
 The World of Fashion is, for the most part, a 
 desert island of gleaming sands, at times fanned 
 by perfume-laden zephyrs and lapped by shining 
 waters. Then those who dwell there disport them- 
 selves, careless of all save the lapping, shining 
 
WHOSO LOOKETH UPON A WOMAN 
 
 waters and the gleaming sands out of which they 
 build their sand castles with such concentrated 
 eagerness and such painful industry. At other 
 times there come tempests, sudden and out of clear 
 skies, which sweep, with ruthless besom, castles and 
 castle-builders ahke, and leave desolation and empty 
 spaces for a time. 
 
 A silly world it is, and hard of heart, and like 
 to die of ennm at times. And hence it welcomes 
 with pathetic joy aU who can bring some new fancy 
 or trick to their castle-building, rejecting all other 
 without remorse. To this World of Fashion lola 
 had offered herself, giving freely her great voice 
 and her superb body, now developed into the full 
 splendour of its rich and sensuous beauty. And how 
 they gathered about her and gave her unstinted their 
 flatteries and homage, taking toll the while of the 
 very soul-stuff in her. Devoutly they worshipped 
 at the shrine of that heavenlike and heaven-given 
 instrument wherewith she could tickle their senses, 
 rejoicing, during the pauses of their envies and 
 hatreds, such among them as were female, and of 
 their lusts and despaiis such as were male, in her 
 warm flesh tints and full flesh curves and the dra- 
 peries withal wherewith, wiiii consummate art, she 
 revealed or enhanced lie same. For lola was pos- 
 sessed of a fatal, maddening beauty, and an alluring 
 fascination of manner that wrought destruction 
 among men and fury among women. 
 
 To Dick, who, with his brilliant talents, shed 
 lustre upon her courts, lola gave chief place in her 
 
204. THE DOCTOR 
 
 train, yet in such manner as that her preference for 
 him neither lessened the number nor checked the 
 ardour of her devotees. He was her friend of child- 
 hood days, her good friend, but nothing more. Upon 
 this basis of a boy and girl friendship was estab- 
 lished an intimacy which seemed to render unneces- 
 sary those conventions, unreal and vexing in appear- 
 ance, but which, as the wise old world has proved, 
 man and woman with the dread potencies of passion 
 slumbering within them cannot afford to despise. 
 By their mutual tastes, as by their habits of life, 
 lola and Dick were brought into daily association. 
 Under Dick's guidance she read and studied the 
 masters of the English drama. For she had her 
 eye now upon the operatic stage and was at present 
 devoting herself to the great musical dramas of 
 Wagner. Together they took full advantage of 
 the theatre privileges which Dick's connection with 
 the press gave him. And at those festive routs by 
 which society amuses and vexes itself they were con- 
 stantly thrown together. Dick was acutely and 
 growingly sensitive to the influence lola had upon 
 him. Her beauty disturbed him. The subtle po- 
 tency that exhaled from her physical charms af- 
 fected him like draughts of wine. Away from her 
 presence he marvelled at himself and scorned his 
 weakness ; but once within sound of her voice, within 
 touch of her hand, her power reasserted itself. The 
 mystery of the body, its subtle appeal, its terrible 
 potency, allured and enslaved him. Against this 
 infatuation of Dick's, Margaret felt herself helpless. 
 
WHOSO LOOKETH UPON A WOMAN 205 
 
 She well knew that Dick's love for her had not 
 changed, except to grow into a bitter, despairing 
 intensity that made his presence painful to her at 
 times. This very love of his closed her lips. She 
 could only wait her time, meanwhile keeping such 
 touch with him as she could, bringing to him the 
 wholesome fragrance of a pure heart and the 
 strength and serenity of a, life devoted to well 
 doing. 
 
 Something would occur to recall him to his 
 better self. And something did occur. Almost a 
 year had elapsed since Barney had gone out of 
 lola's life in so tragic a way. Through all the 
 months of the year he had waited, longing and 
 hoping for the word that might recall him to her, 
 until suspense became unbearable even for his strong 
 soul. Hence it was that lola received from him 
 a letter breathing of love so deep, so tender, and 
 withal so humble, that even across the space that 
 these months had put between Barney and herself, 
 lola was profoundly stirred and sorely put to it to 
 decide upon her answer. She took the letter to Mar- 
 garet and read her such parts as she thought neces- 
 sary. " A year has gone. It seems like ten. I 
 have waited for your word, but none has come. 
 Looking back upon that dreadful night I some- 
 times think I may have been severe. If so, my 
 punishment has been heavy enough to atone. Tell 
 me, shall I come to you.'' I can offer you a home 
 even better than I had hoped a year ago. I am 
 offered a lectureship here with an ample salary, or 
 
206 THE DOCTOR 
 
 an assistantship on equal terms, by Trent. I have 
 discovered that I am in the grip of a love beyond 
 my power to control. In spite of all that my work 
 is to me, I find myself looking, not into the book 
 before me, but into your eyes — ^I may be able to 
 live without you, but I cannot live my best. I don't 
 see how I can live at alio It seems as if I could not 
 wait even a few days for your word to come Dar- 
 ling, my heart's love, tell me to come " 
 
 " How can I answer a letter like that? " said 
 lola to Margaret. 
 
 " How? " exclaimed Margaret. " Tell him to 
 come. Wire him. Go to him. Anything to get 
 him to you." 
 
 lola mused a while. " He wants me to marry 
 him ajid to keep his house." 
 
 " Yes," said Margaret, " he does." 
 
 " Housekeeping and babies, ugh ! " shuddered 
 lola. 
 
 " Yes," cried Margaret, " ah, God, yes ! House- 
 keeping and babies and Barney! God pity your 
 poor soul ! " 
 
 lola shrank from the fierce intensity of Mar- 
 garet's sudden passion. 
 
 "What do you mean?" she cried. "Why do 
 you speak so ? " 
 
 "Why? Can't you read God's meaning in your 
 woman's body and in your woman's heart? " 
 
 From Margaret lola got little help. Indeed, 
 the gulf between the two was growing wider every 
 day. She resolved to show her letter to Dick. They 
 
WHOSO LOOKETH UPON A WOMAN 20'T 
 
 were to go that evening to the play and after the 
 play there would be supper. And when he had taken 
 her home she would show him the letter. 
 
 On their way home that evening as they were 
 passing Dick's rooms, he suddenly remembered that 
 a message was to be sent him from the office. 
 
 " Let us run in for a moment," he said. 
 
 " I think I had better wait you here," replied 
 lola. 
 
 " Nonsense ! " cried Dick. " Don't be a baby. 
 Come in." 
 
 Togther they entered and, laying aside her wrap, 
 lola sat down and drew forth Barney's letter. 
 
 " Listen, Dick. I want your advice." And she 
 read over such portions of Barney's letter as she 
 thought necessary. 
 
 *' Well.'' " she said, as Dick remained silent. 
 
 *' Well," replied Dick, " what's your answei^to 
 be?" 
 
 " You know what he means," said lola a little 
 impatiently. " He wants me to marry him at once 
 and to settle down." 
 
 ■ Well," said Dick, " why not.? " 
 ' Now, Dick," cried lola, " do you think I am 
 suited for that kind of life.'' Can you picture me 
 devoting myself to the keeping of a house tidy, the 
 overseeing of meals? I fancy I see myself spending 
 the long, quiet evenings, my husband busy in his 
 office or out among his patients while I dose and 
 yawn and grow fat and old and ugly, and the great 
 world forgetting. Dick, I should die! Of course, 
 
 a ■ 
 
208 THE DOCTOR 
 
 I love Barney. But I must have life, movement. I 
 can't be forgotten ! " 
 
 " Forgotten? " cried Dick. " Why should you be 
 forgotten.? Barney's wife could not be ignored and 
 the world could not forget you. And, after all,'' 
 added Dick, in a musing tone, " to live with Barney 
 ought toibe good enough for any woman." 
 
 " Why, how eloquent you are, Dick ! " she cried, 
 making a little moue. " You are quite irresistible ! " 
 she added, leaning toward him with a mocking laugh. 
 
 " Come, let us go," said Dick painfully, conscious 
 of her physical charm. " We must get away." 
 
 " But you haven't helped me. Dick," she cried, 
 drawing nearer to him and laying her hand upon 
 his arm. 
 
 The perfume of her hair smote upon his senses. 
 The beauty of her face and form mtoxicated him. 
 
 He knew he was losing control of himself. 
 
 " Come, lola," he said, " let us go." 
 
 " Tell me what to say, Dick," she replied, smiling 
 into his face and leaning toward him. 
 
 "How can I tell you?" cried Dick desperately, 
 springing up. " I only know you are beautiful, lola, 
 beautiful as an angel, as a devil! What has come 
 over you, or is it me, that you should affect me so? 
 Do you know," he added roughly, lifting her to 
 her feet, his breath coming hard and fast, " I can 
 hardly keep my hands off you. We must go. I 
 must go. Come ! " 
 
 " Poor child," mocked lola, still smiling into his 
 eyes, " is it afraid it will get hurt? " 
 
WHOSO LOOKETH UPON A WOMAN 209 
 
 " Stop it, lola ! " cried Dick. « Come on ! " 
 
 " Come," she mocked, still leaning toward him. 
 
 Swiftly Dick turned, seized her in his arms, his 
 eyes burning down upon her mocking face. " Kiss 
 me ! " he commanded. 
 
 Gradually she allowed the weight of her body to 
 lean upon him, drawing him steadily down toward 
 her the while, with the deep, passionate lure of her 
 lustrous eyes. 
 
 " Kiss me ! " he commanded again. But she shook 
 her head, holding him still with her gaze. 
 
 " God in heaven ! " cried Dick. " Go away ! " 
 He made to push her from him. She clasped him 
 about the neck, allowing herself to sink in his arms 
 with her face turned upward to his. Fiercely he 
 crushed her to him, and again and again his hot, 
 passionate kisses fell upon her face. 
 
 Conscious only of the passion throbbing in their 
 hearts and pulsing through their bodies, oblivious 
 to aU about them, they heard not the opening of the 
 door and knew not that a man had entered the room. 
 For a single moment he stood stricken with horror 
 as if gazing upon death itself. Turning to depart, 
 his foot caught a chair. Terror-smitten, the two 
 sprang apart and stood with guUt and shame 
 stamped upon their ghastly faces. 
 
 " Barney ! " they cried together. 
 
 Slowly he came back to them. "Yes, it is I." 
 The words seemed to come from some far distance. 
 " I couldn't wait. I came for my answer, lola. I 
 thought I could persuade you better. I have it 
 
glO THE DOCTOR 
 
 now. I have lost you ! And " — ^here he turned to 
 Dick — " oh, my God ! My God ! I have lost my 
 brother, too ! " He turned to depart from him. 
 
 " Barney," cried Dick passionately, " there was 
 no wrong! There was nothing beyond what you 
 
 saw 
 
 I » 
 
 " Was that all? " inquired his brother quietly. 
 
 " As God is in heaven, Barney, that was all ! " 
 
 Barney threw a swift glance round the room, 
 crossed to a side table, and picked up a Bible lying 
 there. He turned the leaves rapidly and handed 
 it to his brother with his finger upon a verse. 
 
 " Read ! " he said. " You know your Bible. 
 Read ! " His voice was terrible and compelling in 
 its calmness. 
 
 Following the pointing finger, Dick's eyes fell 
 upon words that seemed to sear his eyeballs as he 
 read, " Whosoever looketh on a woman to lust after 
 her, hath committed adultery with her already in 
 his heart." Heart-smitten, Dick stood without a 
 word. 
 
 " I could kill you now," said the quiet, terrible 
 voice. " But what need? To me you are already 
 dead." 
 
 When Dick looked up his brother had gone. 
 Nerveless, broken, he sank into a chair and sat with 
 his face in his hands. Beside him stood lola, pale, 
 rigid, her eyes distended as if she had seen a horrid 
 vision. She was the first to recover. 
 
 " Dick," she said softly, laying her hand upon 
 4iis head. 
 
WHOSO LOOKETH UPON A WOMAN 211 
 
 He sprang up as if her fingers had been red-hot 
 iron and had burned to the bone. 
 
 " Don't touch me ! " he cried in vehement frenzy. 
 " You are a devil ! And I am in hell ! In hell ! 
 do you hear? " He caught her by the arm and 
 shook her. "And I deserve hell! Hell! Hell! 
 Fools ! no heU ? " He turned again to her. " And 
 for you, for this, and this, and this," touching her 
 hair, her cheek, and her heaving bosom with his 
 finger, " I have lost my brother — my brother — 
 my own brother — Barney. Oh, fool that I am! 
 Damned ! Damned ! Damned ! " 
 
 She shrank back from him, then whispered with 
 pale lips, " Oh, Dick, spare me ! Take me home 1 " 
 
 " Yes, yes," he cried in mad haste, " anywhere, in 
 the devil's name ! Come ! Come ! " He seized her 
 wrap, threw it upon her shoulders, caught up his 
 hat, tore open the door for her, and followed her 
 out. 
 
 " Can a man take fire into his bosom and not be 
 burned? " And out of the embers of his passion 
 there kindled a fire that night that burned with un- 
 quenchable fury for many a day. 
 
XV 
 
 THE SUPERINTENDENT'S METHODS 
 
 THE Superintendent was spending the pre- 
 cious hours of one of his rare visits at home 
 in painful plodding through his corre- 
 spondence. For it was part of the sacrifice his work 
 demanded, and which he cheerfully made, that he 
 should forsake home and wife and children for his 
 work's sake. The Assembly's Convener found him 
 in the midst of an orderly confusion of papers of 
 different sorts. 
 
 " How do you do, sir? " The Superintendent's 
 voice had a fine burr about it that gripped the ear, 
 and his hand a vigour and tenacity of hold that 
 gripped the outstretched hand of the Assembly's 
 Convener and nearly brought the little man to the 
 floor. " Sit down, sir, and listen to this. Here 
 are some of the compensations that go with the 
 Superintendent's office. This is rich. It comes 
 from my friend, Henry Fink, of the Columbia Forks 
 in the Windermere Valley. British Columbia, you 
 understand," noticing the Convener's puzzled expres- 
 sion. " I visited the valley a year ago and found 
 a truly deplorable condition of things. Men had 
 gone up there many years ago and settled • down 
 remote from civilization. Some of them married 
 
THE SUPERINTENDENT'S METHODS 213 
 
 Indian wives and others of them ought to have mar- 
 ried them, and they have brought up families in the 
 atmosphere and beliefs of the pagans. Would you 
 believe it, I fell in with a young man on the trail, 
 twenty years of age, who had never heard the name 
 of our Saviour except in oaths? He had never 
 heard the story of the Cross. !And there are many 
 others like him. At the Columbia Forks the only 
 institution that stands for things intellectual is a 
 Freethinkers' Club, the president of which is a retired 
 colonel of the British Army, a man of fine manners, 
 of some degree of intelligence and reading, but, I 
 have reason to believe, of bad life. His is the domi- 
 nant influence in the commiuiity if we except my 
 friend, Mr. Henry Fink, or, as he is known locally, 
 • Hank Fink.' Hank is a character, I assure you. 
 'A Yankee from the Eastern States, the son of a 
 Scotch mother. Has a cattle ranch, runs a store 
 which supplies the scattered ranchers, prospectors, 
 and miners with the necessaries of life, and keeps a 
 stopping place. Is postmaster, too. In fact. Hank 
 is pretty much the whole village. He has lived in 
 that country some fifteen years. Has a good Ca- 
 nadian wife, and a flock of small children. He is a 
 rara avis in that country from the fact that he 
 hates whiskey. He hates it almost as much as he 
 does Colonel Hicks and his Freethinking Club. 
 When I visited the village, for some reason or other 
 Hank took me up, the Scotch blood in him possibly 
 recognising kinship. He gave me his store to 
 preach in, took me all about the country, and in 
 
214 THE DOCTOR 
 
 a week had a mission organized on a sound financial 
 basis. His methods were very simple, very direct, 
 and very effective. He estimated the amount each 
 man should pay and announced this fact to the man, 
 who generally acquiesced. I didn't probe too deeply 
 into Hank's motives, but it seemed to give him con- 
 siderable satisfaction to learn that Colonel Hicks 
 was fiUed with indignant and scornful rage at the 
 proposal to establish a Christian mission in that re- 
 mote valley. It grieved the Colonel to think that 
 after so many years of immunity they should at last 
 be called upon to tolerate this particularly offensive 
 appendage to an effete civilization. I noticed that 
 Hank's English always broke down in referring to 
 the Colonel. Well, we sent in Finlayson a year ago 
 this spring, you remember. Strong man, good 
 preacher, conscientious fellow. Thought he would 
 do great work. You know Finlayson? Well, this 
 is the result." Here he picked up Hank's letter. 
 " This would hardly do for the Home Mission re- 
 port," continued the Superintendent, with a twinkle 
 in his keen grey eyes: 
 
 " COLTTMBIA POEKS, 'WMrDEEMERE, B. C. 
 
 Dear Sm: — I take my pen to write you a few lines to let 
 you know how things is goin'. Well, sir, I want to tell you 
 this station is goin' to the devil. [Judging from what I saw 
 of the place, it hadn't far to go.] Tour preacher ain't worth 
 a cuss. I don't say he ain't good fer some people, but he 
 ain't our style. [Mr. Finlayson would doubtless agree with 
 that.] He means well, but he ain't eddicated up to the West. 
 You remember how we got the boys all corralled up nice an' 
 tame when you was here. Well, he's got 'em wild. Couldn't 
 reach 'em with a shotgun. He throwed hell fire at 'em till 
 
THE SUPERINTENDENT'S METHODS 215 
 
 they got scart an' took to the hills tlU you can't get near 'em 
 no more'n mountain goats. So they have all quit comin' — 
 I don't count Scotty Fraser, for he would come, anyway — 
 except me an' Monkey Fiddler an' his yeller dog. You can 
 eilways count on the dog. Now, sir, this is your show, not 
 mine. But I was born an' raised a Presbyteryn down East, 
 an' though I haven't worked hard at the business for some 
 years, it rUes me some to hear Col. Hicks an' a lot of durned 
 fools that has got smarter than God Almighty Himself shootin' 
 off against the Bible an' reUgion an' ^11 that. [We needn't 
 read too closely between the lines at this point.] Send a mani 
 that don't smell so strong of sulphur an' brimstone, who has 
 got some savey, an' who will know how to handle the boys 
 gentle. They ain't to say bad, but just a leetle wild. Send 
 him along, an' we will stay with him an' knock the tar out of 
 that bunch of fools. 
 
 "Yours most respeckfully, 
 
 "Henhy Fin-k. 
 
 " P. S. When are you comin' into the valley again? If you 
 could arrange to spend a month or two I'll guarantee we will 
 have 'em aU in nice shape. 
 
 "Yours respeckfully, 
 
 "Henby Fiuk." 
 
 " I don't think you can count much from the sup- 
 port of a man like that," said the Assembly's Con- 
 vener ; " I don't think he shows any real interest in 
 the work." 
 
 " My dear sir," said the Superintendent, " don't 
 you know he is the Chairman of our Board of Man- 
 agement, a most regular attendant upon ordinances 
 and contributes most liberally to our support? And 
 while these things in the East wouldn't necessarily 
 indicate a change of heart, they stand for a good 
 deal west of the Great Divide. And, at any rate, 
 in these matters we remember gratefully the word 
 
216 THE DOCTOR 
 
 that is written, ' He that is not against us is on our ' 
 part.' " 
 
 " Well, well," said the Assembly's Convener, " it 
 may be so. It may be so. But what's to be done 
 with Finlayson? And where will you get a successor 
 for him.'' " 
 
 " We can easily place Finlayson. He is a good 
 man and will do excellent work in other fields. But 
 where to get a man for Windermere is the question. 
 Do you know anyone.? " 
 
 The Assembly's Convener shook his head sadly. 
 
 " There appears to be no one in sight," said the 
 Superintendent. " I have a number of applications 
 here," picking up a good-sized bundle of neatly 
 folded papers, " but they are hardly the kind to 
 suit conditions at Windermere. Numbers of them 
 feel themselves specially called of God to do mission 
 work in large centres of population. Others are 
 chiefly anxious about the question of support. One 
 man would like to be in touch with a daily train 
 service, as he feels it necessary to keep in touch with 
 ■ the world by means of the daily newspaper. A num- 
 ber are engaged who want to be married. Here's 
 Mr. Brown, too fat. No move in him. Here's Mc- 
 Kay — good man, earnest, but not adaptable, like 
 Finlayson; won't do. Here's Garton — fine fellow, 
 would do well, but hardly strong enough. So what 
 are you to do.? I have gone over the whole list of 
 available men and I cannot find one suitable for 
 Windermere." 
 
 In this the Assembly's Convener could give him 
 
THE SUPERINTENDENT'S METHODS 217 
 
 no help. Indeed, from few did the Superintendent 
 receive assistance in the securing of men for his far 
 outposts. 
 
 Assistance came to him from an unexpected quar- 
 ter. He was to meet the Assembly's Convener and 
 some members of the Committee that evening at Pro- 
 fessor MacdougaU's for tea. The Superintendent's 
 mind could not be kept long away from the work 
 that was his very hfe, and at the table the conver- 
 sation turned to the question of the chronic difficulty 
 of securing men for frontier work, which had become 
 acute in the case of Windermere. Margaret, who 
 had been invited to assist Mrs. Macdougall in the 
 dispensing of her hospitality, was at once on the 
 alert. Why could not Dick be sent? If only that 
 Presbytery difficulty could be got over he might 
 go. That he would be suited for the work she was 
 well assured, and equally certain was she that it 
 would be good for him. 
 
 " It would save him," Margaret said to herself 
 with a sharp sting at her heart, for she had to con- 
 fess sadly that Dick had come to the point where 
 he needed saving. She had learned from lola the 
 whole miserable story of Barney's visit, of his terri- 
 ble indictment of his brother and the final break 
 between them, but she had seen little of him during 
 the past six months. From that terrible night Dick 
 had gone down in physical and in moral health. 
 Again and again he had written Barney, but there 
 had been ._-> reply. Hungrily he had come to Mar- 
 garet for word of his brother, hopeful of recon- 
 
218 THE DOCTOR 
 
 ciliation. But of late he had given up hope and had 
 ceased to make inquiry, setthng down into a state 
 of gloomy, remorseful grief into which Margaret 
 felt she dare not intrude. He occasionally met lola 
 at society functions, but there was an end of all 
 intimacy between them. His only relief seemed to 
 be in his work, and he gave himself to that with such 
 feverish energy that his health broke down, and 
 under Margaret's persuasion he was now at home 
 with his mother. Thence he had written once to say 
 that his days were one long agony. She remem- 
 bered one terrible sentence. " Everything here, the 
 house, the mill, my father's fiddle, my mother's 
 churn, the woods, the fields, everything, everything 
 shrieks ' Barney ' at me till I am like to go mad. 
 I must get away from here to some place where he 
 has never been with me." 
 
 It required some considerable skiU to secure the 
 Superintendent that evening for a few minutes alone. 
 In whatever company he was, he was easily the centre 
 of interest. But Margaret, even in the early days 
 of the Manse, had been a favourite with him, and he 
 was not a man to forget his friends. He had the 
 rare gift of gripping them to him with " hooks of 
 steel." Hence, he had kept in touch with her during 
 the latter years, pitying the girl's loneliness as much 
 as his admiration for her cheery courage and her 
 determined independence would allow him. When 
 Margaret found her opportunity she wasted no time. 
 
 " I have a man for you for Winder^aere," were 
 her opening words. 
 
THE SUPERINTENDENT'S METHODS 219 
 
 "You have? Where have you got him? Who 
 is he? And are you willing to spare him? Few 
 young ladies are. But you are different from most." 
 The Superintendent was ever a gallant. 
 
 " You remember Mr. Boyle who graduated a year 
 ago ? " Her words came hurriedly and there was 
 a slight flush on her cheek. " There was some 
 trouble about his license at Presbytery. That hor- 
 rid old Mr. Naismith was very nasty, and Dick, Mr. 
 Boyle, I mean — ^we have always been friends," she 
 hastened to add, explaining her deepening blush, 
 " you know his mother lived at the Mill near us. 
 Well, since that day in Presbytery he has never been 
 the same. His work — he is on the Daily Tele- 
 graph, you know — takes him away from — from — 
 well, from Church and that kind of thing, and from 
 all his friends." 
 
 " I understand," said the Superintendent, with 
 grave sympathy. 
 
 " And he's got to be very different. He had some 
 trouble, great trouble, the greatest possible to him. 
 Oh, I may as well teU you. The brothers — ^you re- 
 member the doctor, Barney? " 
 
 " Very well," replied the Superintendent. " Strong 
 man. Where is he now? " 
 
 " He went to Europe. Well, the brothers were 
 everything to each other since little fellows together. 
 Oh, it was beautiful! I never saw anything like 
 it anywhere. They had a misunderstanding, a terri- 
 ble misunderstanding. Dick was in the wrong." 
 The Superintendent shot a keen glance at her. 
 
THE DOCTOR 
 
 " No," she said, answering his glance, the colour in 
 her face deepening into a vivid scarlet, " it was not 
 about me, not at all. I can't tell you about it, but 
 that, and his trouble with the Presbytery, and all 
 the rest of it are just killing him. And I know if 
 he got back to his own work again and away from 
 home it would save him, and his mother, too, for 
 she is breaking her heart. Couldn't you get him 
 out there? " 
 
 The Superintendent saw how hard a task it had 
 been for her to tell the story, and the sight of her 
 eager face, the big blue eyes bright, and the lips 
 quivering with the intensity of her feeling, deeply 
 touched him. 
 
 " It might be possible," he said. 
 
 " Oh, I know the Presbytery difficulty," cried 
 Margaret, with a desperate note in her voice. 
 
 " That could be arranged, I have no doubt," said 
 the Superintendent, brushing aside that difficulty 
 with a wave of the hand. " The question is, would 
 he be willing to go.? " 
 
 " Oh, he would go, I am sure. If you saw him 
 and if you told him those stories about the need 
 there is, I am sure he would go. Could you see 
 him.'' There is no use to write. I do wish you 
 could. He is such a fine boy and his mother is so 
 set upon his being a minister." The blue eyes were 
 bright with tears she was too brave to let fall. 
 
 " My dear yoimg lady," said the Superintendent, 
 his deep voice growing deeper under the intensity of 
 his feelings, " I would do much for your sake and 
 
THE SUPERINTENDENT'S METHODS 221 
 
 for your mother's. I am to visit your home early next 
 month. I shall make it a point to see Mr. Boyle, 
 and I promise you I shall get him if it is possible." 
 The sudden lifting of the burden from her heart 
 deprived the girl of speech, but she shyly put out 
 her hand and touched the long, sinewy fingers that 
 lay within reach of hers in a timid caress. Instantly 
 the fingers closed upon her hand in a grasp so strong 
 that it seemed to drive the conviction into her heart 
 that somehow this strong man would find a way by 
 which Dick could be saved. 
 
 How, or by what arguments, the Superintendent 
 overcame Dick's objections, Margaret never learned. 
 But the full bitter tale of reasons against his ever 
 taking up his work again, with which Dick had made 
 himself so familiar during the past dark, dreary 
 months, were one by one removed, and when the 
 Superintendent left the Old Stone MiE he had 
 secured his missionary for Windermere. It gave 
 the Superintendent acute satisfaction to remember 
 the flash of his missionary's blue eyes as, in answer 
 to the warning, " You will have a hard fight of it, 
 remember," the reply came, " A hard fight? Thank 
 God!" 
 
 Before the year was over it fell that the Winder- 
 mere valley came to be one of the mission fields that 
 gladdened the hearts of the Home Mission Committee 
 of the Calgary Presbytery, and especially of Its 
 doughty Convener. In the Convener's study, eight 
 by ten, the report from the Windermere field was 
 
THE DOCTOR 
 
 discussed with the ubiquitous and indefatigable Su- 
 perintendent. 
 
 " An extremely gratifying record," said the 
 Superintendent, " especially when one considers its 
 disorganized condition a year ago." 
 
 " Yes, it's a good report," assented the Convener. 
 " We had practically no support a year ago. Our 
 strongest man " 
 
 " Fink? " 
 
 " Yes. You know Hank, I see. Well, Hank's 
 enthusiasm and devotion were hardly of what you 
 would call the purest type. But whatever his motive, 
 he stood by the missionary, and, do you know, it is 
 a splendid testimony of the power of the Gospel to 
 see the change in that same shrewd old sinner. Yes, 
 sir, give the Gospel a chance and it will do its 
 work." The Convener, who hated all cant and cant- 
 ing phrases with a perfect hatred, rarely allowed 
 himself the luxury of an emotional outbreak. But 
 the case of Hank Fink seemed to reach the springs 
 of feeling that he kept hidden in the deep heart 
 of him. 
 
 " So Boyle has done well.? " said the Superintend- 
 ent. " I am very glad of it. Very glad of it, for 
 his own sake, for his mother's, and for the sake of 
 another." 
 
 " Yes," replied the Convener, " Boyle has done a 
 fine bit of work. He lived all summer on his horse's 
 back and in his canoe, followed the prospectors up 
 into the gulches and the miners to their mines, if 
 you can call them mines, left a magazine here, a 
 
THE SUPERINTENDENT'S METHODS 223 
 
 book there, a New Testament next place. And once 
 he got his grip on a man, he never let him go. Hank 
 told me how he found a man sick in a camp away up 
 in a gulch and how he stayed with him for more 
 than a week, then brought him down on his horse's 
 back to the Forks. Yes, it's a good record. A 
 church built at the north end of the field, another 
 almost completed at the Forks, Really, it was very 
 fine," continued the Convener, allowing his enthu- 
 siasm to rise. " It renews one's faith in the reality 
 of religion to see a man jtmip into his work like that. 
 They didn't pay him his salary the first half year, 
 but he omitted to mention that in his report." 
 
 The Superintendent sat up straight. " Is he be- 
 hind yet.?" 
 
 " No. I mentioned the matter to Fink and 
 explained that if the field failed it was Boyle that 
 would suffer. His language — ^well," the Convener 
 laughed reminiscently, "you have seen Hank?" 
 
 " Yes. I've seen him, I've heard him, and I've 
 read him. But let us hope that his deeds will atone 
 in a measure for his broken English. But," con- 
 tinued the Superintendent, " you have had Boyle 
 ordained, have you not.? " 
 
 " Yes. We got him ordained," replied the Con- 
 vener, beginning to chuckle. A delighted, choking 
 chuckle It was. Any missionary who had worked in 
 his Presbytery would recognize the Convener in the 
 dark by that chuckle. It began, if one were quick 
 to observe, with a wrinkling about the comers of 
 the sharp blue eyes, then became audible in a succes- 
 
224. THE DOCTOR 
 
 sion of small explosions that seemed to have their 
 origin in the region of the oesophagus and to 
 threaten the larynx with disruption, until relief was 
 found in a wide-throated peal that subsided in a 
 second series of small explosions and gradually 
 rumbled off into silence somewhere in the region of 
 the diaphragm, leaving only the wrinkles about the 
 corners of the blue eyes as a kind of warning that 
 the whole process might be repeated upon sufficient 
 provocation. " Yes, we got him ordained," he re- 
 peated when the chuckle had passed. " I was glad 
 of your explanatory note about him. It guided us 
 in our arrangements for examination." 
 
 " What happened.'' " inquired the Superintendent, 
 leaning forward. He dearly loved a yam, and he 
 sorely hated to lose any of the more humorous inci- 
 dents of missionary life, not only for the joy they 
 brought him, but also because they furnished him 
 with ammunition for his Eastern campaigns. 
 
 " Wen, it was funny," said the Convener, his lips 
 twitching and his eyes wrinkling, " though at one 
 time it looked like an Assembly case with all seven 
 of us up before the bar. You know McPherson, our 
 latest importation in the way of ordained men? 
 Somehow he had got wind of Boyle's trouble with 
 the Presbytery in the East. McPherson is a fine 
 fellow and doing good work." 
 
 " Yes," assented the Superintendent, " he's a fine 
 fellow, but his conscience gives him a hard time now 
 and then and works over time for other people." 
 
 " Well," continued the Convener, " McPherson 
 
THE SUPERINTENDENT'S METHODS 225 
 
 came to me about the matter in very considerable 
 anxiety. I put him oiF, consulted with McTavish 
 and Murray, and we decided that Boyle was too good 
 a man to lose, and as to his heresy, it was not hurt- 
 ing Windermere as far as we could learn. So it 
 happened " — here the Convener pulled himself up 
 short to suppress the chuckle that threatened — " it 
 happened that just as the examination was begin- 
 ning McPherson was called out, and before he had 
 returned the trials for license and ordination had 
 been sustained. I think on the whole McPherson 
 was relieved, but there were some funny moments 
 after he came back into court." 
 
 " Heresy-hunting doesn't flourish in the West," 
 said the Superintendent. " There's no time for it. 
 Some of the Eastern Presbyteries have too many men 
 with more time on their hands than sense in their 
 heads." 
 
 " Certainly there was no time lost in this case," 
 replied the Convener. " We knew Boyle's scholar- 
 ship was right. We knew his heart was sound. We 
 knew he was doing good work for us and we knew 
 we wanted him. We were not anxious to know any- 
 thing else." 
 
 " What we want for the West," said the Super- 
 intendent, his voice vibrating in a deeper tone, " is 
 men who have the spirit of the Gospel with the power 
 to preach it and the love of their fellowmen, with 
 tact to bring it to bear upon them. A little heresy, 
 more or less, won't hurt them. Orthodoxy is my 
 doxy, heterodoxy the other fellow's." 
 
226 THE DOCTOR 
 
 " In Boyle's case, I believe he was helped by his 
 touch of heresy. It gave him a kind o£ brotherly 
 feeling with aU heretics. It was that more than 
 anything else that broke up the Freethinkers' 
 Club." 
 
 " Ah," said the Superintendent, bending eagerly 
 forward, again on the scent, " I didn't hear that." 
 
 " Yes," said the Convener, " Fink told me about 
 it. Boyle went to their meetings. He found them 
 revelhng in cheap scepticism of the IngersoUian type. 
 He took the attitude of a man seeking after a work- 
 ing theory of life, and that attitude he stuck to — ^his 
 real attitude, mind you. He encouraged them to talk, 
 combated none of their positions and, as Hank said, 
 ' coaxed them out into deep water and had them 
 froggin' for their lives. He was the biggest Free- 
 thinker in the bunch.' They invited him to give a 
 series of lectures. He did so, and that settled the 
 Freethinkers' Club. He never blamed them for 
 doubting anything, and I believe that's right." The 
 Convener was a bit of a heretic himself and, conse- 
 quently, carried a tender heart toward them. " Let 
 a man doubt till he finds his faith. And that was 
 Boyle's line. He let them doubt, but he insisted that 
 they should have something positive to live by." 
 
 " Our friend Hank," said the Superintendent, 
 " would be delighted." 
 
 "Delighted? I should say so. But Hank 'joins 
 trembling with his mirth,' for Boyle got after 
 him with the same demands." 
 
 The Superintendent was filled with delighted pride 
 
THE SUPERINTENDENT'S METHODS 227 
 
 in his missionary. " That's the kind of man we 
 want. He ought to do well in your railroad field." 
 
 " Yes," replied the Convener hesitatingly. " You 
 think he ought to go? Windermere will be furious. 
 I wouldn't care to go in there after Boyle is 
 removed." 
 
 " It is hard on Windermere, but Windermere 
 mustn't be selfish. That railroad work is most press- 
 ing, and only a man like Boyle will do. There will 
 be from three to five thousand men in there this 
 winter between Macleod and Kusklnook. We dare 
 not neglect them. I have had correspondence with 
 Fahey, the General Manager for the Crow's Nest ' 
 line, and he is not unfriendly, though he would 
 prefer us to send in medical missionaries. But 
 that work he and his contractors ought to look 
 after." 
 
 " There is a terrible state of things in the eastern 
 division, I fear, from all reports," replied the Con- 
 vener. " By the way, there is a young English 
 doctor working on that eastern division from the 
 Macleod end who is making a great stir. Bailey 
 is his name, I believe. He began as a navvy, but 
 finding a lot of fellows sick, and the doctor a poor 
 drunken fellow, Bailey, it appears, stood it as long 
 as he could, then finally threw him out of the 
 camp and installed himself in his place. The con- 
 tractor backed him up and he has revolutionized the 
 medical work in that direction. Murray told me 
 the most wonderful tales about him. He must be 
 a remarkable man. Gambles heavily, but hates 
 
228 THE DOCTOR 
 
 whiskey and won't have it near the camp. You ought 
 to look him up when you go in." 
 
 " I will. These camp doctors are a poor lot and 
 the railroad people ought to feel disgraced in 
 employing them. They draw their fifty cents per 
 man a month, but their practice is shameful. It is 
 a delicate matter, but I shall take this up with Fahey 
 when I see him. He is a rough diamond, but he 
 is fair and he won't stand any nonsense." 
 
 " And you think Boyle ought to go in.? " 
 
 " Yes. On the whole, I think Boyle must go. 
 These are a fine body of men and must be looked 
 after. A weaker man would make a mess of things. 
 Boyle is the man for the work. How did he seem.'' 
 Cheerful? " 
 
 " No, I shouldn't call him so. But he is vastly 
 better than when he came to us. He was low in 
 health, I think, and his face haunted me for weeks. 
 He strikes me as a man with a tragedy in his life." 
 
 The Superintendent said nothing. He had, in 
 large degree, the rare gift of silence. Even with 
 his trusted lieutenants he would break no confidence. 
 But before he slept that night he wrote two letters, 
 and after he had sealed and stamped them he placed 
 them, with a pile already written, on the table and 
 sat back in his chair indulging himself in a few 
 moments of reverie. He saw the orderly, well-kept 
 kitchen in the Old Stone Mill and, bending over his 
 letter a woman, dark-faced and stem, her wavy, 
 black hair heavily streaked with white, for during 
 the past years the sword had pierced her heart. 
 
THE SUPERINTENDENT'S METHODS 229 
 
 He saw the light break upon her tragic Highland 
 face as she read of her boy and his well doing. With 
 glad heart she had given him up, and now, with 
 humble joy, she would read that her oflFering had 
 been accepted. 
 
 The other letter brought to him the Macdougalls' 
 drawing-room with all its beautiful appointments 
 and the face of a young girl pleading for her friend. 
 He still could see the quivering lips and hear the 
 words of her invincible faith, " I know that if he got 
 at his own work again it would save him." He 
 could still feel the grateful, timid pressure of her 
 fingers as he had pledged her his word that her 
 desire should be fulfilled. He had kept his word and 
 ber faith had not been put to shame. 
 
XVI 
 THE CHALLENGE OF DEATH 
 
 *• '■ ~m E aisy now, ye little divils. Sure ye'd 
 
 B— <^ think it vmz the ould Nick himself ye're 
 
 Jl J dodgin'." 
 
 Thus Tommy Tate, teamster along the Tote road 
 between the Maclennan camps, admonished his half- 
 broken bronchos. 
 
 " Stiddy now. The saints be good t'us ! Will we 
 iver git down this hill alive? Hould back, will yez? 
 There, now. The saints be praised! that's over. 
 How are ye now, Scotty.? If ye're alive, kick me fut. 
 Hivin be praised! He's there yit," said Tommy to 
 himself. " We're on the dump now, Scotty, an' we 
 won't be long, me bhoy, till we see the lights av 
 Swipey's saloon. Git along there, will ye 1 " 
 
 The bronchos after their fifteen-mile drive along 
 the unspeakable bush roads, finding the smooth sur- 
 face of the railway grade beneath their feet, set off 
 at a good lope. It was now quite dark. The snow 
 was driving bitterly in Tommy's face, but that stout 
 little Irishman cared nothing for himself. His con- 
 cern was for the man lying under the buffalo robes 
 in the sleigh. Mile after mile the bronchos kept up 
 their tireless lope, encouraged by the cheery admoni- 
 tions and the cracking whip of their driver. 
 
 230 
 
THE CHALLENGE OF DEATH 231 
 
 " Begob, but it's cowld enough to freeze the tail 
 aff a brass monkey. I'll jist be afther givin' the lad 
 a taste." 
 
 He tied the reins to the seat, gave his bronchos a 
 parting lash, took a flask from his pocket, and got 
 down on his knees beside the sick man. 
 
 " Here, Scotty," he said coaxingly, " take another 
 taste. It'll put life into ye." The sick man tried 
 to swallow once, twice, choked hard, then shook his 
 head. " Now, God be merciful ! an' can't ye swaUy 
 at all.'' An' the good stuff it is, too! Thry once 
 more, Scotty darlin'. Ye'll need it an' we're not 
 far aff now." Once more the sick man made a des- 
 perate effort. He got a little of the whiskey down, 
 then turned away his head. The tender-hearted little 
 Irishman covered him over carefully and climbed 
 into his seat. " He couldn't swally it," he said to 
 himself in an awed voice, putting the flask to his 
 own lips, " Begorra, an' it's near the Kingdom he 
 must be ! " To Tommy it appeared an infallible sign 
 of approaching dissolution that a man should reject 
 the contents of his flask. He gave himself to the 
 business of getting out of the bronchos all the speed 
 they had. " Come on, now, me bhoys ! " he shouted 
 through the gale, "what are ye lookin' at? Sure, 
 there's nothin' purtier than yerselves can be seen in 
 the dark. Hut, there! Kick, wud ye? Take that, 
 thin, an' lam manners ! Now ye're beginin' to move ! 
 Hooray ! " 
 
 So with voice and lash Tommy continued to urge 
 his team till they came out into a clearing at 
 
THE DOCTOR 
 
 the far end of which twinkled the lights of the new 
 railroad town being built about Maclennan's Camp 
 No. 1. 
 
 " Hivin be praised ! we're there at last. Begob, 
 it's mesilf that thought ye'd moved to the ind of 
 nowhere. We're here, Scotty, me man. In ten 
 howly minutes we'll have ye by the fire an' the doc- 
 thor puttin' life into ye wid a spoon. Are ye there, 
 Scotty? " But there was no movement in response. 
 " Howly Mary ! Give us a little more speed ! " He 
 stood up over his team, lashing and yelling till the 
 tired beasts were going at full gallop. As he drew 
 near the camp the sound of singing came on the 
 driving wind. " Now the divil fly away wid the 
 whiskey! It's pay day an' the camp's loose. God 
 send, there's a quiet spot to be found near at hand ! " 
 
 Through the driving snow could be seen the dim, 
 black outlines of the various structures of the pioneer 
 town. First came the camp building, the bunk- 
 house, grub-house, ofBce, blacksmith shop, and beyond 
 these the glaring lights of a couple of saloons, while 
 back nearer timber the " red lights," the curse and 
 shame of railroad, lumber, and mining camps in 
 British Columbia then and unto this day, cast their 
 baleful lure through the snowy night. 
 
 At full gallop Tommy drove his bronchos up to 
 the door of the first saloon and before they were 
 well stopped burst open the door, crying out, " Give 
 us a hand here, min, fer the love o' God ! " Swipey, 
 the saloon-keeper, came himself to the door. 
 
 " What have you there. Tommy ? " he asked. 
 
THE CHALLENGE OF DEATH 283 
 
 " It's mesilf don't know. It wuz alive when we 
 started out. Are ye there, Scotty? " There was 
 no answer. " The saints be good to us ! Are ye 
 alive at all.'' " He lifted back the buflFalo robe from 
 the sick man's face and he found him breathing 
 heavily, but unable to speak. "Where's yer 
 doctor? " 
 
 " Haven't seen him raound," said Swipey. " Have 
 you. Shorty.? " 
 
 " Yes," replied the man called Shorty. " He's in 
 there with the boys." 
 
 Tommy swore a great oath. " Like our own doc- 
 thor, he is, the blank, dirty suckers they are ! Sure, 
 they'd pull a bung hole out be the roots ! " 
 
 " He's not that way," replied Swipey, " our 
 doctor." 
 
 " Not much he ain't! " cried Shorty. " But he's 
 into the biggest game with * Mexico ' an' the boys 
 ye ever seen in this camp." 
 
 " Fer the love av Hivin git him I " cried Tommy. 
 " The man is dyin'. Here, min, let's git him in." 
 
 " There's no place here for a sick man," said the 
 saloon-keeper. 
 
 " What.? He's dyin', I'm tellin' ye ! " 
 
 " Well, this ain't no place to die in. We ain't 
 got time." An angry murmur ran through the men 
 about the door. " Take him up to the bunk-house," 
 said the saloon-keeper to Tommy with a stream of 
 oaths. " What d'ye want to come monkeyin' raound 
 my house for with a sick man.? How do you know 
 what he's got! " 
 
234. THE DOCTOR 
 
 "What differ does it make what he's got?" 
 retorted Tommy. " Blank yer dirty face fer a 
 bloody son of a sheep thief ! It's plinty of me money 
 ye've had, but it's no more ye'll git! Where'il I 
 take the man to? " he cried, appealing to the crowd. 
 " Ye can't let him die on the street ! " 
 
 Meantime Shorty had found the doctor in a small 
 room back of the bar of the " Frank " saloon, seated 
 at a table surrounded by six or eight men with a 
 deck of cards in his hand, deep in a game of " Black 
 Jack " for which he held the pot. Opposite him sat 
 " Mexico," the type of a Western professional gam- 
 bler and. desperado, his swarthy face adorned with a 
 pair of sweeping mustaches, its expressionless ap- 
 pearance relieved by a pair of glittering black eyes. 
 For nine hours the doctor had not moved from his 
 chair, playing any who might care to chip in to the 
 game. For the last hour he had been winning 
 heavily, till, at his right hand, he had a heap of new 
 crisp bills lately from the Bank of Montreal, having 
 made but a slight pause in the grimy hands of the 
 railroad men on their way to his. At his left hand 
 stood a glass of water with which, from time to time, 
 he moistened his lips. His face was like a mask of 
 death, colourless and empty of feeling, except that 
 in the black eyes, deep-set and blood-shot, there 
 gleamed a light as of madness. The room was full 
 of men watching the game and waiting an oppor- 
 tunity to get into it. 
 
 " The doctor's wanted ! " shouted Shorty, bursting 
 into the room. Not a head turnea, and but for a 
 
THE CHALLENGE OF DEATH 235 
 
 slight flicker of impatience, the doctor remained 
 unmoved. 
 
 " There's a man dyin' out here from No. 2," con- 
 tinued Shorty. 
 
 " Let him go to hell, then, an' you go, too ! " 
 growled out " Mexico," who had for the greater 
 part of the evening been playing in bad luck, but 
 who had refused to quit, waiting for the turn. 
 
 " He's out here in the snow," continued Shorty, 
 " an' he's chokin' to death, an' we don't know what 
 to do with him." 
 
 The doctor looked up from his hand. " Put him 
 in somewhere. I'U be along soon," 
 
 " They won't let him in anywhere. They're all 
 afraid, an' he's chokin' to death." 
 
 The doctor turned down his cards. " What do 
 you say.'' Choking to death.'' " He passed his 
 hand over his eyes. His professional instinct began 
 to assert itself. 
 
 " Yes," continued Shorty. " There's somethin' 
 wrong with him ; he can't swallow. An' we can't git 
 him in." 
 
 The doctor pushed back his chair. " Here, men," 
 he said, " I'm going to quit." 
 
 A chorus of oaths and imprecations greeted his 
 proposal. 
 
 " You can't quit now ! " growled " Mexico " fiercely, 
 like a dog that is about to lose a bone. " You've 
 got to give us a chance." 
 
 " Well, here's your chance then," cried the doctor. 
 " Let's stop this tiddle-de-winks game. You can't 
 
236 THE DOCTOR 
 
 have up more than a hundred apiece. I'll put my 
 pile against your bets, there's three thousand if 
 there's a dollar, and quit. Come on." 
 
 The greatness of the opportunity staggered them. 
 
 Then they flung themselves upon it. " It's a go ! " 
 " Come on ! " " Give us your cards ! " Quickly the 
 cards were dealt. One by one the men made up their 
 hands. The crowd about crushed in upon them in 
 breathless excitement. Never had there been seen 
 in that camp so reckless a stake. 
 
 " Now, then, show down," growled " Mexico." 
 
 The doctor laid down his cards face up. One 
 by one they compared their hands. He had won. 
 With an oath " Mexico " made a grab for the pile, 
 reaching for his hip at the same time with the other 
 hand, but the doctor was first, and before anyone 
 could move or speak " Mexico " was lying in the cor- 
 ner, his toes quivering above his upturned chair. 
 
 " Look after the brute, someone. He doesn't 
 understand the game," said the doctor with cool 
 contempt, crumpKng up the bills and pushing them 
 down into his pocket. " Where's your sick man.'' " 
 
 " This way, doctor," said Shorty, hurrying out 
 toward the sleigh. The doctor passed him on a run. 
 
 " What does this mean? " he cried. " Why haven't 
 you got him inside somewhere.'' " 
 
 " That's what I say, docthor," answered Tommy, 
 " but the bloody haythen wudn't let him in." 
 
 "How's this, Swipey."*" said the doctor sternly, 
 turning to the saloon-keeper, who still stood in the 
 door. 
 
THE CHALLENGE OF DEATH 
 
 " He's not comin' in here. How do I know what 
 he's got? " 
 
 " I'll take that responsibility," replied the doctor. 
 " In he goes. Here, take him up on the robe, men. 
 Steady, now." 
 
 Swipey hesitated a moment, but before he could 
 make up his mind what to do, the doctor was lead- 
 ing his men with their burden past the bar door. 
 
 " Show us a room at the back, Swipey, upstairs. 
 It must be warm. Be quick about it." 
 
 Swearing deep oaths, Swipey led the way. " It 
 must be warm, eh? Want a bath in it next, I 
 suppose," 
 
 " This will do," said the doctor when they 
 reached the room. " Now, clear out, men. I want 
 one of you. You'll do. Shorty." Without hurry, 
 but with incredible speed and dexterity, he had the 
 man undressed and in bed between heated blankets. 
 " Now, hold the light. We'll take a look at his 
 throat. Heavens above! Stay here, Shorty, till I 
 come back." 
 
 He ran downstairs, and, bareheaded as he was, 
 plunged through the storm to his office, return- 
 ing in a few minutes with his medical bag and two 
 hot-water bottles. 
 
 " We're too late, Shorty, I fear, but we'll do our 
 best. Get these full of hot water for me." 
 
 " What is it. Doctor ? " cried Shorty anxiously. 
 
 " Go quick ! " The doctor's voice was so sharp 
 and stern that before Shorty knew, he was half 
 way downstairs with the hot-water bottles. With 
 
THE DOCTOR 
 
 swift, deft movements the doctor went abput his 
 work. 
 
 " Ah, that's right. Now, Shorty, hold the light 
 again. Now the antitoxin. It's hours, days, too 
 late, perhaps, hardly any use with this mixed infec- 
 tion, but we'll try it. There. Now we'll touch up 
 his heart. Poor chap, he can't swallow. We'll give 
 It to him this way." Again he filled his syringe from 
 another bottle and gave the sick man a second injec- 
 tion. " There. That ought to help him a bit. Now, 
 what fool sent a man in this condition twenty miles 
 through a storm like this? Shorty, don't let that 
 teamster go away without seeing me. Have him in 
 here within an hour." Shorty turned to go. " Wait. 
 Do you know this man's name ? " 
 
 " I heard Tommy call him Scotty Anderson. He's 
 from the old country, I think." 
 
 " All right. Now, go and get the teamster." 
 
 The doctor turned to his struggle with death. 
 " There is no chance, no chance. The fools ! The 
 villains ! It's sheer murder ! " he muttered, as he 
 strove moment by moment to bring relief to the 
 sick man fighting to get his breath. 
 
 After working with him for half an hour the 
 doctor had the satisfaction of seeing him begin to 
 breathe more easily. But by that time he had given 
 up all hope of saving the man's life. And it seemed 
 to increase his rage to see his patient shpping away 
 from him. For do what he could, the heart was fail- 
 ing rapidly and the doctor saw that it was simply 
 a matter of minutes. Before the hour had elapsed 
 
THE CHALLENGE OF DEATH 239 
 
 the dying man opened his eyes and looked about. 
 The doctor turned up the light and leaned over him, 
 trying to make out the words which poor Scotty 
 was making such painful efforts to utter. But no 
 words could he hear. Finally the dying man pointed 
 to the chair on which his clothes lay. 
 
 "You want something out of your pocket?" 
 inquired the doctor. The eyes gave assent. One 
 by one the doctor held up the articles he found in 
 the pockets of the clothing till he came to a letter, 
 then the eyes that had followed every movement 
 expressed satisfaction. 
 
 " Do you want me to read it? " 
 
 It was from the mother to her son Andy in far 
 Canada, breathing gratitude for gifts of money 
 from time to time, pride in his well doing, love 
 without measure, and prayers unceasing. It took 
 all the doctor's fortitude to keep his voice clear and 
 steady. The eloquent eyes never moved from his 
 face till the reading was finished. Then the doctor 
 put the letter into his big, hairy hand so muscular 
 and so feeble. The fingers closed upon it and with 
 difficulty carried It to the man's bosom. For a 
 moment the eyes remained closed as if in peace, but 
 only for a moment. Once more they rested entreat- 
 Ingly upon the doctor's face. 
 
 " Something else In your pocket? " 
 
 The doctor continued drawing forth the articles 
 one by one tiU he came to a large worn pocketbook. 
 
 "This?" 
 
 With an effort the head nodded an affirmation. 
 
240 THE DOCTOR 
 
 From the innermost pocket he drew a little photo- 
 graph of a young girl. A light came into the eyes 
 of the dying man. He took the photograph which 
 the doctor placed in his hand and carried it painfully 
 to his lips. Once more the eyes began to question. 
 
 "You want something else from your pocketbook.? 
 If so, close your eyes." The eyes remained wide open. 
 "No? You want me to do something for you? 
 To write? " At once the eyes closed. " I shall 
 write to your mother and send all your things and 
 tell them about you." A smile spread over the face 
 and the eyes closed as if content. In a few minutes, 
 however, they opened wide again. In vain the doctor 
 tried to catch the meaning. The lips began to move. 
 Putting his ear close, the doctor ciaught the word 
 " Thank." 
 
 " Thank who ? The teamster ? " 
 
 The man moved his hand and touched the doctor's 
 with his fingers, 
 
 " Thank me? My dear fellow, I only wish I 
 could help you," said the doctor. " Anything else? " 
 
 The eyes looked upward toward the ceiling, then 
 rested beseechingly upon the doctor's face again. 
 Vainly the doctor sought to gather his meaning, till, 
 with a mighty effort, poor Scotty tried to speak. 
 Once more, putting his ear close to the lips, the 
 doctor caught the words, " Mother — ^home," and 
 again the eyes turned upward toward the ceiling. 
 
 " You wish me to teU your mother that you are 
 going home? " And once more a glad smile lit up 
 the distorted face. 
 
THE CHALLENGE OF HEATH 241 
 
 For some minutes there was silence in the room. 
 Up from the bar, through the thin partition, came 
 the sounds of oaths and laughter and drunken song. 
 The doctor cursed them all below his breath and 
 turned toward the door. A spasm of coughing 
 brought him back to his patient's side. After the 
 spasm had passed the sick man lay still, his eyes 
 closed, and his breath becoming shorter every mo- 
 ment. Once again the eyes made their appeal, and 
 the doctor hastened to seek their meaning. Listening 
 intently, he heard the word, " Pray." The doctor's 
 pale face flushed quickly and as quickly paled again. 
 He shook his head, saying, " I'm no good at that." 
 Once more the poor lips made an effort to speak, 
 and again the doctor caught the words, " Jesus, 
 
 tender ." It had been the doctor's child prayer, 
 
 too. But for years no prayer had passed his lips. 
 He could not bring himself to do it. It would be 
 sheer mockery. But the eyes were fixed upon his 
 face beseeching, waiting for him to begin. 
 
 " All right," said the doctor through his set teeth, 
 " I'll do it." 
 
 And above the ribald sounds that broke in from 
 below on the solemn silence, the doctor's voice, low 
 but very clear, rose in the verses of that ancient 
 child's prayer, " Jesus, tender Shepherd, hear me." 
 At the third verse, 
 
 "Let my sins be all forgiven. 
 Bless the friends I love so well, 
 Take me when I die to heaven, 
 Happy there with Thee to dweU,* 
 
g42 THE DOCTOR 
 
 there was a deep breath from the sick man, a sigh 
 as of great content, and then all was stiU. Ere the 
 prayer had been uttered the answer had come, 
 " Happy there with Thee to dwell." Poor Scotty ! 
 Out from the sickness and the pain, from the wretch- 
 edness and the sin, he had been taken to the place 
 where the blessed dwell and whence they go no more 
 out forever. 
 
 Silently the doctor composed the limbs, bis eyes 
 dim with unusual tears. As he was thus busied he 
 heard a sniffle behind him and, turning sharply about, 
 he found Tommy and Shorty standing at the door, 
 both wiping their eyes and struggling with their 
 sobs. 
 
 " Confound you. Shorty ! " burst forth the doctor 
 wrathfully, " what in the mischief are you doing 
 there? Come in, you fool. Did you ever see a dead 
 man before.'' " The doctor was clearly in a rage. 
 During the weeks Shorty had known him in camp 
 he had never seen him show anything but a per- 
 fectly cold and self -composed face. " Is this the 
 teamster? " continued the doctor. " Come in here. 
 You see that man? Someone has murdered him. 
 Who sent him down here through this storm? How 
 long had he been ill? Have you a doctor up there? 
 Are there any more sick? Why don't you speak up? 
 What's your name? " In an angry flood the ques- 
 tions poured forth upon the hapless Tommy, who 
 stood speechless, " Why don't you speak? " said 
 the doctor again. 
 
 Recovering himself, Tommy began with the ques- 
 
THE CHALLENGE OF DEATH 243 
 
 tion which seemed to require least thought to answer. 
 " Thomas Tate, sir, av ye plaze. An' sure it's not 
 me ye'd be blamin' at all. Didn't I tell the foreman 
 the man wuz dyin'? An' niver a breath did I draw 
 fer the last twinty miles, an' up an' down the hills 
 like the divil wuz afther me wid a poker." 
 
 " Have you no doctor up there? " 
 
 " Docthor, is it? If that's what ye call him, fer 
 the drunken baste that he is, wallowin' 'round like 
 Micky Murphy's pig, axin' pardon av the pig." 
 
 " Are there any more sick? " 
 
 " Sick? Bedad, they're all sick wid fear, an' half 
 a dozen worse than poor Scotty there, God rest 
 his sowl ! " 
 
 The doctor thought a minute, then turning to 
 Shorty he said, speaking rapidly, " Go and bring 
 to this room the foreman and Swipey. And say not 
 a word to anyone, mind that. And you," he said, 
 turning to Tommy, " can you start back in an 
 hour? " 
 
 " I can that same, if I must." 
 
 " You know the road. We'U get another team 
 and start within an hour. Get something to eat." 
 
 In a short time both the foreman and the saloon- 
 keeper were in the room. 
 
 " This man," said the doctor, " is dead. Diph- 
 theria. There is no fear, Swipey. Shut that door. 
 But you must have him buried at once, and you will 
 both see the necessity of having it done quietly. I 
 ehaU fumigate this room. All this clothing must 
 be burned and there will be no further danger. You 
 
244. THE DOCTOR 
 
 will see about this to-morrow. I am going up to 
 No. 2 to-night." 
 
 " To-night, doctor ! " cried the foreman. " It's 
 blowing a regular blizzard. Can't you wait till 
 morning.'' " 
 
 " There are men sick at No. 2," said the doctor. 
 " The chances are it's diphtheria." 
 
 In an hour's time Tommy was at the door with 
 the best team the camp possessed. 
 
 "Have you had something to eat, Tommy.'"' 
 inquired the doctor, stepping out from the saloon. 
 
 " That's what I have," repUed Tommy. 
 
 " All right, then. Give me the lines. You can 
 have a sleep." 
 
 " Not if I know it, begob! " said Tommy. " I'll 
 stay wid yez. It's mesilf that knows a man whin I 
 see him." 
 
 And off into the blizzard and the night they sped, 
 the doctor rejoicing to find in the call to a fight 
 with death that excitement without which it seemed 
 he could not live. 
 
XVII 
 
 THE FIGHT WITH DEATH 
 
 AT Camp No, 2 Maclennan had struck what 
 /jL was called a hard proposition. The line 
 A WL ran straight through a muskeg out of which 
 the bottom seemed to have dropped, and Maclennan 
 himself, with his foreman, Craigin, was almost in 
 despair. For every day they were held back by 
 the muskeg meant a serious reduction in the profits 
 of Maclennan's contract. 
 
 The foreman, Craigin, was a man from " across 
 the line," skilled in railroad building, selected chiefly 
 because of his reputation as a " driver." He was 
 a man of great physical force and indomitable will, 
 and gifted in large measure with the power of com- 
 mand. He knew his business thoroughly and knew 
 just how to get the most out of the machinery and 
 men at his command. He himself was an untiring 
 worker, and no man on the line could get a bigger 
 day out of his force than could Craigin. His men 
 he treated as part of his equipment. He believed 
 in what was called his " scrap-heap policy." When 
 any part of the machinery ceased to do first-class 
 work it was at once discarded, and, as with the 
 machinery, so it was with the men. A sick man was 
 a nuisance in the camp and must be got rid of with 
 
 245 
 
246 THE DOCTOR ^ 
 
 all possible speed. Craigin had little faith in human 
 nature, and when a man fell ill his first impulse was 
 to suspect him of malingering, and hence the stand- 
 ing order of the camp in regard to a sick man was 
 that he should get to work or be sent out of the 
 camp. Hence the men thoroughly hated their fore- 
 man, but as thoroughly they dreaded to fall under 
 his displeasure. 
 
 The camp stood in the midst of a swamp, thick 
 with underbrush of spruce and balsam and tamarack. 
 The site had been selected after a month of dry 
 weather in the fall, consequently the real condition 
 of the ground was not discovered until the late rains 
 had swollen the streams from the mountain-sides and 
 filled up the intervening valleys and swamps. After 
 the frost had fallen the situation was vastly im- 
 proved, but they all waited the warm weather of 
 spring with anxiety. 
 
 On the crest of the hill which overlooked the camp 
 the doctor halted the team. 
 
 "Where are your stables, Tommy.?" 
 
 " Over there beyant, forninst the cook-house." 
 
 " Good Lord ! " murmured the doctor. " How 
 many men have you here.'' " 
 
 " Between two an' three hundred, wid them that 
 are travellin' the road." 
 
 " What are your sanitary arrangements .'' " 
 
 "What's that?" 
 
 " I mean how do you — ^what are your arrange- 
 ments for keeping the camp clean, free from dirt 
 and smells.? You can't have three hundred men 
 
THE FIGHT WITH DEATH 247 
 
 living together without some sanitary arrange- 
 ments." 
 
 " Begob, it's iveyy man fer himsilf. Clane yer- 
 silf as ye can through the week, an' on Sundays boil 
 yer clothes in soap suds, if ye kin git near the 
 kittles. But, bedad, it's the lively time we have wid 
 the crathurs." 
 
 " And is that the bunk-house close up to the 
 cookery? " 
 
 " It is that same." 
 
 " And why was it built so close as that? " 
 
 " Sure there wuz no ground left by raison av the 
 muskeg at the back av it." 
 
 The doctor gave it up. " Drive on," he said. 
 " But what a beautiful spot for a camp right there 
 on that level." 
 
 " Beautiful, is it? Faith, it's not beautiful that 
 Craigin calls it, fer ivery thaw the bottom goes clane 
 out av it till ye can't git round fer mud an' the dump 
 fallin' through to the antipods," replied Tom. 
 
 " Yes, but up on this flat here. Tommy, under 
 the big pines, that would be a fine spot for the 
 camp." 
 
 " It wud that same. Bad luck to the man who set 
 it where it is." 
 
 As they drove into the camp the cook came out 
 with some refuse which he dumped down on a heap 
 at the door. The doctor shuddered as he thought 
 of that heap when the sun shone upon It in the mild 
 weather. A huge Swede followed the cook out with 
 a large red muffler wrapped round his throat. 
 
g48 THE DOCTOR 
 
 " Hello, Yonie ! " cried Tommy. " What's af ther 
 gittin' ye up so early? " 
 
 " It is no sleep for dis," cried Yonie thickly, 
 pointing to his throat. 
 
 The doctor sprang from the sleigh. " Let me 
 look at your throat." 
 
 " It's the docthor, Yonie," explained Tommy, 
 whereupon the Swede submitted to the examination. 
 
 The doctor turned him toward the east, where 
 the sun was just peeping through the treetops, and 
 looked into his throat. " My man, you go right 
 back to bed quick." 
 
 " No, it will not to bed," replied Yonie. " Big 
 work to-day, boss say. He not like men sick." 
 
 " You hear me," said the doctor sharply. " You 
 go back to bed. Where's your doctor.? " 
 
 " He slapes in the office between meals. Yonder," 
 said Tommy, pointing the way. 
 
 "Never mind now. Where are your sick men.?" 
 
 "De seeck mans.?" replied the cook. "She's be 
 hall overe. On de bunk-house, on de cook shed. 
 Dat is imposseeb to mak' de cook for den seeck mans 
 hall aroun'." 
 
 "What.? Do they sit around where you are 
 cooking.? " 
 
 " Certainment. Dat's warm plas. De bunk- 
 house she's col.' Poor feller ! But she's mak' me beeg 
 troub'. She's cough, cough, speet, speet. Bah! 
 dat's what you call lak' one beas'." 
 
 The doctor strode into the cook-house. By the 
 light of the lantern swinging from the roof he found 
 
THE FIGHT WITH DEATH 249 
 
 three men huddled over the range, the picture of 
 utter misery. He took down the lantern. 
 
 " Here, cook, hold this please, one moment. Allow 
 me to look at your throats, men." 
 
 " Dis de docteur, men," said the cook. 
 
 A quick glance he gave at each throat, his face 
 growing more stem with each examination. 
 
 " Boys, you must all get to bed at once. You 
 must keep away from this cook-house or you'll 
 poison the whole camp." 
 
 " Where can we go, doctor? The bunk-house 
 would freeze you and the stink of it would make a 
 well man sick." 
 
 " And is there no place else? " 
 
 " No. Unless it's the stables," said another man ; 
 "they're not quite so bad." 
 
 " Well, sit here just now. We'll see about it. 
 But first let me give you something." He opened 
 his bag, took out his syringe. " Here, Yonie, we'll 
 begin with you. Roll up your sleeve." And in 
 three minutes he had given all four an antitoxin 
 injection. " Now, we'll see the doctor. By the way 
 what's his name? " 
 
 " Hain," said the cook, " dat's his nem." 
 
 " Haines," explained one of the men. 
 
 " Dat's what I say," said the cook indignantly, 
 «' Hain." 
 
 The doctor passed out, went toward the office, 
 knocked at the door, and, getting no response, 
 opened it and walked in. 
 
 " Be the powers, Narcisse ! " cried Tommy, as 
 
250 THE DOCTOR 
 
 the cook stood looking after the doctor, " It's little 
 I iver thought I'd pity that baste, but Hivin save 
 him now ! He'll be thinkin' the divil's come f er him. 
 An' begob, he'll be wishin' it wuz before he's through 
 wid him." 
 
 But Dr. Bailey was careful to observe all the rules 
 that the punctilious etiquette of the profession de- 
 manded. He found Dr. Haines sleeping heavily in 
 his clothes. He had had a bad night. He was 
 uneasy at the outbreak of sickness in his camp, and 
 more especially was he seized with an anxious fore- 
 boding in regard to the sick man who had been 
 sent out the day before. Besides this, the foreman 
 had cursed him for a drunken fool in the presence 
 of the whole camp with such vigour and directness 
 that he had found It necessary to sooth his ruffled 
 feelings with large and frequent doeses of stimulant 
 brought into the camp for strictly medical purposes. 
 With difficulty he was roused from his slumber. 
 When fuUy awake he was aware of a young man 
 with a very pale and very stem face standing over 
 him. Without preliminary Dr. Bailey began: 
 
 " Dr. Haines, you have some very sick men in 
 this camp." 
 
 "Who the deuce are you?" replied Haines, 
 staring up at him. 
 
 " They call me Dr. Bailey. I have come in from 
 along the line." 
 
 "Dr. Bailey .P" said Haines, sitting up. "Oh, 
 I've heard of you." His tone Indicated a report 
 none too favourable. In fact, it was his special 
 
THE FIGHT WITH DEATH 251 
 
 chum and confrere who had been ejected from his 
 position in the Gap camp through Dr. Bailey's 
 vigorous measures. 
 
 " You have some very sick men in the camp," 
 repeated Dr. Bailey, his voice sharp and stern. 
 
 " Oh, a little tonsilitis," replied Haines in an 
 indifferent tone. 
 
 " Diphtheria," said Bailey shortly, 
 
 " Diphtheria be hanged ! " replied Haines inso- 
 lently ; " I examined them carefully last night." 
 
 " They have diphtheria this morning. I have 
 just taken the liberty of looking into their throats." 
 
 " The deuce you have ! I like your impudence ! 
 Who sent you in here to interfere with my practice, 
 young man.'' Where did you get your professional 
 manners ? " Dr. Haines was the older man and 
 resented the intrusion of this smooth-faced young 
 stranger, who added to the crime of his youth that 
 of being guilty of a serious breach of professional 
 etiquette. 
 
 " I ought to apologize for looking at your 
 patients," said Dr. Bailey. " I came in thinking I 
 might be of some assistance in dealing with this out- 
 break of diphtheria, and I was naturally anxious 
 to see " 
 
 " Diphtheria ! " blurted Haines. " Nothing of 
 the sort." 
 
 " Dr. Haines, the man you sent out last night 
 had it." 
 
 "Had it?" 
 
 " He died an hour after arriving at No. 1." 
 
THE DOCTOR 
 
 "Dead? Cursed fool! He would go against my 
 will." 
 
 "Against your will? Would you let a man in 
 the last stages of diphtheria leave this camp against 
 your will with the company's team? " 
 
 "Well, I knew he shouldn't go. But he wanted 
 to go himself, and the foreman would have him out." 
 
 " There are at least four men going about the 
 camp — they are now in the cook-house where the 
 breakfast is being prepared — ^who are suffering 
 from a severe attack of diphtheria." 
 
 " What do you propose? What can I do in this 
 cursed hole? " said Dr. Haines petulantly. " No 
 appliances, no means of isolation, no nurses, nothing. 
 Beside, I have half a dozen camps to look after. 
 What can I do?" 
 
 " Do you ask me? " The scorn in the voice was 
 only too apparent. " Isolate the infected at least." 
 
 Haines swore deeply to himself while, with trem- 
 bling hand, he poured out a cupful of whiskey from 
 a bottle standing on a convenient shelf. "Isolate? 
 How can I isolate? There's no building in 
 which " 
 
 " Make one." 
 
 " Make one? Young man, do you know what you 
 are talking about? Do you know where you are? 
 Do you know who is running this camp ? " 
 
 " No. But I do know that these men must be 
 isolated within an hour." 
 
 " Impossible ! I tell you it is impossible ! ** 
 
 " Dr. Haines, an inquest upon the man sent out 
 
THE FIGHT WITH DEATH 
 
 from this camp last night would result in the verdict 
 of manslaughter. There was no inquest. There 
 will be on the next man that dies if there is any 
 neglect." 
 
 The seriousness of the situation began to dawn 
 upon Haines. " Well," he said, " if you think you 
 can isolate them, go ahead. I'll see the foreman." 
 
 " Every minute is precious. I gave those four 
 men antitoxin. Are there others? " 
 
 " Don't know," Haines growled, as with an oath 
 he went out, followed by Dr. Bailey. Just outside 
 the door they met the foreman. 
 
 " This is Dr. Bailey, Mr. Craigin." Craigin 
 growled out a salutation. " Dr. Bailey here says 
 these sick men have diphtheria." 
 
 "How does he know?" inquired Craigin shortly. 
 
 " He has examined them this morning." 
 
 "Have you?" 
 
 « No, not yet." 
 
 " Then you don't know they have diphtheria ? " 
 
 " No," replied Haines weakly. 
 
 " These men have diphtheria, Mr. Craigin, with- 
 out a doubt, and they ought to be isolated at once." 
 
 "Isolated? How?" 
 
 "A separate camp must be built and someone 
 appointed to attend them." 
 
 " A separate camp ! " exclaimed Craigin ; " I'll see 
 them blanked first! Look here, Haines, let's have 
 no nonsense about this. I'm three weeks, yes, a 
 month, behind with this job here. This blank, blank 
 muskeg is knocking the whole contract endways. 
 
25i THE DOCTOR 
 
 We can't spare a single man half a day. And mort 
 than that, you go talking diphtheria in this camp 
 and you can't hold the men here an hour. It's all 
 I can do to hold them as it is." And Craigin went 
 ofF into an elaborate course of profanity descrip- 
 tive of the various characteristics of the men in his 
 employ. 
 
 " But what is to be done? '* asked Haines 
 helplessly. 
 
 " Send 'em out to the steel. They're better in 
 the hospital, anyway. It's fine to-day. We'B send 
 every man Jack out to-day." 
 
 " These men can't be moved," said Dr. Bailey in 
 a quiet voice. " You sent a man out yesterday and 
 he's dead." 
 
 " He was bound to go himself. We didn't send 
 him. Anyway, it's none of your business. Look 
 here, Haines, you know me. I'm not going to have 
 any of this blank nonsense of isolation hospitals and 
 all that blankety blank rot. Dose 'em up good 
 and send "em out." 
 
 Dr. Haines stood silent, too evidently afraid of 
 the foreman. 
 
 " Mr. Craigin, it would be murder," said Dr. 
 Bailey, " sure murder. Some of them might get 
 through. Some would be sure to die. The con- 
 sequences to those responsible — ^to Dr. Haines, for 
 instance — ^would be serious. I am quite sure he will 
 never give orders that these men should be moved." 
 
 " He won't, eh? You just wait till you see him 
 do it. Haines will give the orders right enough." 
 
THE FIGHT WITH DEATH 255 
 
 Craigin's laugh was like the growl of a bear. 
 " There's a reason, ain't there, Haines? Now you 
 hear me. ■ Those men are going out to-day, and 
 so are you, yon blank, blank Interferin' skunk." 
 
 Dr. Bailey smiled sweetly at Craigin. " You 
 may call me what you please just now, Mr. Craigin. 
 Before the day is over you won't have enough names 
 left. For I teU you that these men suffering from 
 diphtheria are going to stay here, and are going to 
 be properly cared for." 
 
 Craigin was white. That this young pale-faced 
 stranger should presume to come into his domain, 
 where his word was wont to run as absolute law, 
 filled him with rage unspeakable. But there were 
 serious issues at stake, and with a supreme effort he 
 controlled the passionate longing to spring upon 
 this upstart and throttle him. He turned sharply 
 to Haines. 
 
 " Dr. Haines, you think these men can go out 
 to-day? " 
 
 Haines hesitated. 
 
 "You understand me, Haines; these men go out 
 or " 
 
 Haines was evidently in some horrible dread of 
 the foreman. A moment more he paused and then 
 surrendered. 
 
 " Oh, hang it, Bailey, I don't think they're so 
 terribly ill. I guess they can go out." 
 
 " Dr. Haines," said Craigin, " is that your 
 decision? " 
 
 " Yes, I think so." 
 
256 THE DOCTOR 
 
 " All right," said Craigin, with a triumphant 
 sneer. He turned to Tommy, who was standing 
 near with half a dozen men who had just come out 
 from breakfast. " Here you. Tommy, get a couple 
 of teams ready and all the buiFalo robes you need 
 and be ready to start in an hour. Do you hear.-* " 
 
 " I do," said Tommy, turning slowly away. 
 
 " Tommy," called Dr. Bailey in a sharp, clear 
 tone, " you took a man out from this camp yester- 
 day. Tell the men here what happened." 
 
 " Sure, they all know it," said Tommy, who had 
 already told the story of poor Scotty's death and of 
 the doctor's efforts to save him. " An' it's a fine 
 bhoy he wuz, poor Scotty, an' niver a groan out av 
 him all the way down, an' not able to swally a taste 
 whin I gave it to him." 
 
 Craigin sprang toward Tommy in a fury. 
 " Here you blank, blank, blank ! Do what I tell 
 you! And the rest of you men, what are you 
 gawkin' at here.'' Get to work!" 
 
 The men gave back, and some began to move 
 away. Dr. Bailey walked quickly past Craigin into 
 the midst of the group. 
 
 " Men, I want to say something to you." His 
 voice commanded their instant attention. " There 
 are half a dozen of your comrades in this camp sick 
 with diphtheria. I came up here to help. They 
 ought to be isolated to prevent the spread of the 
 disease, and they ought to be cared for at once. 
 The foreman proposes to send them out. One went 
 out yesterday. He died last night. If these men 
 
THE FIGHT WITH DEATH 257, 
 
 go out to-day some of them will die, and it will be 
 murder. What do you say? Will you let them 
 go? " A wrathful murmur ran through the crowd, 
 which was being rapidly increased every moment by 
 others coming from breakfast. 
 
 " Get to your work, you fellows, or get your 
 time ! " shouted Craigin, pouring out oaths. " And 
 you," turning toward Dr. Bailey, " get out of this 
 camp." 
 
 " I am here in consultation with Dr. Haines," 
 replied Dr. Bailey. " He has asked my advice, and 
 I am giving it." 
 
 " Send him out, Haines. And be quick about it ! " 
 
 By this time the men were fully roused. One of 
 them came forward. 
 
 " What do you propose should be done. Doctor? " 
 he inquired. 
 
 "Are you going to work, McLean?" shouted 
 Craigin furiously. " If not, go and get your time." 
 
 " We're going to talk this matter over a minute, 
 Mr. Craigin," said McLean quietly. " It's a serious 
 matter. We are all concerned in it, and we'll decide 
 in a few minutes what is to be done." 
 
 " Every man who is not at work in five minutes 
 will get his time," said Craigin, and he turned away 
 and passed into the office. 
 
 " What do you propose should be done, Doctor? " 
 said McLean, ignoring the foreman. 
 
 " Build a camp where the sick men can be placed 
 by themselves and where they can be kept from in- 
 fecting the rest of the camp. Half a day's work of a 
 
^58 THE DOCTOR 
 
 dozen men will do it. If we send them out some of 
 them will die. Besides, it is almost certain that some 
 more of jou have already been infected." 
 
 At once eager discussion began. Some, in dread 
 terror of the disease, were for sending out the sick 
 immediately, but the majority would not listen to 
 this inhuman proposal. Finally McLean came 
 again to Dr. Bailey. 
 
 " The men want to know if you can guarantee 
 that the disease can be stamped out here if you have 
 a separate camp for an hospital? " 
 
 " We can guarantee nothing," replied Dr. Bailey. 
 " But it is altogether the safer way to fight the 
 disease. And I am of the opinion that we can stamp 
 it out." The doctor's air and tone of quiet con- 
 fidence, far more than his words, decided the men's 
 action. In a minute more it was agreed that the 
 sick men should stay and that they would all stand 
 together in carrying out the plan of isolation. 
 
 " If he gives any of us time," said Tommy, " we'll 
 all take it, begob." 
 
 " No, men," said the doctor, " let's not make 
 trouble. I know Mr. Maclennan slightly, and he's 
 a just man, and he'll do what's fair. Besides, we 
 don't want to interfere with the job. Give me a 
 dozen men — one must be able to cook — and in half 
 a day the work will be finished. I will be personally 
 responsible for everything." 
 
 At this point Craigin came out. " Here's your 
 time, McLean," he said, thrusting a time check at 
 him. 
 
THE FIGHT WITH DEATH 259 
 
 McLean took it without a word and went over and 
 stood by Dr. Bailey's side. 
 I "Who are coming? " called out McLean. 
 
 " All of us," cried a voice. " Pick out your men, 
 McLean." 
 
 " All right," said McLean, looking over the 
 crowd. 
 
 *' I'm wan," said Tommy, running over to the 
 doctor's side. " I seen him shtand by Scotty whin 
 the lad wus fightin' fer his life, an' if I'm tuk it's 
 him I want beside me." 
 
 One by one McLean called his men, each taking 
 his place beside the doctor, while the rest of the men 
 moved off to work. 
 
 " Mr. Craigin, I am going to use these men for 
 half a day." said Dr. Bailey. 
 
 \ For answer Craigin, in mad rage, throwing aside 
 all regard for consequences, rushed at him, but half 
 a dozen men were in his path before he had taken 
 the second step. 
 
 " Hold on, Mr. Craigin," said McLean, " we 
 want no violence. We're going to do what we think 
 right in this matter, so you may as well make up 
 your mind to it." ' 
 
 " And Mr. Craigin," continued the doctor, " we 
 shall need some things out of your stores." 
 
 Craigin stepped back from the crowd and on to 
 the office steps. " Your time is waiting you, men. 
 And listen to me. If any man goes near that there 
 storehouse door, I'll drop him in his tracks. I've 
 got the law and I'll do it, so help me God." He 
 
260 THE DOCTOR 
 
 went into the affice and returned in a moment with 
 a Winchester, which he loaded in full view of the 
 men. 
 
 " Never mind him, boys," said the doctor cheerily, 
 ** I'm going to have breakfast. Come, Tommy, I 
 want you." 
 
 In fifteen minutes he came out, with the key of 
 the storehouse in his hand, to find the men still 
 waiting his orders and Craigin on guard with his 
 Winchester. 
 
 " Don't go just yet," said McLean to the doctor 
 in a low voice, " we'll get round him." 
 
 " Oh, he'll not shoot," said Dr. Bailey. 
 
 " He will. He will. I knew him in Michigan. 
 He'll shoot and he'll kill, too." 
 
 For a single instant the doctor hesitated. His 
 men were about him waiting his lead. Craigin with 
 his rifle held them all in check. A moment's thought 
 and his decision was taken. He stepped toward 
 Craigin and said in a clear voice, " Mr. Craigin, 
 these stores are necessary to save these men's lives. 
 I want them and I'm going to take them. Murder 
 me, if you like." 
 
 " Hear me, men." Craigin's voice was cold and 
 deliberate. " These stores are in my charge. I am 
 an officer of the law. If any man lays his hand on 
 that latch I'll shoot him, so help me God." 
 
 " Hear me, Mr. Craigin," replied Dr. Bailey. 
 " I'm here in consultation with Dr. Haines, who has 
 turned over this matter to my charge. In a case 
 of this kind the doctor's orders are supreme. Thi% 
 
THE FIGHT WITH DEATH 261 
 
 whole camp is under his authority. These stores 
 are necessary, and I am going to get them." He 
 well knew the weak spot in his position, but he 
 counted on Craigin's nerve breaking down. In that, 
 however, he was mistaken. Without haste, but with- 
 out hesitation, he walked toward the storehouse door. 
 When three paces from it Craigin's voice arrested 
 him. 
 
 " Hold on there ! Put your hand on that door 
 and, as God Kves, you're a dead man ! " 
 
 Without a word the doctor turned again toward 
 the door. The men with varying cries rushed 
 toward the foreman. Craigin threw up his rifle. 
 Immediately a shot rang out and Craigin fell to 
 the snow, the smoking rifle dropping from his hand. 
 
 " Begob, I niver played baseball," cried Tommy, 
 rushing in and seizing the rifle, " but many's the 
 time I've had the divarsion in the streets av Dublin 
 of bringin' down the polismen wid a brick." 
 
 'A heavy horseshoe, heaved with sure aim, had 
 saved the doctor's life. They carried Craigin into 
 the office and laid him on the bed, the blood stream- 
 ing from a ghastly wound in his scalp. Quicldy 
 Dr. Bailey got to work and before Craigin had re- 
 gained consciousness the wound was sewed up and 
 dressed. Then giving him over to the charge of 
 Haines, Dr. Bailey went about the work he had in 
 hand. 
 
 Before the noon hour had arrived the eight men 
 who were discovered to be in various stages of diph™ 
 theria were comfortably housed in a roomy building 
 
26a THE DOCTOR 
 
 rudely constructed of logs, tar paper, and tarpaulin, 
 with a small cook-house attached and Tommy Tate 
 in charge. And before night had fallen the process 
 of disinfecting the bedding, clothing, bunk-house, 
 and cookery was well under way, while all who had 
 been in immediate contact with the infected men had 
 been treated by the doctor with antitoxin as a 
 precautionary measure. 
 
 Thus the first day's campaign against death 
 closed with the issue still undecided, but the chances 
 for winning were certainly greater than they had 
 been. What the result would be when Craigin was 
 able to take command again, no one could say. But 
 in the meantime, for the next two days, the work 
 on the dump was prosecuted with aU vigour, the men 
 feeling in honour boimd to support the doctor in 
 that part of the fight which fell to them. 
 
XVIII 
 
 THE MEDICAL SUPERINTENDENT OF 
 THE CROW'S NEST 
 
 MR. MACLENNAN was evidently wor- 
 ried. His broad, good-humoured face, 
 which usually wore a smile indicating 
 content with the world and especially with himself, 
 was drawn into a frown. The muskeg was beating 
 him, and he hated to be beaten. He was bringing 
 in Creneral Manager Fahey to have a look at things. 
 It was important to awaken the sympathy of the 
 Greneral Manager, if, indeed, this could be accom- 
 plished. But the General Manager had a way of 
 insisting upon his contracts being fulfilled, and this 
 stretch in Maclennan's charge was the one spot which 
 the General Manager feared would occasion delay. 
 
 " There's the hole," said Maclennan, as they 
 turned down the hill into the swamp. " Into that 
 hole," he continued, pointing to where the dump 
 ended abruptly in the swamp, " I can't tell you how 
 many millions of carloaxis have been dumped. I 
 used to brag that I wae never beaten in my life, but 
 that hole *' 
 
 " Maclennan, that hole has got to be filled up, 
 bridged, or trestled, and we can't wait too long, 
 either." 
 
 903 
 
864. THE DOCTOR 
 
 The General Manager's name was a synonym for 
 a relentless sort of energy in railroad construction 
 that refused to consider obstacles. Nothing could 
 stand in his way. The thing behind which he put 
 the weight of his determination simply had to move 
 in one direction or other. The contractor that 
 failed expected no mercy, and received none. 
 
 " We're doing our best," said Maclennan, " and 
 we will continue to do our best. Hello! what's this? 
 What's Craigin doing up here? Hold up, Sandy. 
 We'll look in." 
 
 At the door of the hospital Dr. Haines met 
 him. 
 
 " Hello, Doctor! What have you got here? " 
 
 " Isolation hospital," replied the doctor shortly. 
 
 "What hospital?" 
 
 « Isolation." 
 
 " Has Craigin gone mad all at once? " 
 
 " Craigin has nothing to do with it. There's a 
 new boss in camp." 
 
 A look of wrathful amazement crossed Maclen- 
 nan's countenance. Haines was beginning to enjoy 
 himself. 
 
 " A new boss? What do you mean? " 
 
 " What I say. A young fellow calling himself 
 Dr. Bailey came into this camp three days ago, 
 raised the biggest kind of a row, laid up Craigin 
 with a broken head, and took charge of the camp." 
 Maclennan stood in amazement looking from Haines 
 to the General Manager. 
 
 "Dr. Bailey? You mean Bailey from No. 1? 
 
THE MEDICAL SUPERINTENDENT 265 
 
 What has he got to to do with it? And how did 
 Craigin come to allow him? " 
 
 " Ask Craigin," replied Haines. 
 
 " What have you got in there, Doctor? " asked 
 Mr. Fahey. 
 
 " Diphtheria patients." 
 
 " How many? " 
 
 "Well, we began with eight three days ago and 
 we've ten to-day." 
 
 "Well, this knocks me out," said Maclennan. 
 "Where's Craigin, anyway?" 
 
 " He's down in his own room in bed." 
 
 Maclennan turned and got into the sleigh. " Come 
 on, Fahey," he said, " let's go down. Something 
 extraordinary has happened. You can't believe 
 that feUow Haines. What are you laughing at?" 
 
 Fahey was too much of an Irishman to miss seeing 
 the humour of any situation. " I can't help it, 
 Maclennan. I'll bet you a box of cigars that man 
 Bailey is an Irishman. He must be a whirlwind. 
 But it's no laughing matter," continued the General 
 Manager, sobering up. " This has a very serious 
 aspect. There are a whole lot of men sick in our 
 camps. You contractors don't pay enough atten- 
 tion to your health." 
 
 " Health ! When you're driving us like all pos- 
 sessed there's no time to think of health." 
 
 " I teU you, Maclennan, it's bad policy. You 
 have got to think of health. The newspapers are 
 beginning to talk. Why, look at that string of men 
 you met going out. Of course, the great majority 
 
«66 THE DOCTOR 
 
 of them never should have come in. Hundreds of 
 men are here who never used either shovel or axe. 
 They cut themselves, get cold, rheumatism, or some- 
 thing ; they're not fit for their work. All the same, 
 we get blamed. But my theory is that every camp 
 should have an hospital, with three main hospitals 
 along this branch. There's one at Macleod. It is 
 fiUed, overflowing. A young missionary fellow, 
 Boyle, has got one running out at Kuskinook sup- 
 ported by some Toronto ladies. It's doing fine 
 work, too; but it's overflowing. There's a young 
 lady in charge there, a Miss Robertson, and she's 
 a daisy. The trouble there is you can't get the fel- 
 lows to leave, and I don't blame them. If ever I 
 get sick send me to her. I tell you, Maclennan, if 
 we had two or three first-class men, with three main 
 hospitals, a branch in every camp, we'd keep the 
 health department in first-class condition. The men 
 would stay with us. We'd get altogether better 
 results." 
 
 " That's aU right," said Maclennan, " but where 
 are you to get your first-class men? They come to 
 us with letters from Directors or some big bug or 
 other. You've got to appoint them. Look at that 
 man Haines. He doesn't know his work and he's 
 drunk half the time. Dr. Bailey seems to be dif- 
 ferent. He certainly knows his work and he never 
 touches whiskey. I got him up from the Gap to 
 No. 1. In two weeks' time he had things in great 
 shape. Funny thing, too, when he's fighting some 
 sickness or busy he's all right, but when things get 
 
THE MEDICAL SUPERINTENDENT 26^ 
 
 quiet he hits the green table hard. He's a wonder 
 at poker, they say." 
 
 The General Manager pricked up his ears. 
 " Poker, eh? I'll remember that." 
 
 " But this here business is going too far," con- 
 tinued Maclennan. " I didn't hire him to run my 
 camps. Well, we'll see what Craigin has to say." 
 
 As they drove into the camp they were met by 
 N-arcisse, the cook. 
 
 " Bo' jour, M'sieu Maclenn'. You want some- 
 thing for hit? " 
 
 " Good-day, cook," said Maclennan. " Yes, we'll 
 take a cup of tea in a few minutes. I want to see 
 Mr. Craigin." 
 
 Narcisse drew near Maclennan and in subdued 
 voice announced, " M'sieu Craigin, he's not ver* weU. 
 He's hurt hisself. He's lie on bed." 
 
 " Why, what's the matter with him? " 
 
 Narcisse shrugged his shoulders. " Oh, some 
 leet' troub'. You pass on de ofBce you see de 
 docteur." 
 
 "Why, Haines is up at the hospital. We just 
 saw him." 
 
 *' Hain ! " said Narcisse, with scorn indescribable. 
 " Dat's no docteur for one horse. Bah ! De mans 
 go seeck, seeck, he can noting. He know noting. 
 He's get on beeg drunk! Non! Nodder docteur. 
 He's come in, fin' tree, four mans seeck on de troat, 
 cough, cough, sore, bad. Fill up de cook-house. 
 Can't do noting. Sainte Marie! Dat new doc- 
 teur, he's come on de camp, he's mak' one leet' fight. 
 
268 THE DOCTOR 
 
 he's beeld hospital an' get dose seeck mans all 
 nice an' snug. Bon. Good. By gar, dat's good 
 feller!" 
 
 The smile broadened on Fahey's face. " I say, 
 Maclennan, he's captured your camp. He's got the 
 cook, dead sure." 
 
 The smile didn't help Maclennan's temper. He 
 opened the office door and passed into Craigin's pri- 
 vate room at the back. Here he found Dr. Bailey 
 in charge. As he opened the door the doctor put 
 up his hand for silence and backed him out into the 
 office. 
 
 " Excuse me, Mr. Maclennan," he said, " he's 
 asleep and must not be disturbed." 
 
 Maclennan shook hands with him with a cold 
 " How are you," and introduced him to Mr. Fahey, 
 
 " Is Mr. Craigin ill.'' " inquired Fahey innocently. 
 
 " He has met with a slight accident," replied the 
 doctor. " He is doing weU and will be about in a 
 day or two." 
 
 "Accident?" snorted Maclennan; then clearing 
 his throat as for a speech he began in a loud tone, 
 *' Dr. Bailey, I must say " 
 
 " Excuse me," said the doctor, opening the office 
 door and marshalling them outside, " we'd better go 
 somewhere eke if we are going to talk. It is im- 
 portant that my patient should be kept perfectly 
 quiet." The doctor's air was so entirely respectful 
 and at the same time so masterful that Maclennan 
 foimd himself walking meekly toward the grub- 
 house behind the doctor, with Fahey, the smile on his 
 
THE MEDICAL SUPERINTENDENT 269 
 
 face broader than ever, bringing up the rear. Mac- 
 lennan caught the smUe, but in the face of the 
 doctor's quietj respectful manner he found it diffi- 
 cult to rouse himself to wrath. He took refuge in 
 bluster. 
 
 "Upon my word, Dr. Bailey," he burst forth 
 when once they were inside the grub-house, " it 
 seems to me that you have carried things on with a 
 high hand in this camp. You come in here, a per- 
 fect stranger, you head a mutiny, you lay up my 
 foreman with a dangerous wound, with absolutely 
 no authority from anyone. What in the blank, 
 blank do you mean, anyway? " Maclennan was 
 rather pleased to find himself at length taking fire. 
 
 " Mr. Maclennan," said the doctor quietly, " it is 
 natural you should be angry. Let me give you the 
 facts before you pass your final judgment. A man 
 was sent to me from this camp in a dying condition. 
 Diphtheria. I learned there were others suffering 
 here with the same disease. I came in at once to offer 
 assistance. Consulted with Dr. Haines. We came 
 to a practical agreement as to what ought to be 
 done. Mr. Craigin objected. There was some 
 trouble. Unfortunately, Mr. Craigin was hurt." 
 
 " Dr. Bailey," said the General Manager, " it will 
 save trouble if you will go somewhat fully into the 
 facts. We want an exact statement of what oc- 
 curred." The authoritative tone drew Dr. Bailey's 
 attention to the rugged face of the speaker, with 
 its square forehead and bull-dog jaw. He recog= 
 nized at once that he had to deal with a man of more 
 
270 THE DOCTOR 
 
 than ordinary force, and he proceeded to give him 
 an exact statement of all that had happened;) begin- 
 ning with the death of Scotty Anderson. 
 
 " That is all, gentlemen," said the doctor, as he 
 concluded his tale ; " I did what I considered was 
 right. Prompt action was necessary. I may have 
 been mistaken, but I think not." 
 
 " Mistaken ! " cried Fahey, with a great oath. 
 " I tell you, Maclennan, we've had a close shave. 
 We may, perhaps, explain that one man's death, 
 but if six or eight men had gone out of this camp 
 in the condition in which the doctor says they were, 
 the results would have been not only deplorable as 
 far as the men are concerned, but disastrous to us 
 with the public. Why, good heavens above! what 
 a shave it was! Dr. Bailey, I am proud to meet 
 you," continued Fahey, putting out his hand. 
 " You had a most difficult situation to deal with and 
 you handled it like a general." 
 
 " I quite agree with you," said Maclennan, shak- 
 ing Dr. Bailey warmly by the hand. " The meas- 
 ures were somewhat drastic, but something had to be 
 done. Go right on. Doctor. When Craigin is on 
 his feet again we'U send him out." 
 
 "Mr. Craigin will be quite fit to work in a day 
 or so. But I would suggest that he keep his place. 
 lYou can't afford to lose a man of his force." 
 
 " Well, well, we'll see, we'll see." 
 
 " Dr. Bailey, I'd like to see your hospital arrange- 
 ments. Mac will be busy just now and will excuse 
 us." 
 
THE MEDICAL SUPERINTENDENT 271 
 
 The next two hours the General Manager spent in 
 extracting from Dr. Bailey his theories in regard to 
 camp sanitation and the care of the sick. Finding 
 a listener at once so sympathetic and so intelligent, 
 Dr. Bailey seized the opportunity of expatiating to 
 the fullest extent upon the theme which, during the 
 last few months, had been absorbing his mind. 
 
 " These camps are wrongly constructed in the 
 first instance — every one that I have seen. Almost 
 every law of sanitation is ignored. In location, in 
 relative position of buildings, the disposal of refuse, 
 the treatment of the sick and injured, the whole 
 business reveals atrocious folly and ignorance. For 
 instance, take this camp. The only thing that pre- 
 vents an outbreak of t3rphoid is the cold weather. 
 In the spring you will have a state of things here 
 that will arrest the attention of Canada. Look at 
 the location of the camp. Down in a swamp, with 
 a magnificent site five hundred yards away," point- 
 ing to a little plateau further up the hill, clear of 
 underbrush and timbered with great pines. "Then 
 look at the stables where they are. There are no 
 means by which the men can keep themselves or their 
 clothes clean. Their bunks, some of them, are alive 
 with vermin, and the bvmk-house is reeking with all 
 sorts of smells. At a very little more cost you could 
 have had a camp here pleasant, safe, clean, and an 
 hospital ready for emergencies. Why, good heavens! 
 they might at least have kept the vermin out." 
 
 " Oh, pshaw ! " said Fahey, " every camp has to 
 have a few of them fellows. Makes the men feel at 
 
673 THE DOCTOR 
 
 home. Besides, you can't absolutely drive them 
 out." 
 
 "Drive them out? Give me a free hand and I'll 
 make this camp clean of vermin in two weeks, abso- 
 lutely, and keep it so. Why, it would pay," con- 
 tinued the doctor, " You would keep your men in 
 good condition, in good heart and spirits. They 
 would do twice the work. They would stay with 
 you. Besides, it would prevent scandal." 
 
 " Scandal .f" " The General Manager looked up 
 sharply. 
 
 " Yes, scandal. I have done what I could to pre- 
 vent talk, but down the line they are talking some, 
 and if I am not mistaken it will be all over the East 
 in a few weeks." 
 
 The General Manager was thinking hard. " Look 
 here, young man," he said, with the air of one who 
 has made up his mind, " do you drink?, " 
 
 " No." 
 
 "Do you gamble?" 
 
 " When I've nothing to do." 
 
 "Oh, well," said Mr. Fahey, "a little poker 
 doesn't hurt a man now and then. I am going to 
 make you an oiFer which I hope you will consider 
 favourably. I offer you the position of medical 
 superintendent of this line at a salary of three 
 thousand a year and all expenses. It's not much, 
 but if the thing goes we can easily increase it. You 
 needn't answer just now. Think it over. I don't 
 know your credentials, but I don't care." 
 
 For answer, Dr. Bailey took out his pocketbook 
 
THE MEDICAL SUPERINTENDENT 273 
 
 and selected a letter. " I didn't think I would ever 
 use this. I didn't want to use it. But you can look 
 at it." 
 
 Mr, Fahey took the letter, glanced through it 
 hurriedly, then read it again with more care. 
 
 " You know Sir William? " 
 
 " Very slightly. Met him once or twice in 
 London." 
 
 " This is a most unusual letter for him to write. 
 You must have stood very high in the profession in 
 London." 
 
 " I had a fairly good position," said Dr. Bailey. 
 
 " May I ask why you left.? " 
 
 Dr. Bailey hesitated. " I grew tired of the hfe 
 - — and, besides — well — I wanted to get away from 
 things and people." 
 
 " Pardon my asking," said Fahey hastily. " It 
 
 was none of my business. But, Doctor " here he 
 
 glanced at the letter again, " Bailey, you say your 
 name is .'' " 
 
 " They called me Bailey when I came in and I 
 let it go." 
 
 " Very well, sir," replied Fahey quickly, " Bailey 
 let it be. My offer holds, only I'll make it four 
 thousand. We can't expect a man of your standing 
 for less." 
 
 " Mr. Fahey, I came here to work on the construc- 
 tion. I wanted to forget. When I saw how things 
 were going at the east end I couldn't help jumping 
 it. I never thought I should have enjoyed my pro- 
 fessional work so muchi It has kept me busy. I 
 
27* THE DOCTOR 
 
 will accept your offer at three thousand, but on the 
 distinct understanding that I am to have my way in 
 everything." 
 
 " ^y S^^ • you'll take it, anyway, I imagine," said 
 Fahey, with a laugh, " so we may as well put it in 
 the contract. In your department you are supreme. 
 If you see anything you want, take it. If you don't 
 see it, we will get it for you." 
 
 On their return to the office they found Dr. Haines 
 in Craigin's room with Maclennan. As they entered 
 they heard Haines' voice saying, " I believe it was a 
 put-up job with Tommy." 
 
 " It's a blank lie ! " roared Craigin. " I have it 
 from Tommy that it was his own notion to fire that 
 shoe, and a blank good thing for me it was. Other- 
 wise I should have killed the best man that ever 
 walked into this camp. Here, keep your hands off! 
 You paw around my head like a blanked bull in a 
 sand heap. Where's the doctor? Why ain't he 
 here attending to his business ? " 
 
 " Craigin," he said quietly, " let me look at that. 
 Ah, it's got a twist, that's all. There, that's better." 
 
 Like a child Craigin submitted to his quick, light 
 touch and sank back in his pillow with a groan of 
 content. Dr. Bailey gave him his medicine and 
 induced him, much against his will, to take some 
 nourishment. 
 
 " There now, that's all right. To-morrow youTl 
 be sitting up. Now you must be kept quiet." As 
 he said this he motioned them out of the room. As 
 he was leaving, Craigin called him back. 
 
THE MEDICAL SUPERINTENDENT 27S 
 
 " I want to see Maclennaiij" he said gruffly. 
 
 " Wait till to-morrow, Mr. Craigin," replied the 
 doctor, in soothing tones. 
 
 " I want to see him now." 
 
 The doctor called Mr. Maclennan back. 
 
 " Maclennan, I want to say there's the whitest 
 man in these mountains. I was a blank, blank fool. 
 But for him I might have been a murderer two or 
 three times over, and, God help me! but for that 
 lucky shoe of Tommy's I'd have murdered him. I 
 want to say this to you, and I want the doctor here 
 not to lay it up against me." 
 
 " All right, Craigin," said Maclennan, " I'm glad 
 to hear you say so. And I guess the doctor here 
 won't cherish any grudge." 
 
 Without a word the doctor closed the door upon 
 Maclennan, then went to the bedside. " Craigin, you 
 are a man. I'd be glad to call you my friend." 
 
 That was all. The two men shook hands and the 
 doctor passed out, leaving Craigin more at peace 
 with himself and with the world than he had been 
 for some days. 
 
XIX 
 
 THE LADY OF KUSKINOOE 
 
 SOON after Dick's departure for the West, Ben 
 Fallows took up his abode at the Old Stone 
 Mill and very soon found himself firmly estab- 
 lished as a member of the family there; and so it 
 came i that he was present on the occasion of Mar- 
 garet's visit, when the offer of the Kuskinook Hos- 
 pital was under consideration. The offer came 
 through the Superintendent, but it was due chiefly 
 to the influence on the Toronto Board of Mrs. Mac- 
 dougall. It was to her that Dick had appealed for 
 a matron for the new hospital, which had come into 
 existence largely through his efforts and advocacy. 
 " We want as matron," Dick had written, "a strong, 
 sane woman who knows her work, and is not afraid 
 to tackle anything. She must be cheery in man- 
 ner and brave in heart, not too old, and the more 
 beautiful she is the better." 
 
 " Cheery in manner and brave in heart? " Mrs. 
 Macdougall had said to herself, looking at the letter. 
 " The very one ! She is that and she is all the rest, 
 and she is not too old, and beautiful enough even for 
 Mr. Dick." Here Mrs. Macdougall smiled a gentle 
 smile of deprecation at the suggestion that flitted 
 across her mind at that point. " No, she'll never 
 
 2T6 
 
THE LADY OF KUSKINOOK 277 
 
 be old to Dick. We'll send her, and who knows, 
 
 but " Not even to herself, however, much less 
 
 to another, did the little lady breathe a word of any 
 arriere pensie in urging the appointment. 
 
 With the Superintendent's letter in her hand, 
 Margaret had gone to consult Barney's mother ; for 
 to Margaret Mrs. Boyle was ever " Barney's 
 mother." 
 
 " It would be a very fine work," said Mrs. Boyle, 
 " but oh, lassie ! it is a long, long way. And you 
 would be far from all that knew you ! " 
 
 "Why, Dick is not very far away." 
 
 " Aye, but I doubt you would see little of him, with 
 all the travelling he's doing to those terrible camps. 
 And what if anything should happen to you, and no 
 one to care for you? " 
 
 The old lady's hands trembled over the tea cups. 
 She had aged much during the last six years. The 
 sword had pierced her heart with Barney's going 
 from home. And while, in the case of her younger 
 and favourite son, she had without grudging made 
 the ancient sacrifice, lines of her surrender showed 
 deep upon her face. 
 
 " What's the matter with me goin' along. Miss 
 Margaret? " said Ben, breaking in upon the pause 
 in the conversation. " There's one of the old gang 
 out there. We cawnt 'ave Barney, but you'd do in 
 his place, an' I guess we could make things hump 
 a bit. W'en the gang gits a goin' things begin to 
 hum. You remember that day down at the ' Old 
 King's ' w*en me an' Barney an' Dick " 
 
278 THE DOCTOR 
 
 "Och! Ben lad," said Mrs. Boyle, "Margaret 
 will be hearing that story many's the time. But 
 what would you be doing in an hospital? " 
 
 "Me? I hain't goin' fer to work in no 'ospital! 
 I'm goin' to look after Miss Margaret. She wants 
 someone to look after her, don't she? " 
 
 " Aye, that she does," remarked Mrs. Boyle, with 
 such emphasis that Margaret flushed as she cried, 
 " Not I ! My business is to look after other people." 
 
 But the more the matter was discussed the clearer 
 it became that Margaret's work lay at Kuskinook, 
 and further, that she could not do better than take 
 Ben along to " look after her," as he put it. Hence, 
 before the year had gone, all through the Winder- 
 mere and Crow's Nest valleys the fame of the Lady 
 of Kuskinook grew great, and second only to hers 
 was that of her bodyguard, the hospital orderly, 
 Ben Fallows. And indeed, Ben's usefulness was 
 freely acknowledged by both staff and patients ; for 
 by day or by night he was ever ready to skip off on 
 errands of mercy, his wooden leg clicking a vigor- 
 ous tattoo to his rapid movements. He was espe- 
 cially proud of that wooden leg, a combination of 
 joints and springs so wonderful that he was often 
 heard to lament the clumsiness of the other leg in 
 comparison. 
 
 " Wen it comes to legs," Ben would say, " this 
 'ere's the machine fer me. It never gits rheuma- 
 tism in the joints, nor corns on the toes, an' yeh 
 cawn't freeze it with forty below." 
 
 As Ben grew in fame so he grew in dignity and 
 
THE LADY OF KUSKINOOK 279 
 
 in solemn and serious appreciation of himself, and 
 of his position in the hospital. The institution be- 
 came to him not simply a thing of personal pride, 
 but an object of reverent regard. To Ben's mind, 
 taking it all in all, it stood unique among all similar 
 institutions in the Dominion. While, as for the 
 matron, as he watched her at her work his wonder 
 grew and, with it, a love amounting to worship. In 
 his mind she dwelt apart as something sacred, and 
 to serve her and to guard her became a religion with 
 Ben. In fact, the glory of the Kuskinook hospital 
 lay chiefly in this, that it afforded a sphere in which 
 his divinity might exercise her various powers and 
 graces. 
 
 It was just at this point that Tommy Tate roused 
 his wrath. Dr. Bailey's foreboding regarding Mac- 
 lennan's Camp No. 2 had been justified by a serious 
 outbreak in early spring of typhoid, of malignant 
 type, to which Tommy fell a victim. The hospitals 
 » along the line were already overflowing, and so the 
 doctor had sent Tommy to Kuskinook in charge of 
 an assistant. After a six weeks* doubtful struggle 
 with the disease Tommy began to convalesce, and 
 with returning strength revived his invincible love 
 of mischief, which he gratified in provoking the soul 
 of Orderly Ben Fallows, notwithstanding that the 
 two had become firm friends during the tejiious 
 course of Tommy's sickness. It didn't take Tommy 
 long to discover Ben's tender spots, the most tender 
 of which he found to be the honour of the hospital 
 and all things and persons associated therewith. 
 
280 THE DOCTOR 
 
 As to the matron, Tommy ventured no crrticisiai 
 He had long since enrolled her among his saints, and 
 Ben Fallows himself was not a more enthusiastic dev- 
 otee than he. And not even to gratify his insatia- 
 ble desire for fun at Ben's expense would Tommy 
 venture any liberty with the name of the matron. 
 In regard to the young preacher, however, who 
 seemed to be a somewhat important part of the 
 institution, Tommy was not so scrupulous, while as 
 to the hospital appointments and methods, he never 
 hesitated to champion the superior methods of those 
 down the line. 
 
 It was a beautiful May morning and Tommy was 
 signalizing his unusually vigorous health by a very 
 specially exasperating criticism of the Kuskinook 
 hospital and its belongings. 
 
 " It's the beautiful hospitals they are down the 
 line. They don't have the frills and tucks on their 
 shirts, to be sure, but they do the thrick, so they 
 do." 
 
 " I guess they're aU right fer simple cases," agreed 
 Ben, **but w'en yeh git somethin' real bad yeh 
 got to come 'ere. Look at yerself ! " 
 
 " Arrah ! an' that was the docthor, HIvin be swate 
 to him! He tuk a notion t' me fer a good turn I 
 done him wance. Begob, there's a man fer ye! 
 Talk about yer white min ! Talk about yer prachers 
 an' the likef There's a man fer ye, an' there's none 
 to measure wid him in the mountains ! " 
 
 "Dr. Bailey, I suppose ye're talkin' about?" 
 inquired Ben, with fine scorn. 
 
THE LADY OF KUSKINOOK 281 
 
 " Yis, Dr. Bailey, an' that's the first two letters 
 av his name. An' whin ye find a man to stand for- 
 ninst him, by the howly poker! I'll ate him alive, an' 
 so I will." 
 
 "Well, I hain't agoin' to say, Mr. Tate," said 
 Ben, with studied politeness, " that no doctor can 
 never compare with a preacher, for I've seen a doc- 
 tor myself, an' there's the kind of work he done," 
 displaying his wooden leg and foot with pride. " But 
 what I say is that w'en it comes to doin' real 'igh- 
 class, fine work, give me the Reverend Richard Boyle, 
 Esquire. Yes, sir, sez I, Dick Boyle's the man fer 
 me!" 
 
 " Aw, gwan now wid ye ! An' wud ye be af ther 
 puttin' a preacher in the same car wid a docthor, an' 
 him the Medical Superintendent av the railway? " 
 
 " I hain't talkin' 'bout preachers an' doctors in 
 general," replied Ben,« keeping himself firmly in 
 hand, " but I'm talkin' about this 'ere preacher, the 
 Reverend Richard Boyle." Ben's attention to the 
 finer courtesies in conversation always increased with 
 his wrath. " An' that I'll stick to, for there's no 
 man in these *ere mountain 'as done more fer this 
 'ere country than that same Reverend Richard 
 Boyle, Esquire." 
 
 " Listen til the monkey ! An' what has he done, 
 wiU ye tell me? " 
 
 " Well," said Ben, ignoring Tommy's oppro- 
 brious epithet, " I hain't got a day to spend, but, to 
 begin with, there's two churches up the Windermere 
 which " 
 
SSa THE DOCTOR 
 
 " Churches, is it? Sure an' what is a church good 
 fer but to bury a man from, forby givin' the women 
 a place to say their prayers an' show their hats? " 
 
 " As I was sayin'," continued Ben, " there's two 
 churches up the Windermere. I hain't no saint, an' 
 I hain't no scholar, but I goes by them as is, an' I 
 know that there's Miss Margaret, an' I tell you " — 
 here Ben solemnly removed his pipe from his mouth 
 and, holding it by the bowl, pointed the stem, by way 
 of emphasizing his words, straight at Tommy's face 
 ■ — " I tell you she puts them churches above even 
 this 'ere hinstitution ! " And Ben sat back in his 
 chair to allow the full magnitude of this fact to have 
 its full weight with Tommy. For once Tommy was 
 without reply, for anything savouring of criticism 
 of Miss Margaret or her opinions was impossible to 
 him. 
 
 " An' what's more," continued Ben, " this 'ere 
 hinstitution in which we're a-sittin' this hour 
 wouldn't be 'ere but fer that same preacher an' them 
 that backs him up. That's yer churches fer yeh ! " 
 And still Tommy remained silent. 
 
 "An' if yeh want to knew more about him, you ask 
 Magee there, an' Morrison an' Old Cap Jim an' a 
 'eap of fellows about this 'ere preacher, an' 'ear 'em 
 talk. Don't ask me. 'Ear 'em talk w'en they git 
 time. They wuz a blawsted lot of drunken fools, 
 Workin' for the whiskey-sellers an' the tin-horn 
 gamblers. Now they're straight an' sendin' their 
 money 'ome. An' there's some as I know would be 
 a lot better if they done the same." 
 
THE LADY OF KUSKINOOK 
 
 " Manin' mesilf , ye blaggard ! An' tis thrue fer 
 ye. But luk at the docthor, will ye, ain't he down on 
 the whiskey, too ? " 
 
 " Yes, that's w'at I 'ear," conceded Ben. " But 
 e'll soak 'em good at poker." 
 
 " Bedad, it's the truth ye're spakin," said Tommy 
 enthusiastically. " An' it wud do ye more good than 
 a month's masses to see him take the hair aff the tin 
 horns, the divil fly away wid thim! An' luk at the 
 ' rid Hghts ' " 
 
 " ' Red lights ' ? " interrupted Ben. " Now ye're 
 talkin'. Who cleared up the ' rid lights ' at Bull 
 Crossin'." 
 
 "Who did, thin.?" 
 
 "Who? The Reverend Richard Boyle is the 
 man." 
 
 " Aw, run in an' shut the dure ! Ye're walkin' in 
 yer slape." 
 
 " Mr. Tate, I 'appen to know the facts in this 'ere 
 particular case, beggin' yer 'umble pardon." Ben's 
 h's became more lubricous with his rising indignation. 
 " An' I 'appen to know that agin the Pioneer's 
 violent opposition, agin the business men, agin his 
 own helder a-keepin' the drug shop, agin the hagent 
 of the town site an' agin the whole blawsted, bloomin' 
 population, that 'ere preacher put up a fight, by the 
 jumpin' Jemima! that made 'em all 'unt their 'oles! " 
 
 " Aw, Benny, it's wanderin' agin ye are ! Did ye 
 niver hear how the docthor walked intil the big 
 meetin' an' in five minutes made the iditor av the 
 Pioneer an' the town site agent an' that bunch 
 
S84. THE DOCTOR 
 
 look like last year's potaty patch fer ould shaws, 
 wid the spache he gave thim? " 
 
 " No," said Ben, " I didn't 'ear any such thing, 
 I didn't." 
 
 " Well, thin, go out into society, me bhoy, an' 
 kape yer ears clane." 
 
 " My ears don't require no such cleanin' as some 
 I know ! " cried Ben, whose self-control was strained 
 to the point of breaking. 
 
 " Manin' mesilf agin. Begorra, it's yer game leg 
 that saves ye from a batin' ! " 
 
 " I don't fight no sick man in our own 'ospital," 
 replied Ben scornfully, " but w'en yer sufficiently 
 recovered,. I'd be proud to haccommodate yeh. But 
 as fer this 'ere preacher " 
 
 " Aw, go on wid yer preacher an' yer hull outfit ! 
 The docthor yonder's worth " 
 
 " Now, Mr, Tate, this 'ere's goin' past the limit. 
 I can put up with a good deal of abuse from a sick 
 man, but w'en I 'ears any reflections thrown out at 
 this 'ere 'ospital an' them as runs it, by the livin' 
 jumpin' Jemima Jebbs! I hain't goin' to stand it, 
 not me ! " Ben's voice rose in a shrill cry of anger. 
 " I'd 'ave yeh to know that the 'ead of this 'ere 
 hinstitution " 
 
 " Aw, whist now, ye blatherin' bletherskite, who's 
 talkin' about the Head.? The Head, is it? An' d'ye 
 
 think I'd sthand Howly Moses ! here she comes, 
 
 ar' the angels thimsilves wud luk like last year beside 
 her!" 
 
 " Good-morning, Tommy. Why, I do think you 
 
THE LADY OF KUSKINOOK 285 
 
 are looking remarkably well to-day," cried the 
 matron, her brisk step, bright face, and cheery voice 
 eloquent of her splendid vitality and high spirit. 
 
 " Och ! thin, an' who wudn't luk well in your pris- 
 ince? " said the gallant little Irishman, with a touch 
 to his hat. " Sure, it's better than the sunlight to 
 see the smile av yer pritty face." 
 
 " Now, Tommy, Tommy, we'U have to be sending 
 you away if you go on like that. It's a sure 
 sign of convalescence when an Irishman begins to 
 blarney." 
 
 " Blarney, indade ! Bedad, it's God's mercy I 
 don't have to blarney, for I haven't the strength to 
 do that same." 
 
 " Well, Tommy, don't try. Keep your strength 
 for getting weU again. Ben, I think I saw Mr. 
 Boyle riding up. Will you please go and take his 
 horse and show him up to the ofBce.. I am just want- 
 ing his help in preparing my annual report." 
 
 "Report!" cried Ben. "A day like this! No, 
 sez I; git out Into the woods an' git a little colour 
 into yer cheeks. It'll do him good, too. This' ere 
 hinstitution is takin' the life out o' yeh." 
 
 And Ben went away grumbling his discontent and 
 wrath at the matron's inability to take thought for 
 herself. 
 
 The tiny ofBce was bare enough of beauty, but 
 from the window there stretched a scene glorious 
 in its majestic sweep and in its varied loveliness. 
 Down over the tops of second-growth jack pine 
 and Douglas fir one looked straight into the roaring 
 
286 THE DOCTOR 
 
 gorge of the Goat River filled with misty light and 
 overhung with an arching rainbow. Up the other 
 side climbed the hills in soft folds of pine tops and, 
 beyond the pines, to the sheer, grey, rocky peaks 
 in whose clefts and crags the snow lay like fretted 
 silver. Far up the valley to the east the line of the 
 new railway gleamed here and there through the 
 pines, while to the west the Goat River gorge issued 
 into the splendid expanse of the Kootenay Valley, 
 forest-clad and lying now in all the sunlit glory of 
 its new spring dress. 
 
 For some moments Dick stood gazing. " Of all 
 views I see, this is the best," he said. " Day or 
 night I can get it clear as I see it now, and it always 
 brings me rest and comfort." 
 
 "Rest and comfort?" echoed Margaret, coming 
 to his side. " Yes, I understand that, especially with 
 the sunhght upon it. But at night, Dick, with the 
 moon high above that peak there and filling with its 
 light all the valleys, do you know, I hardly dare 
 look at it long." 
 
 " I understand," replied Dick, slowly. " Barney 
 used to say the same about the moonlight on the 
 view from the hillcrest above the Mill." 
 
 Then a silence fell between them. The deepest, 
 nearest thought with each was Barney. It was 
 always Barney. Resolutely they refused to allow 
 the name to reach their lips except at rare intervals, 
 but each knew how the thought of him lurked in 
 the heart, ready to leap ipto full view with every 
 deeper throb. 
 
THE LADY OF KUSKINOOK 287 
 
 " Comes this won't do," said Margaret, almost 
 sharply. 
 
 " No, it won't do," replied Dick, each reading the 
 thought in the other's heart. 
 
 " I am struggling with my report," said Margaret 
 in a business-like tone. "What shall I say? How 
 shall I begin? " 
 
 " Your report, eh? Better let me write it. I'll 
 tell them things that will make them sit up. What 
 copy there would be in it for the Daily Telegraph! 
 The lonely outpost of civilization, the incoming 
 stream of maimed and wounded, of sick and lonely, 
 the outgoing streanv healed and hopeful, and all 
 singing the praises of the Lady of Kusklnook." 
 
 " Hush, Dick," said Margaret softly. " You are 
 forgetting the man who travels the lonely trails to 
 the camps and up the gulches for the sick and 
 wounded and brings them out on his broncho's back 
 and his own, too, watches by them and prays with 
 them, who yams to them and sings to them till they 
 forget their homesickness, which is the sickness the 
 hospital cannot cure." 
 
 " Oh, draw it mild, Margaret. Well, we'll give 
 it up. The best part of this report will be that that 
 is never written, except on the hearts and in the 
 lives of the poor chaps who will think of the Lady 
 of Kuskinook any time they happen to be saying 
 their prayers." 
 
 " TeU me, Dick, what shall I say? " 
 
 "Begin with the statistics. Typhoids, so 
 many " 
 
288 THE DOCTOR 
 
 " What an awful lot there were, two hundred and 
 twenty-seven of them ! " 
 
 " Yes," replied Dick. " But think of what there 
 would have been but for that man, Bailey! He's a 
 wonder! He has organized the camps upon a sani- 
 tary basis, brought in good water from the hills, 
 established hospitals, and all that sort of thing." 
 
 " So you've got it, too," said Margaret, with a 
 smile. 
 
 "Got what.?" 
 
 " Why, what I call the Bailey bacillus. From the 
 general manager, Mr. Fahey, down to Tommy Tate, 
 it seems to have gone everywhere." 
 
 "Is that so.''" replied Dick, laughing. "Well, 
 there are some who have escaped the tin-horn gang 
 and the whiskey runners. Or rather, they've got 
 it, but it's a different kind. Some day they'll kill 
 him." 
 
 " And yet they say he is " 
 
 " Oh, I know. He does gamble, and when he gets 
 going he's a terror. But he's down on the whiskey 
 and on. the ' red lights.' You remember the big 
 fight at Bull Crossing.'' It was Bailey pulled me out 
 of that hole. The Pioneer was slating me, Colonel 
 Hilliers, the town site agent, was fighting me, with- 
 drew his off'er of a site for our church unless I'd 
 leave the ' red lights ' alone, and went everywhere 
 quoting the British army in India against me. Even 
 my own men, church members, mind you, one of them 
 an elder, thought I should attend to my own business. 
 These people were their best customers. Why, they 
 
THE LADY OF KUSKINOOK 289 
 
 iictually went so far as to write to the Presbytery 
 Ifhat I was antagonizing the people and ruining the 
 Church. Well, you remember the big meeting called 
 to protest against this vice? The enemy packed the 
 house. Had half a dozen speakers for the ' Liberal ' 
 side. Unfortunately I had been sent for to see a 
 fellow dying up the line. It looked for a complete 
 knockout for me. In came Dr. Bailey, waited till 
 they were all through their talk, and then went for 
 them. He didn't speak more than ten minutes, but 
 in those ten minutes he crumpled them up utterly 
 and absolutely. Colonel Hilliers and the editor of 
 The Pioneer, I understand, went white and red, 
 yellow and green, by turns. The crowd simply 
 yelled. You know he is tremendously popular with 
 the men. They passed my resolution standing on 
 the backs of their seats. Quite true, the doctor went 
 from the meeting to a big poker game and stayed 
 at it all night. But I'm inclined to forgive him 
 that, and all the more because I am told he was after 
 that fellow ' Mexico ' and his gang. Oh, it was a 
 fine bit of work. I've often wished to meet him, but 
 he's a hard man to find. He must be a good sort 
 at bottom." 
 
 " To hear Tommy talk," replied Margaret, " you 
 would make up your mind he was a saint. He tells 
 the most heart-moving stories of his ways and 
 doings, nursing the sick and helping those who are 
 down on their luck. Why, he and Ben almost came 
 to blows this morning in regard to the comparative 
 merits of the doctor and yourself." 
 
290 THE DOCTOR 
 
 " Ben, eh? I can never be thankful enough," said 
 Dick earnestly, " that you brought Ben West with 
 you. It always makes me feel safer to think that 
 he is here." 
 
 " Ben will agree with you," replied Margaret, 
 " I assure you. He assumes full care of me and of 
 the whole institution." 
 
 " Good boy, Ben," said Dick, heartily. " And he 
 is a kind of link to that old home and — ^with the past, 
 the beautiful past, the past I like to think of." The 
 shadows were creeping up on Dick's face, deepening 
 its lines and emphasizing the look of weariness and 
 unrest. 
 
 " A beautiful past it was," replied Margaret 
 gently. " We ought to be thankful that we have it." 
 
 "Have you heard anything?" inquired Dick. 
 
 " No. Tola's letter was the last. He had left 
 London shortly after her arrival, so Jack Charring- 
 ton had told her. She didn't know where he had 
 gone. Charrington thought to the West somewhere, 
 but there has been no word since." 
 
 Dick put his head on the table and groaned aloud. 
 
 " Never mind, Dick, boy," said Margaret, laying 
 her hand upon his head as if he had been a child, 
 " it wiU all come right some day." 
 
 " I can't stand it, Margaret ! " groaned Dick, " I 
 shut it out from me for weeks and then it all comes 
 over me again. It was my cursed folly that wrecked 
 everything! Wrecked Barney's life, lola's, too, for 
 all I know, and mine ! " 
 
 "You must not say wrecked," replied Margaret. 
 
THE LADY OF KUSKINOOK 291 
 
 " What other word is there? Wrecked and ruined. 
 I know what you would say ; but whatever the next 
 life has for us, there is nothing left in this that 
 can atone!" 
 
 " That, too, you must not say, Dick," said Mar- 
 garet. " God has something yet for us. He always 
 keeps for us better than He has given. The best is 
 always before us. Besides," she continued eagerly, 
 " He has given you aU this work to do, this beau- 
 tiful work." 
 
 The word recalled Dick. He sat up straight. 
 " Yes, yes, I must not forget. I am not worthy to 
 touch it. He gave me this chance to work. What 
 else should I want.? And after all, this is the best. 
 I can't help the heart-hunger now and then, but God 
 forbid I should ever say a word of anything but 
 gratitude. I was down, down, far down out of 
 sight. He pulled me up. Who am I to complain.? 
 But I am not complaining ! It is not for myself. If 
 there were only one word to know he was doing well, 
 was safe ! " He turned suddenly to Margaret with 
 an almost fierce earnestness. " Margaret, do you 
 think God will give me this? " His voice was hoarse 
 with the intensity of his passion. " Do you know, 
 I sometimes feel that I don't want Heaven without 
 this. I never pray for anything else. Wealth, 
 honour, fame, I once longed for these. But now 
 these are nothing to me if only I knew Barney was 
 right and safe and well. Yes, even my love for you, 
 Margaret, the best thing, the truest thing next to 
 my love of my Lord, I'd give up to know. But three 
 
293 THE DOCTOR 
 
 years have gone since that awful night and not a 
 word! It eats and eats and eats into me here," he 
 smote himself hard over his heart, " till the actual 
 physical pain is at times more than I can stand. 
 What do you think, Margaret? " he continued, his 
 face quivering piteously. " Every time I think of 
 God I think of Barney. Every prayer I make I 
 ask for Barney. I wake at night and it is 
 Barney I am thinking of. Can I stand this long.'' 
 Will I have to stand it long? Has God forgiven me? 
 And when He forgives, does He take away the pain? 
 Sometimes I wonder if there is anything in all this 
 I preach ! " 
 
 " Hush, Dick ! " said Margaret, her voice broken 
 with the grief she understood only too well. " Hush ! 
 You must not doubt God. God forgives and loves 
 and grieves with our griefs. He will take away the 
 pain as soon as He can. You must believe this and 
 wait and trust. God will give him back to us. I 
 feel it here." She laid her hand upon her heaving 
 breast. 
 
 For some moments Dick was silent. " Perhaps 
 so," he said at length. " For your sake He might. 
 Yes, down in my heart I believe He will." 
 
 " Come," said Margaret, " let us go out into the 
 open air, into God's sunlight. We shall feel better 
 there. Come, Dick, let us go and see the Goat 
 cavort." She took him by the arm xind lifted him 
 up. At the door she met Ben. " I won't be gone 
 long, Ben," she explained. 
 
 " Stay as long as yeh like. Miss Margaret," 
 
THE LADY OF KUSKINOOK 
 
 replied Ben graciously. " An' the longer yeh stay 
 the better fer the hinstitution." 
 
 " That's an extremely doubtful compliment," 
 laughed Margaret, as they passed down the winding 
 path that made its way through the tall red pines 
 to the rocky bank of the Goat River. There on a> 
 broad ledge of rock that jutted out over the boiling 
 water, Margaret seated herself with her back against 
 the big red polished bole of a pine tree, while at her 
 feet Dick threw himself, reclining against a huge 
 pine root that threw great clinging arms here and 
 there about the rocky ledges. It was a sweet May 
 day. All the scents and soimds of spring filled up 
 the fragrant spaces of the woods. Far up through 
 the great feathering branches gleamed patches of 
 blue sky. On every side stretched long aisles pillared 
 with the clean red trunks of the pine trees wrought 
 In network pattern. At their feet raged the Goat, 
 foaming out his futile fury at the unmoved black 
 rocks. Up the rocky sides from the water's edge, 
 bravely clinging to nook and cranny, running along 
 ledges, hanging trembling to ragged edges, boldly 
 climbing up to the forest, were all spring's myriad 
 tender things wherewith she redeems Nature from 
 winter's ugliness. From the river below came gusts 
 of misty wind, waves of sound of the water's many 
 voices. It was a spot where Nature's kindly minis- 
 tries got about the spirit, healing, soothing, resting. 
 
 With hardly a word, Dick lay for an hour, watch- 
 ing the pine branches wave about him and listening 
 to the voices that came from the woods around and 
 
294. THE DOCTOR 
 
 from the waters below, till the fever and the doubt 
 passed from his heart and he grew strong and ready 
 for the road again. 
 
 " You don't know how good this is, Margaret," 
 he said, " all this about me. No, it's you. It's you, 
 Margaret. If I could see you oftener I could bear 
 it better. You shame me and you make me a man 
 again. Oh, Margaret ! if only you could let me hope 
 that some day " 
 
 " Look, Dick ! " she cried, springing to her feet, 
 " there's the train." 
 
 It was still a novelty to see the long line of cars 
 wind Its way like some great jointed reptile through 
 the woods below. 
 
 " Tell me, Margaret," continued Dick, " is it quite 
 impossible? " 
 
 " Oh, Dick ! " cried the girl, her face full of pain, 
 "don't ask me!" 
 
 " Can it never be, Margaret, in the years to 
 come? " 
 
 She clasped her hands above her heart. " Dick," 
 she cried piteously, " I can't see how It can be. My 
 heart Is not my own. While Barney lives I could 
 not be true and be another's wife." 
 
 " While Barney lives ! " echoed Dick blankly. 
 " Then God grant you may never be mine ! " He 
 stood straight for a moment, then with a shake of 
 his shoulders, as if adjusting a load, he stepped 
 Into the path. " Come, let us go," he said. " There 
 will be letters and I must get to work." 
 
 " Yes, Dick dear," said Margaret, her voice full 
 
THE LADY OF KUSKINOOK 295 
 
 of tender pity, " there's always our work, thank 
 God!" 
 
 Together they entered the shady path, going back 
 to the work which was to them, as to many others, 
 God's salvation. 
 
 There were a nuiuber of letters lying on the 
 office desk that day, but one among them made 
 Margaret's heart beat quick. It was from lola. 
 She caught it up and tore it open. It might hold 
 a word of Barney. She was not mistaken. Hurriedly 
 she read through lola's glowing accounts of her 
 season's triumph with Wagner. " It has been a 
 great, a glorious experience," wrote lola. " I cannot 
 be far from the top now. The critics actually 
 classed me with the great Malten. Oh, it was glori- 
 ous. But I am tired out. The doctors say there is 
 something wrong, but I think it is only that I am 
 tired to death. They say I cannot sing for a year, 
 but I don't want to sing for a long, long time. I 
 want you, Margaret, and I want — oh, fool that 
 I was! — ^I may as well out with it — I want Barney. 
 I have no shame at aU. If I knew where to find him 
 I would ask him to come. But he would not. He 
 loathes me, I know. If I were only with you at the 
 manse or at the Old Mill I should soon be strong. 
 Sometimes I am afraid I shall never be. But if 
 I could see you! I think that is It. I am weary 
 for those I love. Love! Love! Love! That is the 
 best. If you have your chance, Margaret, don't 
 throw away love! There, this letter has tired me 
 out. My face is hot as I read it and my heart is 
 
,296 THE DOCTOR 
 
 sore. But I must let it go." The tears were stream- 
 ing down Margaret's face as she read. 
 
 " Read it, Dick," she said brokenly, thrusting the 
 letter into his hands. 
 
 1 Dick read it and gave it back to her without a 
 word. 
 
 " Oh, where is he? " cried Margaret, wringing 
 her hands. " If we only knew ! " 
 
 " The date is a month old," said Dick. " I think 
 one of us must go. You must go, Margaret." 
 
 " No, Dick, it must be you." 
 
 " Oh, not I, Margaret ! Not I ! You remem- 
 ber " 
 
 " Yes, you, Dick. For Barney's sake you must 
 go." 
 
 "'For Barney's sake," said Dick, with a sob in 
 his throat. " Yes, I'U go. I'U go to-night. No, 
 I must go to see a man dying in the Big Horn 
 Canyon. Next day I'll be off. I'll bring her back 
 to him. Oh ! if I could only bring her back for him, 
 dear old boy ! God give me this ! " 
 
 "Amen," said Margaret with white lips. For 
 hope lives long and dies hard. 
 
XX 
 
 UNTIL SEVENTY TIMES SEVEN 
 
 THE Big Horn flowed by a tortuous and rapid 
 course through rough country into the 
 Goat. The trail was bad and, in places, 
 led over high mountain shoulders in a way heart- 
 breaking to packers. For this reason, all who knew: 
 the ways and moods of a canoe chose the water 
 in going up the canyon. True enough, there were 
 a number of lift-outs and two rather long portages 
 that made the going up pretty stiff, but if a man 
 had skill with the paddle and knew the water he 
 might avoid these by running the rapids. Men 
 from the Ottawa or from some other north Canadian 
 river, like all true canoemen, hated to portage and 
 loved to take the risk of the rapids. Though the 
 current was fairly rapid, going upstream was not 
 so difficult as one might imagine; that is, if the 
 canoeman happened to know how to take advantage 
 of the eddies, how to sneak up the quiet water by 
 the banks, how to put the nose of his canoe into 
 the swift water and to hold her so that, as Duprez, 
 the keeper of the stopping place at the Landing, 
 said, " She would walk on de rapide toute suite lak 
 one oiseau." 
 
 There was a bad outbreak of typhoid at the up- 
 per camp on the Big Horn, and Dr. Bailey had 
 
 397 
 
THE DOCTOR 
 
 been urgently summoned. The upper camp lay on 
 the other side of the Big Horn Lake, twenty miles 
 or more from the steel. The lake itself was six 
 miles long by canoe, but by trail it was at least twice 
 that. Hence, though there would be some stiff pad- 
 dling in the trip, the doctor did not hesitate in his 
 choice of route. He knew his canoe and loved every 
 rib and thwart in her. He had learned also the 
 woodsman's trick of going light. A blanket, a tea 
 pail which held his grub, consisting of some Hud- 
 son Bay hard tack, a hunk of bacon, and a little 
 tea and sugar, and his drinking cup constituted his 
 baggage, so that he could make the portages in a sin- 
 gle carry. Many a mile had he gone, thus equipped, 
 both by trail and by canoe, in his journeyings 
 up and down these valleys, doing his work for the 
 sick and wounded in the railroad, lumber, and tie 
 camps, and more recently in the new-planted min- 
 ing towns. 
 
 It was a great day for his trip. A stiff breeze 
 upstream would help him in his fight with the cur- 
 rent and coming down it would be glorious. The 
 sun was just appearing over the row of pines that 
 topped the low mountain range to the east when 
 he packed his kit and blankets under the gunwale 
 in the bow and slipped his canoe into the water. He 
 was about to step in when a voice he had not heard 
 for many days arrested him. 
 
 " Hello, Duprez ! Did you see the preacher pass 
 
 this way yesterday? He was By the livin' 
 
 jumpin' Jemima ! Barney ! " 
 
UNTIL SEVENTY TIMES SEVEN 
 
 It was Ben Fallows, gazing with open mouth on 
 the doctor. With two swift steps the doctor was 
 at his side. He grasped Ben by the arm and walked 
 him swiftly apart. 
 
 " Ben," he said, in a low, stern voice, " not a word. 
 I once did you a good turn? " 
 
 Ben nodded, still too astonished for speech. 
 
 " Then listen to what I tell you. No one must 
 know what you know now." 
 
 " But — ^but Miss Margaret and Dick " gasped 
 
 Ben. 
 
 " They don't know," interrupted the doctor, " and 
 must not know. Will you promise me this, 
 Ben." " 
 
 " By Jove, Barney! I don't— I don't think " 
 
 " Do you hear me, Ben.'' Do you promise? " 
 
 «Yes,bytheUvin' " 
 
 " Good-bye, Ben ; I think I can depend on you for 
 the sake of old days." The doctor's smile set Ben's 
 head in a whirl. 
 
 " You bet. Bar — ^Doctor ! " he cried. 
 
 " Good old boy, Ben. Good-bye, lad." 
 
 He stepped into the canoe and pushed her off 
 into the eddy just above the falls by which the Big 
 Horn plunged into the Goat. 
 
 " Bo' voyage, M'sieu le Docteur ! " sang out 
 Duprez. " You cache hup de preechere. He pass 
 on de riviere las' night." 
 
 "What? Who?" 
 
 " De preechere, Boyle. He's pass on wid canoe 
 las' night. He's camp on de Beeg Fall, s'pose." 
 
300 THE DOCTOR 
 
 Barney held his canoe steady for a moment. 
 " Went up last night, did he? " 
 
 " Oui. Tom Martin on de Beeg Horn camp he's 
 go ver' seeck. He send for M'sieu Boyle." 
 
 " Did he go up alone? " 
 
 " Oui. He's not want nobody. Non. He's good 
 man on de canoe." 
 
 It was an awkward situation. There was a very 
 good chance that he should fall in with his brother 
 somewhere on the trip, and that, at aU. costs, he was 
 determined to avoid. For a minute or more he sat 
 holding his canoe, calculating time and distances. 
 At length he came to a resolve. He must visit the 
 camp on the Big Horn, and he trusted his own in- 
 genuity to avoid the meeting he dreaded. 
 
 " All right, Duprez ! bon jour." 
 
 " Bo' jou' an' bon voyage. Gare S. vous on de 
 Longue Rapide. You mak' de portage hon dat 
 rapide, n'est ce pas? " 
 
 " No, sir. No portage for me, Duprez. I'll run 
 her." 
 
 " Prenez garde, M'sieu le Docteur," answered Du- 
 prez, shrugging his shoulders. " Maudit I Dat's 
 ver' fas' water ! " 
 
 " Don't worry about me," cried the doctor. 
 " Just watch me take this little riffle." 
 
 " Bien ! " cried Duprez, as the doctor slipped his 
 canoe into the eddy and, with a smooth, noiseless 
 stroke, sent her up toward the point where the 
 stream broke into a riffle at the head of the rapid 
 which led to the falls below. It may be that the 
 
UNTIL SEVENTY TIMES SEVEN 301 
 
 doctor was putting a little extra weight on his pad- 
 dle or that he did not exercise that unsleeping vigi- 
 lance which the successful handling of the canoe de- 
 mands, but whatever the cause, when the swift water 
 struck the canoe, in spite of all his strength and skill, 
 he soon found himself almost in midstream and 
 going down the rapids. 
 
 " Mon Dieu ! " cried Duprez, dancing in his ex- 
 citement from one foot to the other. " A droit ! a 
 droit! Non! Don' try for go hup! Come out on 
 de heddy!" 
 
 The doctor did not hear him, but, realizing the 
 hopelessness of the frontal attack upon the rapid, 
 he steered his canoe toward the eddy and gradually 
 edged her into the quiet water. 
 
 " You come ver' close on de fall, mon gar' ! " cried 
 Duprez, as the doctor paddled slowly up the edge 
 past him. " You bes' pass on de portage. Not 
 many mans go hup on de rapids comme 9a." 
 
 " All right, Duprez. I hit her too hard, that's 
 all." 
 
 Once more the doctor moved toward the riffle. 
 He had done the thing before and he was not to be 
 beaten now. As the eddy bore him toward the swift 
 water again he carefully gauged the angle of at- 
 tack, so that when the nose of the canoe entered the 
 riffle, with the trick that all canoemen know, he held 
 her up firm against the water, and, with no very 
 great effort, but by skilful manipulations of the 
 force of the current, he shoved her gradually across 
 the riffle Into the slow water near the farther bank, 
 
303 THE DOCTOR 
 
 and with a triumphant wave of the paddle disap- 
 peared around the bend. 
 
 " He's good man," said Duprez to Ben Fallows, 
 who had taken all this time to recover from the 
 shock of Barney's sudden appearance. " But de 
 preechere, he's go hup dat rapide lak one oiseau 
 las' night." 
 
 " Did, eh.? " answered Ben. " Well, he didn't put 
 in three summers on the Mattawa f er nothin'. He's 
 a bird in the canoe, an' so's his bro — ^that is — the 
 doctor there. Wonder if he'll catch him ! " Ben was 
 much excited. 
 
 " Mebbe. He's cache heem comin' down, for 
 
 sure 
 
 I » 
 
 Meanwhile the doctor paddled on with steady, 
 swinging stroke, taking advantage of every eddy 
 and cross current, stealing along the bank under the 
 overhanging trees, sidling across swift water, lifting 
 his canoe over rocky bits, till near mid-day he found 
 himself at the portage below the Long Rapid. 
 
 " Guess I'll camp on the other side," he said, 
 talking aloud after the manner of men who live 
 much alone. He adjusted his paddles on the thwarts, 
 hooked his tea pail to his belt, shouldered his canoe, 
 and, taking his blanket pack in his hand, made the 
 half mile portage without a " set down." 
 
 " There," he said, setting his canoe carefully on 
 the grass, " my legs are better than my arms. Now 
 we'll grub." He unpacked his tea pail, cut his 
 bacon into strips preparatory to toasting, built a 
 fire, drew a pail of water, threw in a handful of tea, 
 
UNTIL SEVENTY TIMES SEVEN 803 
 
 swung it by a poplar sapling over the fire, and sat 
 down to toast his bacon. In fifteen minutes his 
 meal was ready — such a meal as can be had only 
 in the mountains under the open sky and at the 
 end of a ten-mile paddle against the stream of the 
 Big Horn. After dinner he lit his pipe and stretched 
 himself in the warm spring sun for half an hour's 
 quiet think. The old restlessness was coming back 
 upon him. His work as Medical Superintendent of 
 the railway construction was practically completed. 
 The medical department was thoroughly organized 
 and the fight with disease and dirt was pretty much 
 over so far as he was concerned. And with the 
 easing of the strain there came fiercely upon him the 
 soul fever that had for the last three years driven 
 him from land to land. Had it not been that his 
 professional honour demanded that he should hold 
 his post and do his work, he had long ago left a dis- 
 trict where he was kept constantly in mind of what 
 he had so resolutely striven to forget. By the ex- 
 ercise of the most assiduous care he had prevented 
 a meeting with his brother during the last three 
 months. But in this he could not hope to be success- 
 ful much longer. Before his second pipe was smoked 
 he had reached his resolve. " I'll pull out of this," 
 he said, " once this Big Horn camp is cleaned up." 
 He packed his kit, carefully extinguished his fire, 
 the mark of a right woodsman, slipped his canoe into 
 the water, and set off again. His meeting with Ben 
 Fallows seemed somehow to have brought his brother 
 near him to-day. Everything was eloquent of those 
 
304 THE DOCTOR 
 
 days they had spent together on the upper reaches 
 of the Ottawa. The flowing river, the open sky, 
 the wood, the fresh air, and, most of all, the slipping 
 canoe spoke to him of Dick. The fierce resentment, 
 the bitter sense of loss, that had been as a festering 
 in his heart these years, seemed somehow to-day to 
 have lost their stinging pain. With every lift of 
 the paddle, with every deep breath of the fragrant 
 spring air, with every slip of the canoe, the buoyant 
 gladness of those old canoeing days came swelling 
 into his heart, and ere he knew he caught himself 
 singing, to the rhythmic swing of paddle and shoul- 
 ders, the old Habitant canoe song: 
 
 "En roulant ma boule roulant." 
 
 As often as he found his body swinging to the 
 song, so often did he sternly check himself and reso- 
 lutely set another air going in his head, only to 
 find himself in a short space swinging along again 
 to the old song to which he and his brother had so 
 often made their canoe slip in those great days that 
 now seemed so far away. 
 
 "En roulant ma boule," 
 
 sang his paddle in spite of all he could do. He 
 could hear Dick's clear tenor from the bow. " Here, 
 confound it ! Quit it, I say ! " he said aloud savagely, 
 
 " En roulant ma boule roulant," 
 in a clear strong voice came the old song from 
 
UNTIL SEVENTY TIMES SEVEN 305 
 
 around the bend. The doctor almost dropped his 
 paddle into the stream. 
 
 "Heavens above!" he muttered. "What's that? 
 Who's that?" 
 
 " Visa la noir, tua le blanc, 
 Rouli Toulant, ma boule roulant," 
 
 sang the voice. There was only one who could 
 sing that verse just that way. With two swift 
 heaves of the paddle he lifted his canoe into the 
 overhanging bushes, noiselessly leaped ashore, and 
 pulled his canoe up the bank after him. Down the 
 river still came the song, and ever nearer. 
 
 " O fils du roi tu es mechant^ 
 £n Toulant ma boule." 
 
 The doctor cautiously parted the bushes and 
 looked out. Close to the bank came the canoe, the 
 singer sitting in the stern, his hat off and his face 
 showing brown against the fair hair. How strong 
 he looked and how handsome! Barney remembered 
 his own boyish pride in his brother's good looks. Yes, 
 he was handsome as ever, and yet he was different. 
 " He's older, that's it," said the man in the bushes, 
 breathing hard. No, it was not that altogether. 
 There was a new gravity, a new dignity, upon the 
 face. All at once the song ceased abruptly. The 
 paddle was laid down and the canoe allowed to 
 drift. The current carried her still nearer the shore. 
 Every line in the face could now be seen. The 
 
S06 THE DOCTOR 
 
 man peering out through the bushes was con- 
 scious of a sharp thrust of pain. The lines in that 
 grave, handsome face were lines drawn with some 
 sharp instrument of grief. The change was not 
 that of years, it was more. Not simply the gravity 
 of responsible manhood, it was that, and something 
 else. This was the change, the old careless gaiety 
 was gone out of the face and in its place sadness, 
 almost gloom. Straight down the river the grave, 
 sad face was turned, but the eyes were fixed with 
 unseeing gaze upon the flowing water. The canoe 
 was now almost abreast the hiding place in the 
 bushes and still drifting. Suddenly the man in the 
 canoe, lifting up his face toward the sky, cried out, 
 " I'll bring her back, please God, and I'll find him, 
 too ! " The watcher drew back quickly. A stick 
 snapped under his hand. He threw himself face down 
 and gripped his hands hard into the moss as if to 
 hold himself there. " A deer, I guess, but I must 
 get on," he heard a voice say, then a flip of the 
 paddle and, looking out through the bushes, he saw 
 the swaying figure of the man he most longed and 
 most dreaded to see of all men in the world fast 
 disappearing from his view. Twice he raised his 
 hands to his Ups to call after him, but even as he 
 did so a vision held his voice, the vision of a room 
 in a city far away, the girl he loved, and this man 
 pressing hot kisses on her face. 
 
 " No," he said at length, grinding his foot hard 
 into the moss, " let him go." But still with strain- 
 ing eyes he gazed after the swaying figure tiU the 
 
UNTIL SEVENTY TIMES SEVEN 307 
 
 bend in the river hid it from his sight. Then he 
 sank down on the deep moss bank with the air of 
 a man who has just passed through a heavy fight. 
 
 The rest of the journey upstream was to him a 
 weary drag. The brightness had gone out of the 
 light, the sweetness out of the air. A burning pain 
 filled his heart and clutched at his throat. The old 
 sore, which his work for the sick and wounded had 
 helped to heal over, had been torn open afresh, and 
 the first agony of it was upon him again. He ar- 
 rived at the upper camp late at night and weary. 
 (But, weary as he was, he toiled on in his fight with 
 ihe typhoid outbreak till near the dawning of the 
 day, then, snatching an hour's sleep, he set ofiF down 
 ihe Big Horn, resolved that ere a week had passed 
 he would seek in some far land the forgetting which 
 here was impossible to him. 
 
 Steadily the paddle swung all the long morning, 
 but without awakening any rhythmic song in his 
 lieart. It was a heavy grind to be got through with 
 as soon as might be. Even the slip and leap of the 
 canoe failed to quicken his heart a single beat. It 
 was still early in the forenoon when he reached the 
 Long Rapid. It was a dangerous bit of water, but 
 without a moment's considering he stood upright in 
 his canoe and, casting a quick glance down the boil- 
 ing slope, he made his choice of passage. Then 
 getting on his knees he braced them firmly against 
 the sides of his canoe and before he was well ready 
 found himself in the smooth, steep pitch at the 
 crest of that seething incline of plunging water. 
 
THE DOCTOR 
 
 Two long swallowlike swoops, then a mad plunging 
 through a succession of buffeting, curling waves that 
 slapped viciously at him as he dashed through, a 
 great heave or two over the humping billows at the 
 foot, then the swirl of the eddy caught him, and 
 lifted him clear over into the quiet water. One 
 minute of wild thrills and the Long Rapid was left 
 behind. 
 
 " Didn't take that quite right," he grumbled. 
 " Ought to have lifted her sooner. Next time I'll 
 get through dry. Next time?" he repeated. "God 
 knows if there'll ever be any next time o{ that 
 water for me." He paddled round the eddy toward 
 the shore, intending to dump the water out of his 
 canoe. "Hello! What in thunder is that.? " Up 
 against the driftwood, where it had been carried by 
 the eddy, a canoe was floating bottom upwards. 
 " God help us ! " he groaned. " It's his canoe ! My 
 God! My God! Dick, boy, you're not lost! He'd 
 run these rapids. That's his style. Oh, why didn't 
 I call him? We could have done it together safe 
 enough ! " He stood up in his canoe and searched 
 eagerly among the driftwood. " Dick ! Dick ! " he 
 called over and over again in the wild cry of a 
 wounded man. He paddled over to the canoe and 
 examined it. "Ah, that's where he hit the rocks, 
 just at the foot. But he shouldn't drown here," he 
 continued, " unless they hit him. Let's see, where 
 would that eddy take him? " For another anxious 
 minute he stood observing the run of the water. " If 
 he could keep up three minutes," he said, " he ought 
 
UNTIL SEVENTY TIMES SEVEN 309 
 
 to strike that bar." With a few sweeps of his pad- 
 dle he was on the sand bar. " Ha ! " he cried. A 
 paddle lay on the sand just above the water mark. 
 " That never floated there." He leaped out and 
 drew up his canoe, then, dropping on his knees, he 
 examined the marks upon the bar. There on the sand 
 was stamped the print of an open hand. " Now, God 
 be thanked ! " he cried, Hf ting his hands toward the 
 sky, " he's reached this spot. He's somewhere on 
 shore here." Like a dog on scent he followed up the 
 marks to the edge of the forest where the bank rose 
 steeply over rough rocks. Eagerly he clambered 
 up, his eyes on the alert for any sign. He reached 
 the top. A quick glance he threw around him, then 
 with a low cry he rushed forward. There, stretched 
 prone on the moss, a little pile of brushwood near 
 him, with his match case in his hand, lay his brother. 
 " Oh, Dick, boy ! " he cried aloud, " not too late, 
 surely!" He dropped beside the still form, turned 
 him gently over and laid his hand upon his heart. 
 " Too late ! Too late ! " he groaned. Like a mad- 
 man he rushed out of the woods, flung himself down 
 the rocky bank and toward his canoe, seized his bag 
 and scrambled back again. Again, and more care- 
 fully, he felt for the heartbeat. He thought he could 
 detect a feeble flutter. Hurriedly he seized his flask 
 and, forcing open the closed teeth, poured a few 
 drops of the whiskey down the throat. But there was 
 no attempt to swallow. " We'll try it this way." With 
 iswif t fingers he filled his syringe with the whiskey and 
 mjected it into the arm. Eagerly he waited with 
 
310 THE DOCTOR 
 
 his hand upon the feebly fluttering heart. " My 
 God ! it's coming, I do believe ! " he cried. " Now a 
 little strychnine," he whispered. " There, that ought 
 to help." 
 
 Once more he rushed to his canoe and brought his 
 cooking kit and blanket. In five minutes he had a 
 fire going and his tea pail swung over it with a little 
 more than a cupful of water in it. In five minutes 
 more he had half a cup of hot tea ready. By this 
 time the heartbeat could be detected every moment 
 growing stronger. Into the tea he poured a little 
 of the stimulant. " If I can only get this down," 
 he muttered, chafing at the limp hands. Once more 
 he lifted the head, pried open the shut jaws, and 
 tried to pour a few drops of the liquid down. After 
 repeated attempts he succeeded. Then for the first 
 time he observed that his hands were covered with 
 blood. Gently he lifted the head and, examining 
 the back of it, detected a great jagged wound. 
 " Looks bad, bad." He felt the bone carefully and 
 shook his head. " Fracture, I fear." Heating some 
 more water he cleansed and dressed the wound. Half 
 an hour more he spent in his anxious struggle, with 
 intense activity utilizing every precious moment, 
 when to his infinite joy and relief the life began to 
 come slowly back. " Now I must get him to the 
 hospital." 
 
 There were still five miles to paddle, but it was 
 down stream and there were no portages. With 
 swift despatch he cut a large armful of balsam 
 boughs. With these and his blankets he made a bed 
 
UNTIL SEVENTY TIMES SEVEN 311 
 
 in his canoe, cutting out the bow thwart, then lifting 
 the wounded man and picking his steps with great 
 care, he carried him to the canoe and laid him upon 
 the balsam boughs on his right side. The moment 
 the weight came upon that side a groan burst from 
 the pallid lips. " Something wrong there," mut- 
 tered the doctor, turning him slightly over. " Ah, 
 shoulder out. I'll just settle this right now." By 
 dexterous manipulation the dislocation was reduced, 
 and at once the patient sank down upon the bed of 
 boughs and lay quite still. A little further stimu- 
 lation brought back the heart to a steadier beat. 
 " Now, my boy," he said to himself, as he took his 
 place kneeling in the stern of the canoe, " give her 
 every ouu'ie you have." For half an hour without 
 pause, except twice to give his patient stimulant, the 
 sweeping paddle and the swaying body kept their 
 rhythmic swing, till down the last riffle shot the canoe 
 and in a minute more was at the Landing. 
 
 " Duprez ! Hpre, quick ! " The doctor stood in 
 the door of the stopping place, wet as if he had come 
 from the river, his voice raucous and his face white. 
 
 " Mon Dieu ! " exclaimed the Frenchman, " what 
 de mattaire.'' " 
 
 The doctor swept a glance about the room. " Sick 
 man," he said briefly. " I want this bed. Get your 
 buckboard, quick." He seized the bed and carried it 
 out before the eyes of the astonished Duprez. 
 
 Duprez was a man slow of speech but quick to act, 
 and by the time the bed had been arranged oa the 
 buckboard he had his horse between the shafts. 
 
S13 THE DOCTOR 
 
 " Now then, Duprez, give me a hand," said the 
 doctor, 
 
 " Certainment. Bon Dieu ! Dat's de bon preech- 
 ere! Not dead, heh? " 
 
 " No," said the doctor, glancing sharply into the 
 haggard fax;e while he placed his fingers upon the 
 pulse. " No. Now get on. Drive carefully, but 
 make time." 
 
 In a few minutes they reached the road that led 
 to the hospital, which was well graded and smooth. 
 Duprez sent along his pony at a lope and in a short 
 space of time they reach the door of the hospital, 
 where they were met by Orderly Ben Pallows on duty. 
 
 " Barney ! By the hyin' jumpin' Jemima Jebbs ! " 
 cried Ben. " What on earth " 
 
 But the doctor cut him short. " Ben, get the Ma- 
 tron, quick, and get a bed ready with warm blankets 
 and hot water bottles. Go, man ! Don't gape there ! " 
 
 StiU gaping his amazement, Ben skipped in 
 through the hall and up the stair as fast as his 
 wooden leg would allow him. He reached the office 
 door. " Miss Margaret," he gasped, " Barney's at 
 the door with a sick man. Wajits a bed ready. We 
 'aven't got one — and " 
 
 The look upon the matron's face interrupted the 
 flow of his words. " Barney.'' " she said, rising slowly 
 to her feet. " Barney? " she said again, her hand 
 clutching the desk and holding hard. " What do you 
 mean, Ben.'' " The words came slowly. 
 
 " He wants a bed for a sick man and we 
 *aven't " 
 
UNTIL SEVENTY TIMES SEVEN 313 
 
 Margaret took a step toward him. " Ben," she 
 said, in breathless haste, " get my room ready. But 
 first tell Nurse Crane to come to me quick. Go, 
 Ben." 
 
 The orderly hurried away, leaving -her alone. With 
 trembling hands she shut the door, turned toward 
 her desk, and there stood, both hands pressed hard to 
 her heart, fighting hard to control the tumultuous 
 tides that surged through her heart and thundered 
 in her ears. " Barney ! Barney ! " she whispered. 
 " Oh, Barney, at last ! " The blue eyes were wide 
 open and all aglow with the tender light of her great 
 love. " Barney," she said over and over, " my love, 
 
 my love, my — ah, not mine " A sob caught her 
 
 voice. Over her desk hung a copy of Hoffman's 
 great picture, the Christ kneeling in Gethsemane. 
 She went close to the picture. " O Christ ! " she 
 cried brokenly, " I, too ! Help me ! " A knock came 
 to the door. Nurse Crane entered. Margaret quickly 
 turned toward her desk again. 
 
 " Dr. Bailey is at the door with a patient," said 
 the nurse. 
 
 "Dr. Bailey.''" echoed Margaret, not daring to 
 look up, her trembling hands fluttering among the 
 papers on the desk. "Go to him. Nurse, and get 
 what he wants. Take my room. I shall follow in 
 a moment," 
 
 Once more she was alone. Again she stood before 
 the picture of the Christ, the words of the great 
 submission ringing through the chambers of her 
 soul. " Not my wiU but Thine be done." She 
 
314 THE DOCTOR 
 
 pressed nearer the picture, gazing into that strong, 
 patient, suffering face through the rain of welcome 
 tears. "0 Christ!" she whispered, "dear blessed 
 Christ ! I understand — ^now. Help me ! Help me ! " 
 Then, after a pause, " Not my wiU ! Not my will ! " 
 
 The strife was past. Quietly she went to the lava- 
 tory that stood in the comer of her oflSce, bathed her 
 eyes, smoothed away the signs of struggle from her 
 face, and went forth serene to her duty and her 
 cross. In the hall she met Barney. With a quick, 
 light step she was at his side, both hands stretched 
 out. " Barney ! " " Margaret ! " was aU they said. 
 For a moment or two Barney stood holding her 
 hands, gazing without a word into the sweet face, 
 so pale, so beautiful, so serenely strong. Twice he 
 essayed to speak, but the words choked in his throat. 
 Turning abruptly away he pointed to the figure un- 
 der the grey blanket on the camp bed. 
 
 "I've brought — ^you — Dick," at last he said 
 hoarsely. 
 
 "Dick! Hurt.? Not " She halted before the 
 
 dreaded word. 
 
 " No, injured. Badly, I fear, but I hope " 
 
 " The room is ready," said Nurse Crane. 
 
 At once all other thoughts and emotions gave way 
 to the immediate demands of their common duty. 
 They had work to do, and they had trained them- 
 selves to obey without thought of self that Divine 
 caU to serve the suffering. Together they toiled 
 at their work, Margaret noting with delighted won- 
 der the quick fingers and the finished skill that 
 
UNTIL SEVENTY TIMES SEVEN 315 
 
 cleansed and probed and dressed the wound in the 
 head and made thorough examination for other in- 
 jury or ill, Barney keenly conscious of the efficiency 
 of the silent, steady helper at his side whose quick 
 eye and hand anticipated his every want. At length 
 their work was done and they stood looking down 
 upon the haggard face. 
 
 " He is resting now," said Barney, in a low voice. 
 "The fracture is not serious, I think." 
 
 " Poor Dick," said Margaret, passing her hand 
 over his brow. 
 
 At her touch and voice Dick moaned and opened 
 his eyes. Barney quickly stepped back out of sight. 
 For a moment or two the eyes wandered about the 
 room, then rested on Margaret's face in a troubled, 
 inquiring gaze. 
 
 " What is it, Dick, dear? " said Margaret, bend- 
 ing over him. 
 
 For answer his hand began to move feebly toward 
 his breast as if seeking something. 
 
 " I know. The letter, Dick.? " A look of intelli- 
 gence lighted the eye. " That's all right, Dick. I 
 shall get it to Barney. Barney is here, you know." 
 
 A hand grasped her arm. " Hush ! " said Barney 
 in stern command. " Say nothing about me." But 
 she heeded him not. For a moment longer the sick 
 man's gaze lingered on her face. A faint smile of 
 content overspread the drawn features, then the look 
 of intelligence faded and the eyes closed wearily. 
 
 " Come," said Barney, moving toward the door, 
 " he is better quiet." 
 
316 THE DOCTOR 
 
 Leaving^ the nurse in charge, they went together 
 toward the office. 
 
 "Where did you find him?" asked Margaret as 
 she gaye Barney a seat. Then Barney told her the 
 stary of how he had chanced upon the canoe and 
 had discovered Dick lying insensible in the woods. 
 
 " It was God's leading, Barney," said Margaret 
 gently, when the story was done; but to this he 
 made no reply. " Is there serious danger, do you 
 think? " she inquired in an anxious voice. 
 
 " He win recover," replied Barney. " All he re- 
 quires is careful nursing, and that you can give him. 
 I shall wait till to-morrow." 
 
 " To-morrow? And then? " 
 
 " I am leaving this country next week." 
 
 "Leaving the country? And why?" 
 
 " My work here is done*" 
 
 " Surely there is much yet to do, and you have 
 just begun to do such great things. Why should 
 you leave now? " 
 
 Barney waited a few moments in silence as if pon- 
 dering an answer. " Margaret, I must go," he 
 finally burst forth. " You know I must go. I can't 
 Eve within touch of him and forget ! " 
 
 " Forgive, you mean, Barney." 
 
 *WeU, forgive, if you like," he replied sullenly. 
 
 ** Barney," replied Margaret earnestly, " this is 
 ^mworthy of you, and in the face of God*s mercy 
 to-day how can you hold resentment in your heart ? " 
 
 " How can I? God knows, or the Devil. For three 
 years I have fought it, but it is there. It is there ! " 
 
UNTIL SEVENTY TIMES SEVEN SIT 
 
 He struck his hand hard upon his breast. " I can't 
 forget that he ruined my life! But for him I be- 
 lieve in my soul I should have won — ^her to me! At 
 a critixjal moment he came in and ruined " \ 
 
 " Barney ! Barney, listen to me ! " cried Marga- 
 ret impetuously. 
 
 Barney sprang to his feet. 
 
 " No, you must listen to me. Sit down." Barney 
 obeyed her word and sat down. " Now, hear me, and 
 hear me fairly. I am not going to say that Dick 
 was free from blame, nor was lola either. Whose 
 was the greater I can't tell. They were both young 
 and, to a certain extent, inexperienced in the ways 
 of life. Circumstances threw them much together 
 and on terms of almost brotherly and sisterly in- 
 timacy. That was a mistake. They ignored con- 
 ventions that can never be safely ignored. Just 
 at that time Dick's life was made hard for him. 
 His Church had rejected Inm." 
 
 " Rejected him? " 
 
 " Yes, rejected him. He was refused license by 
 the Presbytery, was branded as a heretic and outcast 
 from work." Margaret's voice grew bitter. " Do 
 you wonder that he grew hard? Perhaps they could 
 not help it — I can't say — ^but he grew hard. Yes, and 
 worse than that, grew away from his faith, from his 
 friends, and from those things that keep men straight 
 and strong. He grew weak. The hour of temptation 
 came upon him. You and I have seen enough of that 
 side of life to know what that means. He broke faitji 
 with you — ^no, not with you. He was loyal to you, 
 
318 THE DOCTOR 
 
 but he broke faith with himself and with her. For 
 a single moment, that moment at which you ap- 
 peared, he yielded to passion, and bitterly, terribly, 
 has he suffered since that moment. How terribly no 
 one knows. He has tried to find you, but you would 
 not be found. He wronged you, Barney, but you 
 have made him and all of us suflPer much." The 
 voice that had gone on so bravely and so firmly here 
 suddenly trembled and broke. 
 
 " Made you suffer ! " cried Barney, with bitter 
 scorn. " How can you speak of suffering ? You 
 have everything [ I have lost all ! " 
 
 " Everything.'' " echoed Margaret faintly. " Ah, 
 Barney, how little you know! But, no matter, God 
 has brought you together and you must not do 
 this wicked thing. You must not continue to break 
 our hearts." 
 
 " Break your hearts? Margaret, what's the use 
 of words? I had a heart, too, and a brother whom 
 I loved and trusted as myself, yes, more than my- 
 self, and — I had — ^lola. All I have lost. My work 
 satisfies me for a few months, but try as I can this 
 awful thing hunts me down and drives me mad. 
 There is nothing in life left for me. And there 
 might have been much but for " 
 
 " Stop, Barney ! " cried Margaret impulsively. 
 " There is much still left for you. God is good. 
 How much better than we. You can't forgive a 
 fellow-sinner. Oh, shame ! But He forgives and for- 
 gets, and surely you ought to try " 
 
 " Try ! Try ! Heavens above, Margaret ! Try ! 
 
UNTIL SEVENTY TIMES SEVEN 319 
 
 Do you think I haven't tried? That thing is there! 
 there ! " smiting on his breast again. " Can you 
 tell me how to rid myself of it? " 
 
 " Yes, Barney, I think I can tell you. God's 
 great goodness wiU do this for you. Listen," she 
 said, putting up her hand to stay his words, " God 
 is bringing a great joy to you to shame you and to 
 soften you. Here, read this." She handed him 
 Tola's letter, went to the window, and stood with her 
 back to him, looking out upon the great sweeping 
 valley below. 
 
 " Margaret ! " The hoarse voice called her back 
 to him. His hard,, proud, sullen reserve was shat- 
 tered, gone. His lips were quivering, his hands 
 trembling. The girl was touched to the heart. 
 " Margaret," he cried brokenly, " what does this 
 mean ? " He was terribly shaken. 
 
 " It means that she wants you, that she needs you. 
 Dick was going to-morrow to bring her back to you, 
 Barney. That was his one desire." 
 
 " To bring her to me? To bring her back to me? 
 
 Dick? Dear old boy ! and I • Oh, Margaret ! " 
 
 He put his trembling hands out to her. " Forgive 
 me ! God forgive me ! Poor Dick ! I'll see him ! " 
 He started toward the door. " No, not now," he 
 cried, striving in vain to control himself. " I am 
 mad! mad! For three long years I have carried 
 this cursed thing in my heart ! It's gone ! It's gone, 
 Margaret! Do you hear? It's gone!" He was 
 shouting aloud. " I feel right toward Dick, my 
 brother!" 
 
320 THE DOCTOR 
 
 " Hush^ Barney dear," said the girl, tears runniirg 
 down her face, " you will wake him." 
 
 " Yes, yes," he cried, in an eager whisper, " I'll 
 be careful. Poor old boy, he has suffered, too. 
 Dear old Dick ! And she wants me ! I'll go to-night ! 
 Yes, to-night ! What's the date.? " He tore at the 
 envelope with trembling hands. The letter dropped 
 to the floor. Margaret caught it up and opened it 
 for him. " A month ago and more ! Yes, 1*^11 go 
 to-night. Oh, Margaret, what a blasted fool I am! 
 I can't get myself in hand." Suddenly he threw 
 himself into his chair. " Here ! " he ground out be- 
 tween his teeth, " get quiet ! " He sat for a few 
 moments absolutely still, gathering strength to 
 command himself. At length he got himself in hand. 
 " No," he said in a quiet voice, " I shall not go to- 
 night. I shall wait till Dick is better. Just now 
 he must be kept quiet. In the morning I expect 
 to see ham very much himself. We can only wait 
 and see." 
 
 Through the night they waited, Barney strug- 
 gling mightily to hold; himself in perfect control, 
 Margaret quietly doing what was to be done, her 
 whole spirit breathing of that self-forgetting love 
 which finds its highest joy in the joy of another. 
 At the break of day the nurse came to the door and 
 f oimd them stUl waiting. 
 
 " Mr. Boyle is awake and is asking for you, Miss 
 Robertson." 
 
 " Let me go to him," cried Barney. " Don't 
 fear." His voice was still vibrating, but his man- 
 
UNTIL SEVENTY TIMES SEVEN 321 
 
 ner was calm and steady. He was master of himself 
 again. 
 
 " Yes," said Marg^aret, " go to him." Then as 
 the door closed she stood once more before the 
 Gethsemane scene. " Thanik God, thant God," she 
 said softly, " for them the pain is over." 
 
 For half an hour she waited and then went up 
 to the sickroom'. She opened the door softly, wrait 
 in and stood gazing till her eyes grew dim. On 
 the pillow, face down, Barney's head lay close to 
 Dick's, whose arm was thrown about his brother's 
 neck, and on Dick's face shone a look of rapturous 
 peace. As Margaret moved to lieave the room Dick 
 caUed her in a voice faint, but full of joy. 
 
 " Margaret," he said, a smile breaking like light 
 through a dark cloud, " my head was broken, but 
 I'd have all the bones in my body broken, just to 
 have Barney set them. We're all right, eh, boy? " 
 
 Slowly Barney raised his face, tear-marked, worn, 
 but radiant with a peace it had not known for many 
 a day. "Yes, old eha,p," he said in a voice stiH 
 tremulous in spite of ail Ms self-command, " we're 
 right again, and, please 6od, we'll keep so." - 
 
XXI 
 
 TO WHOM HE FORGAVE MOST 
 
 FOR three days Dick made steady progress 
 toward health, but his progress was slow. 
 Any mental effort produced severe pain in 
 his head and sufficed to raise his temperature several 
 points. As he gained in strength and became more and 
 more clear in his thinking his anxiety in regard to his 
 work began to increase. His congregations would 
 be waiting him on Sunday, and he could not bear to 
 think of their being disappointed. With no small 
 effort had he gathered them together, and a single 
 failure on his part he knew would have disastrous 
 effect upon the attendance. He was especially con- 
 cerned about the service at Bull Crossing, which was 
 at once the point where the work was. the most diffi- 
 cult, and, at the present juncture, most encouraging. 
 Under his instructions Barney sought to secure a 
 substitute for the service at Bull Crossing, but with- 
 out result. Preachers were scarce in that country 
 and every preacher had more work in sight than he 
 could overtake. And so Dick fretted and wrought 
 himself into a fever, until the doctor took him sternly 
 to task. 
 
 " I don't see that it's your business to worry, 
 Dick," he said. " I suppose you consider yourself 
 as working under orders, and it is your belief, isn't 
 
TO WHOM HE FORGAVE MOST 329 
 
 it, that the One who gives the orders is the One who 
 has laid you down here?" 
 
 " That's true," said Dick wearily, " but there's 
 the people. A lot of them come a long way. It's 
 been hard to get them together, and I hate to dis- 
 appoint them." 
 
 " Well, we'll get someone," replied Barney. 
 " We're a pretty hard combination to beat, aren't 
 we, Margaret .f There will be a man to take the 
 service at BuU Crossing if I have to take it myself 
 —a desperate resort, indeed." 
 
 "Why not, Barney?" asked Dick. "You could 
 do it well." 
 
 " What? Did you ever hear me talk? I can talk 
 a little with my fingers, but my tongue is uncon- 
 scionably slow." 
 
 " There was a man once slow of speech," replied 
 Dick quietly, " but he was given a message and he 
 led a nation into freedom." 
 
 Barney nodded. " I remember him. But he could 
 do things." 
 
 " No," answered Dick, " but he believed God could 
 do things." 
 
 " Perhaps so. That was rather long ago." 
 
 " With God," replied Dick earnestly, " there is 
 no such thing as long ago." 
 
 "All the same," said Barney, "I guess these 
 things don't happen now." 
 
 " I believe they happen, " replied his brother, 
 " where God finds a man who will take his life in hia 
 hand and go." 
 
S24. THE DOCTOR 
 
 "Wei, I don't iknow about that," replied Bar- 
 ney, " but I do know that you must quit talking and 
 sleep. Now, hedr me, drop that meeting out of your 
 mind. I'U look after it." 
 
 But Saturday came and, in spite of every effort 
 on Barney's part, he found no one for the service 
 at Bull Crossing next day. There was still a slight 
 hope that one of the officials of the congregation 
 would consent to be a stop-gap for the day. 
 
 " I guess I'U have to take that service myself, 
 Margaret," said Barney laughingly. "Wouldn't 
 the crowd stare.'' They'd hear the sermon of their 
 Kves." 
 
 " It would be a good sermon, Barney," replied 
 Margaret quietly. *' And why should you not say] 
 something to the men.!" " 
 
 " Nonsense, Margaret ! " cried Barney impa- 
 tiently. " You know the thing is utterly absurd. 
 What sort of man am I to preach? A gambler, a 
 swearer, and generally bad. They all know me." 
 
 " They know only a part of you, Barney," said 
 Margaret gently. ""God knows all of you, and 
 whatever you have been you are no gambler to- 
 day, and you are not a bad man." 
 
 " No," replied Barney slowly, " I am no gambler, 
 nor will I ever be again. But I have been a hard, 
 bad man. For three years I carried hate in my 
 heart. I could not forgive and didn't want to be 
 forgiven. And that, I. believe, was the cause of all 
 my badness. But — somehow — I don't deserve it— • 
 but I've been awfully well treated. I deserved hell, 
 
TO WHOM HE FORGAVE MOST 325 
 
 but I've got a pramise of heaven. And I'd be glad 
 to do something for " He paused abruptly. ^ 
 
 " There, you've got your sermon, Barney," said 
 Margaret. 
 
 " What do you mean ? " 
 
 " ' Forgive and ye shall be forgiven.' " 
 
 " It's the sermon someone wants to preach to me, 
 but it's not for me to preach. The thing is pre- 
 posterous. I'll get one of those fellows at the 
 Oossing to take the meeting." 
 
 On Saturday evening Dick again reverted to the 
 subject. 
 
 " I'm not anxious, Barney," he said, " but who's 
 gCHng to take the meeting to-morrow nf^t at Bull 
 Crossing? " 
 
 " Now, look here," said Barney, " Monday morn- 
 ing you'U hear all about it. Meantime, don't ask 
 questions. Margaret and I are responsible, and that 
 ought to be enough. You never knew her to fail." 
 
 " No, nor you, Barney," said Dick, sinking bacK 
 with a sigh of satisfaction. " I know it will be all 
 right. Are you going down to-morrow evening?" 
 he mqmred, turning to Margaret. 
 
 '* 1? " exclaimed Margaret. " What would I do?" 
 
 " Of course you are going. It wiH do you a lot 
 of good," said Barney. " You may have to preach 
 yourself or hold my coat while I go in." 
 
 A sudden gleam of joy in the eyes, a flush of red 
 upon the cheek, and the quick following pallor told 
 Dick the thoughts that rushed through Margaret'lS, 
 heart. 
 
826 THE DOCTOR 
 
 " Yes," said Dick gravely, " you will go down, 
 too, Margaret. It will do you good, and I don't 
 need you here." 
 
 Many anxious days had Barney passed in his life, 
 but never had he found himself so utterly blocked 
 by unmanageable circumstances and uncompromis- 
 ing facts as he found facing him that Sunday morn- 
 ing. He confided his difficulty to Tommy Tate, 
 whom he had found in " Mexico's " saloon toning up 
 his system after his long illness, and whom he had 
 straightway carried off with him. 
 
 " I guess it's either you or me, Tommy." 
 
 " Bedad, it's yersilf that c'd do that same, an* 
 divll a wan av the bhoys will ' Mexico ' git this 
 night, wance the news gits about." 
 
 " Don't talk rot, Tommy," said Barney angrily, 
 for the chance of his being forced to take his 
 brother's place, which all along had. seemed to be 
 extremely remote, had come appreciably nearer. 
 With the energy of desperation he spent the hours 
 of the afternoon visiting, explaining, urging, ca- 
 joling, threatening anyone of the members or 
 adherents of the congregation at Bull Crossing in 
 whom might be supposed to dwell the faintest echo 
 of the spirit of the preacher. One after another, 
 however, those upon whom he had built his hopes 
 failed him. One was out of town, another he found 
 sick in bed, and a third refused point blank to con- 
 sider the request, so that within a few minutes of 
 the hour of service he found himself without a 
 preacher and wholly desperate, and for the first 
 
TO WHOM HE FORGAVE MOST 32T 
 
 time he seriously faced the possibihty of having to 
 take the service himself. He returned to the shack 
 of one of his brother's parishioners, where Margaret 
 was staying, and abruptly announced to her his 
 failure. 
 
 " Can't get a soul, and of course I can't do it, 
 Margaret. You know I can't," he repeated, in answer 
 to the look upon her face. " Why, it was only last 
 week I fleeced ' Mexico ' out of a couple of hundred. 
 He would give a good deal more to get even. The 
 crowd would hoot me out of the building. Not that 
 I care for that" — the long jaws came hard together 
 — " but it's just too ghastly to think of." 
 
 " It isn't so very terrible, Barney," said Marga- 
 ret, her voice and eyes uniting in earnest persuasion. 
 " You are not the man you were last week. You 
 know you are not. You are quite different, and you 
 wiU be different all your life. A great change has 
 come to you. What made the change? You know 
 it was God's great mercy that took the bitterness 
 out of your heart and that changed everything. 
 Can't you tell them this ? " 
 
 "Tell them that, Margaret.'' Great Heavens! 
 Could I tell them that? What would they say? " 
 
 " Barney," asked Margaret, " you are not afraid 
 of them? You are not ashamed to teU what you 
 owe to God? " 
 
 Afraid? It was an ugly word for Barney to swal- 
 low. No, he was not afraid, but his native diffidence, 
 intensified by these recent years of self-repression 
 and self-absorption, had made all speech difficult to 
 
THE DOCTOR 
 
 him, but more especially speech that revealed the 
 deeper movements of his soul. 
 
 "No, Mar,garet, I'm not afraid," he said slowly. 
 " But I'd rather have them take the flesh off that 
 arm bit by bit than get up and speak to them. I'd 
 have to tell them the truth, don't you see, Mar- 
 garet.'' How can I do that?" 
 
 " All that you say must be the truth, Barney, of 
 course," she replied. " But you will tell them just 
 what you will." 
 
 With these words she turned away, leaving him 
 silent and fighting a desperate fight. His word 
 passed to his brother must be kept. But soon a 
 deeper issue began to emerge. His honour was in- 
 volved. His sense of loyalty was touched. He 
 knew himself to be a different man from the man 
 who, last week, in " Mexico's " saloon, had beaten his 
 old antaigonist at the old game. His consciousness 
 of himself, of his life purposes, of his outlook, of 
 his deepest emotions, was altogether a different con- 
 sciousness. And more than all, that haunting, pur- 
 suing restlessness was gone and, in Its place, a deep 
 peace possessed him. The process by which this 
 had been achieved he could not explain, but the re- 
 sult was undeniable, and it was due, he knew, to an 
 Influence the source of which he frankly acknowl- 
 edged to be external to himself. The words of the 
 beaten and confounded pagan magic-workers came 
 to him, " This is the finger of God." He could 
 not deny it. Why should he wish to hide it.'' It 
 became clear to him, in these few minutes of in- 
 
TO WHOM HE FORGAVE MOST 
 
 tense soul activity, that there was a demand being 
 made upon him as a man of truth and honour, and 
 as the struggle deepened in his soul and the pos- 
 sibility of his refusing the demand presented itself 
 to his mind, there flashed in upon him the picture 
 of a man standing in the midst of enemies, the 
 flickering firelight showing his face vacillating, ter- 
 ror-stricken, hunted. From the trembling lips of 
 the man he heard the words of base denial, " I know 
 not the man," and in his heart there rose a cry, 
 "O Christ! shall I do this?" "No," came the 
 answer, strong and clear, from his lips, " I will not 
 do this thing, so help me God." 
 
 Margaret turned quickly around and looked at 
 him in dismay. " You won't? " she said faintly. 
 
 " I'll take the service," he replied, setting the long 
 jaws firmly together. And with that they went 
 forth to the hall. 
 
 They found the place crowded far beyond its ca- 
 pacity, for through Tommy Tate it had been noised 
 abroad that Dr. Bailey was to preach. There were 
 wild rumors, too, that the doctor had " got reli- 
 gion," although " Mexico " and his friends scouted 
 the idea as utterly impossible. 
 
 " He ain't the kind. He's got too much nerve," 
 was ".Mexico's " verdict, given with a full accom- 
 paniment of finished profanity. 
 
 Tommy's evidence, however, was strong enough 
 to create a profound impression and to awaken an 
 expectation that rose to fever pitch when Barney 
 and Margaret made their way through the crowds 
 
S30 THE DOCTOR 
 
 'and took their places, Margaret at the organ, which 
 Dick usually played himself, and Barney at the table 
 upon which were the Bible and the Hymn-book. His 
 face wore the impenetrable, death-hke mark which 
 had so often baflSed " Mexico " and his gang over the 
 poker table. It fascinated " Mexico " now. All the 
 years of his wicked manhood " Mexico " had, on prin- 
 ciple, avoided anything in the shape of a religious 
 meeting, but to.-day the attraction of a poker player 
 preaching proved irresistible. It was with no small 
 surprise that the crowd saw " Mexico," with, two or 
 three of his gang, make their way toward, the front 
 to the only seats left vacant. 
 
 When it became evident beyond dispute that his 
 old-time enemy was to take the preacher's place,. 
 " Mexico " leaned over to his pal, " Peachy " Bud, 
 who sat between him and Tommy Tate,, and muttered 
 in an undertone audible to those in his immediate 
 neighbourhood, " It's his old game. He's runnin' 
 -a blank bluif. He ain'^t got the cards." 
 
 But painful experience shook " Peachy's " con- 
 fidence in his friend's judgment on this particular 
 point, and he only ventured to reply, " He's got the 
 lead." "Peachy" preferred to await developments. 
 
 The opening hymn was sung with the hearty fer- 
 vour that marks the musical part of any religious 
 service in the West. But there was in the voices 
 that curious thrill that is at once the Indication 
 and the quickening of intense excitement. 
 
 " This here'U show what's in his hand," said 
 *' Peachy," when the moment for prayer arrived. 
 
TO WHOM HE FORGAVE MOST 331 
 
 " Peachy " was not unfamiliar with religious serv- 
 ices, and had, with unusual keenness of observation, 
 noted that when a man undertook to pray he must, 
 if he be true, reveal the soul within him. 
 
 " Mexico " grunted a dubious affirmative. But 
 " Peachy " was disappointed, for in a voice reverent, 
 but unimpassioned, the preacher for the day led the 
 people's devotions, using the great words taught 
 those men long ago who knew not how to pray, 
 "Our Father who art in Heaven." 
 
 " Blanked if he ain't bluffed again ! We've got 
 to wait till he begins to shoot, I guess," said 
 " Peachy," mixing his figures. 
 
 The lesson was the parable of the unforgiving 
 debtor and the parallel passage containing the 
 matchless story of the sinful woman and the proud 
 Pharisee. In the reading of these lessons the voice, 
 which had hitherto carried the strident note of nerv- 
 ousness, mellowed into rich and subduing fulness. 
 The men listened with that hushed attention that 
 they give when words are getting to the heart. The 
 litter simplicity of the reader's manner, the dignity 
 of his bearing, the quiet strength that showed itself 
 in every tone, and the undercurrent of emotion that 
 made the voice vibrate like a stringed instrument, 
 all these, with the marvellous authoritative tender- 
 ness of the great utterance on a theme so closely 
 touching their daily experience, gripped these men 
 and held them in complete thrall. 
 
 When the reading was done the doctor stood for 
 some moments looking his audience quietly in the 
 
332 THE DOCTOR 
 
 face. He knew them all, men from the camps and 
 the line, men from the hills and mining claims, men 
 from the saloons and the gambling hells. Many he 
 had treated professionally, some he had himself 
 nursed back to health, others he had rescued from 
 those desperate moods that end in death. Others 
 again — and these not a few — he had " cleaned out " 
 at poker or " Black Jack." But to all of them he 
 was " white." Not so to himself. It was a very 
 humble man and a very penitent, that stood looking 
 them in the face. His first words were a confession. 
 
 " I am not worthy to stand here before you," he 
 began, in a low, clear tone, " God knows, you know, 
 and I know. I am here for two reasons : one is that 
 I promised my brother, the Reverend Richard 
 Boyle " — ^here a gasp of surprise was audible from 
 one and another in the audience — " a man you know 
 to be a good man, better than ever I can hope to be." 
 
 " Dumed if he is ! " grunted " Peachy " to " Mex- 
 ico." " Ain't in the same bunch ! " 
 
 " An' that's thrue f er ye," answered Tommy. But 
 " Mexico " paid no heed to these remarks. He was 
 staring at the speaker with the look of a man wholly 
 bewildered. 
 
 " And the other reason is," continued the doctor, 
 " that I have something which I think it fair to tell 
 you men. Like a lot of you, I have carried a name 
 that is not my own." Here significant looks were 
 gravely exchanged. " They gave it to me by mis- 
 take when I reached the Pass. I didn't care much 
 at that time about names or anything else, so I let 
 
TO WHOM HE FORGAVE MOST 
 
 it go. There are times in a fellow's life when he's 
 not unwilling to forget his name. My name is 
 Boyle." And then, in sentences simple, clean-cut, 
 and terse, he told of his boyhood days, the Old Mill, 
 the two boys growing up together, their love for 
 and their loyalty to each other, their struggles and 
 their success. Then came a pause. The speaker 
 had obviously come to a difficult spot in his story. 
 The men waited in earnest, grave, and deeply moved 
 expectation. " At that time a great calamity came 
 to me — no matter what — and it threw me clear off 
 my balance. I lost my head and lost my nerve, and 
 
 just then " again the speaker paused, as if to 
 
 gather strength to continue — " and just then my 
 brother did me a wrong. Not being in a conditloi^ 
 to judge fairly, I magnified the wrong a thousand- 
 fold and I tried to tear my brother out of my heart. 
 I could not and I would not forgive him, and I 
 couldn't cease to love him. I lived a life of misery, 
 misery so great that it drove me from everything 
 in earth that I held dear, and for three years I went 
 steadily down from bad to worse. I came to the 
 Crow's Nest a year and a half ago. My life since 
 then most of you know well." 
 
 " Bedad we do ! An' Hivin bliss ye ! " burst forth 
 Tommy Tate, who had found the greatest difficulty 
 in controlling his emotions of indignation and grief 
 during the doctor's, self-condemnatory tale. At 
 Tommy's words a quiet thrill ran through the crowd, 
 for few men of those present but held the doctor in 
 affectionate esteem. The sins of which he was con- 
 
334. THE DOCTOR 
 
 scious and which humiliated him before them were, 
 in their estimation, but trivial. 
 
 For a moment the speaker was thrown off his 
 track by Tommy's outburst, but, recovering himself, 
 he went on. " It would be wrong to say that my 
 hfe here has been all bad. I have been able to serve 
 many of you, but my work has done far more for 
 me than it has for you. But for it I should have 
 long ago gone down out of sight. I confess that it 
 has been a hard fight for me, an awful fight, to stay 
 at my work, but the day that I heard that my 
 brother was your missionary brought me the hardest 
 fight I had had for many a day. I wanted to get 
 away from the past. For nearly four years I had 
 been carrying round a heart with hell in it. I had 
 begun to forget a little, but that day it all came 
 back. This week I met my brother. I found him 
 dying, almost dead, up in the Big Horn Valley. 
 That morning my heart carried hell in it. To-day 
 it is like what I think heaven must be." As he 
 spoke these words a light broke over his face, and 
 again he stood silent, striving to regain control of 
 his voice. 
 
 " Blanked if he don't hold the cards ! " said " Mex- 
 ico " in a thick voice to " Peachy " Budd. 
 
 " Full flush," answered " Peachy." 
 
 " Mexico " was in the grasp of the elemental emo- 
 tions of his untutored nature. His swarthy face was 
 twisted hke the face of a man in torture. His 
 black eyes were gleaming like two fires from under 
 his shaggy eyebrows. 
 
TO WHOM HE FORGAVE MOST ., 335 
 
 " How it came about," coatinued the doctor, in' a] 
 quiet, even tone, " I am not going to tell. But 
 this I am going to say, I know it was God's great 
 mercy. His great kindness it was that took the hate 
 out of my heart. I forgave my brother that day — • 
 and — ^God forgave me. That's all there is to it. 
 It's the biggest thing that has ever come to me. • I 
 have got my brother back just as when we were 
 little chaps at the Old Mill." A sudden choke caught 
 the speaker's voice. The firm lips quivered and the 
 strong hands writhed themselves in a mighty effort 
 to master the emotions surging through his soul. J^a*) 
 
 Tommy Tate was openly sniffling and wiping his 
 eyes. " Peachy " Budd was swearing audibly his 
 emotions, but, most of all, " Mexico's " swarthy face 
 betrayed the intensity of his feelings. He had 
 grasped the back of the seat before him and was 
 leaning toward the speaker as if held under an 
 hypnotic spell. 
 
 Again the doctor, getting his voice steady, went 
 on. " I have just a word more to say. I would like 
 to give credit for this that happened to me to the 
 One we have been reading about this afternoon, and 
 I do so with all my heart. I came near being coward 
 enough and mean €nough to go away without own- 
 ing this up before you. How He did it, I do not 
 pretend to know. I'm not a preacher. But He did 
 it, and that's what chiefly concerns me. And what 
 He did for me I guess He can do for any of you. 
 And now I've got to square up some things. ' Mex- 
 ico ' ^" At the sound of his name " Mexico " 
 
S36 THE DOCTOR 
 
 started violently and, involuntarily, his hand went, 
 with a quick motion, toward his hip — " I've taken a 
 lot from you. I'd like to pay it back." The voice 
 was humble, earnest, kind. 
 
 " Mexico," taken by surprise, shifted his tobacco 
 to the other side of his mouth, stood up and drawled 
 out, "Haow.? Me? Pay me back.? Blanked if you 
 do! It was a squar' deal, wa'n't it.'' " 
 
 " Yes, I played fair, ' Mexico,' but " 
 
 " Then go to heU ! " " Mexico's " tone was not at all 
 unfriendly, but his vocabulary was limited, and he 
 was evidently deeply stirred. " We're squar' an' — ■ 
 an' blanked if I don't believe ye're white! Put it 
 thar ! " With a single stride " Mexico " was over 
 the seat that separated him from the platform and 
 reached out his hand. The doctor took it in a hard 
 grip. 
 
 " Look here, men," he said, when " Mexico " had 
 resumed his seat, " I've got to do something with this 
 money. I've got at least five thousand that don't 
 belong to me." 
 
 " 'Tain't ours," called a voice. 
 
 " Men," continued the doctor, " I'm starting out 
 on a new track. I want to straighten out the past 
 all I can. I can't keep this money. I'd feel hke a 
 thief." 
 
 But such an ethical code was beyond the men, and 
 one and all protested to each other, in tones that 
 were quite audible over the hall and with anathemas 
 of more or less terrible import, that the money was 
 not theirs and that they would not touch it. The 
 
TO WHOM HE FORGAVE MOST 337 
 
 doctor listened for a minute or more and then, 
 with the manner of one closing a discussion, he said, 
 " All right. If you won't help me I'll have to find 
 some way, myself, of straightening this up. This 
 is all I have to say. I'm no preacher and I'm not 
 any better than the rest of you, but I'd like to be 
 a great deal better man than I am, and, with God's 
 help, I'm going to try. That's my religion." 
 
 And with these words he sat down, leaving the 
 people stiU staring at him and waiting for something 
 in the way of closing exercises to what must have 
 been the most extraordinary religious service in all 
 their experience. Softly, Margaret began to play 
 the old hymn, " Nearer, My God, to Thee." The 
 men, accepting it as a signal, rose to their feet and 
 began to sing, and with these great words of aspira- 
 tion ringing through their hearts they passed out 
 into the night. 
 
 Among the many who lingered to speak to the 
 doctor were " Mexico," " Peachy," and, of course, his 
 faithful follower. Tommy Tate. " Mexico " drew him 
 off to one corner. 
 
 " Say, pard," he began, " you've done me up many 
 a time before, but blanked if yeh haven't hit me this 
 time the worst yet! When you was talkin' about 
 them two little chaps — " here " Mexico's " hard face 
 began to work and his voice to quiver — " you put 
 the knife right in here. I had a brother once," he 
 continued in a husky voice. " I wish to God some- 
 one had choked the blank nonsense out of me, for 
 I done him a wrong an' I wasn't man enough to 
 
338 THE DOCTOR 
 
 own up. An' that's what started me in all this hell 
 business I've been chasin' ever since." 
 
 The doctor took him by the arm and walked him 
 out of the room. " Take Miss Robertson home," 
 he said to Tommy as he passed. 
 
 An hour later he appeared, pale and as nearly 
 exhausted as his iron nerve and muscle would allow 
 him to be. " I say, Margaret, this thing is won- 
 derful! There's no explaining it by any physical 
 or mental law that I know." Then, after a pause, 
 he added, with an odd thrill of tenderness in his 
 voice, " I believe we shall hear good things of ' Mex- 
 ico ' yet." 
 
 And so they did, but that is another tale. 
 
XXII 
 
 THE HEAKT'S REST 
 
 THERE IS no sweeter spot in all the west 
 Highlands of Scotland than the valley that 
 runs back from that far penetrating arm 
 of the sea, Loch Fyne, to Craigraven. There, after 
 a succession of wild and gloomy glens, one comes 
 upon a sweet little valley, sheltered from the east 
 and north winds and open to the warm western sea 
 and to the long sunny days of summer. It is a 
 valley full of balmy airs, fragrant with the scents 
 of sea and heather, and shut in from the roar and 
 rush of the great world, just over the ragged rim 
 of the craggy hills that guard it. A veritable 
 heaven on earth for the nerve-racked and brain- 
 wearied, for the heart-sick and soul-burdened; for 
 it was the pleasure of the lady of Ruthven Hall, 
 a kindly, homely mansion house that stood at the 
 valley*s head, to bring hither such of her friends 
 or her friends* friends as needed the healing that 
 soft airs and sunny days, with long quiet hours 
 filled with love that understands, can give. 
 
 To this spot Lady Ruthven herself had been 
 brought, a girl fresh from the shelter of her EngKsh 
 home, the bride of Sir Hector Ruthven; and here 
 for five happy summers they had come from the 
 
 339 
 
340 THE DOCTOR 
 
 strenuous life of Diplomatic Service to find rest. 
 Here, too, came Sir Hector, when his work was done, 
 still a young man, to rest under the yews in the 
 little churchyard near the Hall, leaving his lady 
 with her little daughter and her infant son to 
 administer his vast estates. After the first sharp 
 grief had passed, Lady Ruthven took up her burden 
 and, with patient courage, bore It for the sake of 
 the dead first, and then for the sake of the living. 
 Round her son, growing into sturdy young man- 
 hood, her heart's roots wound themselves, striking 
 deep into his life, till one day he, too, was laid 
 beneath the yew trees In the churchyard. From 
 that deep shadow she came forth, bearing her cross 
 of service to her kind, to live a life fragrant with 
 the airs of Heaven, in fellowship with Him who, 
 for love of man, daily gave Himself to die. 
 
 It was through her nephew, Alan Ruthven, artist 
 and poet, pure of heart and clean of life, that Jack 
 Charrington came to know Ruthven Hall and its 
 dwellers. The young men first met in London, and 
 later in Edinburgh, where both were pursuing their 
 professions with a devotion that did not forbid at- 
 tention to sundry social duties, or prevent them from 
 taking long walks over the Lammermuirs on Satur- 
 day afternoons. To Ruthven HaU, Alan was per- 
 mitted to bring his young Canadian friend, who, he 
 was secretly convinced, stood sorely in need of just 
 such benediction as his saintly aunt could bestow. 
 The day of Jack Charrington's coming to Ruth- 
 ven Hall was the birthday of his better life, when 
 
THE HEART'S REST 841 
 
 he had a vision of his profession in the light of that 
 great ministry to the world's sick and wounded and 
 weary by Him who came to the world " to heal," 
 In another sense, too, it was for him the beginning 
 of days, for it was the day on which his eyes first 
 fell upon sunny, saucy Maisie Ruthven. Thence- 
 forth the orbit of Jack's life swung round Ruthven 
 Hall, and thus it fell that when, on one of his visits 
 to the great metropolis, he found Tola exhausted 
 after her season's triumphs and forbidden to sing 
 again for a year, and so well-nigh heart-broken, 
 he bethought him of the little valley of rest in the 
 far western Highlands. Straightway he confided 
 to Lady Ruthven his concern for his co-patriot and 
 friend, giving as much of her story as he thought it 
 weU that both Lady Ruthven and her daughter 
 should know. Hence, when they went north to their 
 Highland valley again, they carried with them lola, 
 to be rested and nursed, and to be healed in heart, 
 too, if that could be. For Lady Ruthven, with her 
 eyes made keen by grief and love, had not been long 
 in discovering that, with lola, the deeper sickness 
 was that which no physician's medicine can reach. 
 
 Through the early summer they waited for signs 
 of returning health to their guest, but neither the 
 most watchful care nor the most tender nursing 
 could keep the strength from gradually waning. 
 
 " She is fretting her heart out. That's the chief 
 cause of this terrible restlessness," said Alan Ruth- 
 ven to his friend, who was visiting at the Hall. 
 
 " Partly," replied Charrington gloomily, " but 
 
342 THE DOCTOR 
 
 not altogether, I fear. This restlessness is symp- 
 tomatic. We must have Bruce Fraser out again. 
 But if we only could get track of Boyle it would 
 greatly help. She wrote yesterday to her great 
 friend, Miss Robertson, who, more than anyone, has 
 kept in touch with him." 
 
 " Charrington," inquired Alan hesitatingly, 
 " would you advise that he should be looked up? Of 
 course, you credit me with being perfectly disin- 
 terested. I gave up my dream some time ago, you 
 know." 
 
 '* Oh, certainly, Ruthven, I know, but — '* 
 
 "You fear I'm prejudiced. Well, I confess I am. 
 I hate to think of a girl like that having anything 
 to do with a man unworthy of her, as from what 
 you have told me of him he must be." 
 
 " Unworthy ! " cried Jack. " Did I ever call him 
 unworthy? It depends upon what you mean. He 
 gambles. He has terrific passions; but he's a man 
 through and through, and he's clean and hon- 
 ourable." 
 
 " Ah," said Ruthven, drawmg a deep breath, 
 "then would to Heaven she could find him! For 
 this fretting is like a fever in her bones." 
 
 ** At present, we ean only wait for an answer to 
 her letter." 
 
 And so they waited, each one of the little group 
 vying with the other in providing interest and 
 amusement for the weary, restless, fevered girL 
 Often, at the first, the old impatience would break 
 out, mostly in Jxer talk with CharringtoUj a,t rare 
 
THE HEAKT'S REST 343 
 
 times to her hostess, too, but at such times followed 
 by quick penitence. 
 
 " Dear Lady Ruthven," she said one day after 
 one of her little outbreaks, " I wish I were like you. 
 You are so sweetly good and so perfectly self-con- 
 trolled. Even I cannot wear out your patience. 
 You must have been born good and sweet." 
 
 For a few moments Lady Ruthven was silent, her 
 mind going back swiftly to long gone years. " No, 
 dear," she said gently ; " I have much to be thankful 
 for. It was a hard lesson and slowly learned, but 
 He was patient and bore long with me. And He is 
 stiU bearing." 
 
 " TeU me how you learned," asked lola timidly, 
 and then Lady Ruthven told her life story, without 
 teara^ without repinings, while lola wondered. That 
 story lola never forgot, and the influence of it never 
 departed from her. Never were the days quite so 
 bad again, but every day while she struggled to 
 subdue her unpatience even in thought, she kept 
 looking for word from across the sea with a long- 
 ing so intense that all in the house came to share 
 it with her. 
 
 "Oh! if we only knew where to get him!" 
 groaned Jack Charrmgton to her one day, for to 
 Jack, who was the only link with her happy past, 
 she had opened her heart. "Why does he keep 
 away? '* he added bitterly. 
 
 " It is my fault, Jack," she replied. " He is not 
 to blame. No one is to blame but me. But he will 
 i^ome some day. I feel sure he will come. I only 
 
344 THE DOCTOR 
 
 hope he may be in time. He would greatly grieve 
 if " 
 
 " Hush, lola. Don't say it. I can't bear to have 
 you say it. You are getting better. Why, you 
 walked out yesterday quite smartly." 
 
 " Some days I am so well," she replied, unwilling 
 to grieve him. " I would like him to see me first 
 on one of my good days. I am sure to hear soon 
 now." 
 
 They had hardly turned to enter the house when 
 they saw a messenger wearing the uniform of the 
 Telegraph Department approaching. 
 
 " Oh, Jack ! " she cried, " there it is ! " 
 
 " Come, lola," said Jack, almost sternly, " come 
 in and sit down." So saying, he brought her into 
 the library and made her recline upon the couch, in 
 that sunny room near the window where many of 
 her waking hours were spent. 
 
 It was Alan who took the message. They all 
 followed him into the library. " Shall I open it.'' " 
 he asked, with an anxious look at lola. 
 
 " Yes," she said faintly, laying both hands upon 
 her heart. 
 
 Lady Ruthven came to her side. " lola, darling," 
 she said, taking both her hands in hers, " it is good 
 to feel that God's arms are about us always." 
 
 " Yes, dear Lady Ruthven," replied the girl, re- 
 gaining her -omposure ; " I'm learning. I'm not 
 afraid." 
 
 Opening, Alan read the message, smiled, and 
 handed it to her. She read the slip, handed it to 
 
THE HEART'S REST 345 
 
 Jack, closed her eyes, and, smiling, lay back upon 
 her couch. " God is good," she whispered, as Lady 
 Ruthven bent over her. " You were right. Teach 
 me how to trust Him better." 
 
 " Are you all right, lola? " said Jack, anxiously 
 feeling her pulse. 
 
 " Quite right. Jack, dear," she said. 
 
 " Then hooray ! " cried Jack, starting up. 
 " Let's see, ' Coming Silurian seventh. Barney.' " 
 he read aloud. " The seventh was yesterday. Six 
 days. She'll be in on the thirteenth. Ought to be 
 here by Monday at latest." 
 
 " Saturday, Jack," said lola, opening her eyes. 
 
 " Well, we'll plan for Monday. We're not going 
 to be disappointed. Meantime, you're not to fret." 
 And he frowned sternly down upon her. 
 
 "Fret.'"' she cried, looking up brightly. "Never 
 more. Jack. I shall never fret again in all my life. 
 I'm going to build up for these five days, every 
 hour, every minute. I want Barney to see me well." 
 
 It was a marvel to all the house how she kept her 
 word. Every hour, every minute, she appeared to 
 gain strength. She ate with relish and slept like 
 a child. The old feverish restlessnes left her, and 
 she laid aside many of her invalid ways. 
 
 " You are going down to Glasgow to-morrow, I 
 suppose, Charrington.'' " said Alan on Thursday, 
 after the Silurian had been reported. 
 
 " I've just been thinking," replied Jack, with 
 careful deliberation, " that it would be almost better 
 you should go, Ruthven. You see you're the man 
 
346 THE DOCTOR 
 
 of the house, and it would be easier for a stranger 
 to tell him." 
 
 " Come, Charrington," replied his friend, " you 
 don't often play the coward. You've simply got to 
 go. But why should you tell.'' " 
 
 " Tell.'' He'U see it in my face. That last report 
 of Bruce Fraser's he would read in my eyes. I see 
 the ghastly words yet, ' Quite hopeless. Heart 
 seriously involved. Cannot be long delayed.' I 
 say, old man, I suppose I ought to go, but you've 
 got to come along and make talk. I'U simply blub- 
 ber right out when I see him. You know I'm awfully 
 fond of the old boy." 
 
 " I say, Charrington, I've got it ! Take my aunt 
 with you." 
 
 Jack gasped. " By Jove ! The very thing ! It's 
 rough on her, but she's the saintly kind that delights 
 to bear other people's burdens." 
 
 And so it was arranged that Jack and Lady, 
 Ruthven should meet the boat and bring Barney,' 
 with all speed, to Ruthven Hall. 
 
 At the Siluria's gangway Jack received his friend 
 with outstretched hands, crying, " Barney, old bo^, 
 we're glad to see you! Here, let me present you to 
 Lady Ruthven, at whose house lola is staying." 
 With feverish haste he hurried Barney through the 
 crowds, bustling hither and thither about his lug- 
 gage and giving himself not a moment for convert 
 sation till they were seated in the first-class apart- 
 ment carriage that was to carry them to Craigraven.. 
 
THE HEART'S REST 347 
 
 But they had hardly got settled in their places when 
 the conversation, in spite of all Jack's efforts, 
 dropped to silence. 
 
 " You have bad news for me," said Barney, look- 
 ing Lady Ruthven steadily in the face. " Has any- 
 thing happened? " 
 
 " No, Dr. Boyle," replied Lady Ruthven, a little 
 
 more quickly than was her wont, " but " and 
 
 here she paused, shrinking from delivering the mor- 
 tal stab, " but we are anxious about our dear lola." 
 
 " Tell me the worst. Lady Ruthven," said Barney. 
 
 " That is all. We are very anxious. It is her 
 lungs chiefly and her heart. But she is very bright 
 and very hopeful. It is better she should be 
 kept so," 
 
 Barney listened with face growing grey, his eyes 
 looking out of their deep sockets with the piteous, 
 mute appeal of an animal stricken to death. He 
 moistened his lips and tried to speak, but, failing, 
 kept his eyes fixed on Lady Ruthven's face as if 
 seeking relief. Charrington turned his head away. 
 
 " We feel thankful for her great courage," said 
 Lady Ruthven, in her sweet, calm voice, " and for 
 her peace of mind," 
 
 At last Barney found his voice, " Does she sus- 
 pect anything.""' he asked hoarsely. 
 
 " I think she must, but she has said nothing. 
 She has been eager aU summer to get back to her 
 home — to you — to those she loved. She will rejoice 
 to see you." 
 
 Suddenly Barney dropped his face into his hands 
 
348 THE DOCTOR 
 
 with a low, long moan. Jack looked out upon the 
 fleeting landscape dimmed by the tears he dared 
 not wipe away. A long silence followed while, drop 
 by drop, Barney drank his cup to the bitter dregs. 
 
 " We try to think of the bright side," at length 
 said Lady Ruthven gently. 
 
 Barney lifted his face from his hands, looked at 
 her in dumb misery. 
 
 " There is the bright side," she continued, " the 
 side of the immortal hope. We like to think of the 
 better country. That is our real home. There, 
 only, are our treasures safe." She was giving him 
 time to get hold of himself after the first deadly 
 stab. But Barney made no reply except to gravely 
 bow. " It is, indeed, a better country," she added 
 softly as if to herself, " the only place we immortals 
 can call home." Then she rose. " Come, Jack," 
 she said, " I think Dr. Boyle would like to be alone." 
 Before she turned away to another section of the 
 carriage, she offered him her hand with a grave, 
 pitying smile. 
 
 Barney bowed reverently over her hand. " I am 
 grateful to you," he said brokenly, " believe me." 
 His face was contorted with the agony that filled 
 his soul. A quick rush of tears rendered her speech- 
 less and in silence they turned away from him, and 
 for the long hour that followed they left him with 
 his grief. 
 
 When they came back they found him with face 
 grave and steady, carrying the air of one who has 
 fought his fight and has not been altogether beaten. 
 
THE HEART'S REST 349 
 
 j\nd with that same steady face he reached the great 
 door of Ruthven Hall. 
 
 " Jack, you will take Dr. Boyle to his room," 
 said Lady Ruthven ; " I shall see lola and send for 
 him." But just then her daughter came down the 
 stairs. " Mamma," she said in a low, quick tone, 
 " she wants him at once." 
 
 " Yes, dear, I know," replied her mother, " but 
 it will be better that I " 
 
 But there was a light cry, " Barney ! " and, look- 
 ing up, they all saw, standing at the head of the 
 great staircase, a figure slight and frail, but radi- 
 ant. It was lola. 
 
 " Pardon me, Lady Ruthven," said Barney, and 
 was off three steps at a time. 
 
 " Come, children." Swiftly Lady Ruthven mo- 
 tioned them into the library that opened off the hall, 
 where they stood gazing at each other, awed and 
 silent. 
 
 " Heaven help them ! " at length gasped Jack. 
 
 " Let go my arm, Dr. Charrington," said Miss 
 Ruthven. " You are hurting me." 
 
 " Your pardon, a thousand times. I didn't know. 
 This is more than I can well stand." 
 
 " It will be well to leave them for a time, Dr. 
 Charrington," said Lady Ruthven, with a quiet dig- 
 nity that subdued all emotion and recalled them to 
 self-control. "You will see that Dr. Boyle gets 
 to his room? " 
 
 " I shall go up with you, Lady Ruthven, a little 
 later," replied Jack. " Yes, I confess," he contin- 
 
S50 THE DOCTOR 
 
 ued, answering Miss Ruthven's look, " I am a 
 coward. I am afraid to see Mm. He takes things 
 tremendously. He was quite mad about her years 
 ago, fiercely mad about her, and when the break 
 came it almost ruined him. How he will stand this, 
 I don't know, but I am afraid to see him." 
 
 " This wiU be a terrible strain for her. Lady 
 Ruthven," said Alan. " It should not be prolonged, 
 do you think? " 
 
 " It is well that they should be alone for a time," 
 she replied, her own experience making her wise in 
 the ways of the breaking heart. 
 
 When with that quick rush Barney reached the 
 head of the stairs lola moved toward him with arms 
 upraised. " Barney ! Barney ! Have you come to 
 me at last? " she cried. 
 
 A single, searching glance into her face told him 
 the dread truth. He took her gently into his arms 
 and, restraining his passionate longing to crush her 
 to him, lifted her and held her carefully, tenderly, 
 gazing into her glowing, glorious eyes the while. 
 " Where? " he murmured. 
 
 " This door, Barney." 
 
 He entered the little boudoir off her bedroom and 
 laid her upon a couch he found there. Then, with- 
 out a word, he put his cheek close to hers upon the 
 pillow, murmuring over and over, " lola — lola— my 
 love — my love ! " 
 
 " Why, Barney," she cried, with a little happy 
 laugh, "don't tremble so. Let me look at you. 
 See, you silly boy, I am quite strong and calm. 
 
THE HEART'S REST 351 
 
 Look at me, Barney," she pleaded, " I am hungry 
 to look at your face. I've only seen It in my dreams 
 for so long." She raised herself on her arm and 
 lifted his face from the pillow. " Now let me sit 
 up. I shall never see enough of you. Never ! 
 Never ! Oh, how wicked and how foolish I was ! " 
 
 " It was I who was wicked," said Barney bitterly, 
 " wicked and selfish and cruel to you and to 
 others." 
 
 " Hush ! " She laid her hand on his lips. " Sit 
 here beside me. Now, Barney, don't spoil this one 
 hour. Not on'i word of the past. You were a 
 little hard, you know, dear, but you were right, 
 and I knew you were right. I was wrong. But I 
 thought there would be more in that other life. 
 Even at its best it was spoiled. I wanted you. The 
 great ' Lohengrin ' night when they brought me out 
 so many times " 
 
 " I was there," interrupted Barney, his voice still 
 fuU of bitter pain. 
 
 "I know. I saw you. Oh! wasn't that a night? 
 Didn't I sing.-* It was for you, Barney. My soul, 
 my heart, my body, went all into Ortrud that night." 
 
 " It was a great, a truly great thing, lola." 
 
 " Yes," said lola, with a proud little laugh, " I 
 think the dear old Spectator was right when it said 
 it was a truly great performance, but I waited for 
 you, and waited and waited, and when you didn't 
 come I found that all the rest was nothing to me 
 without you. Oh, how I wanted you, Barney, then 
 ■ — and ever since ! " 
 
352 THE DOCTOR 
 
 " If I had only known ! " groaned Barney. 
 
 " Now, Barney, we are not to go back. We are 
 to take all the joy out of this hour. Promise me, 
 Barney, you will not blame yourself — ^now or ever — 
 promise me, promise me ! " she cried, eagerly in- 
 sistent. 
 
 « But I do, lola." 
 
 " Oh, Barney ! promise me this, we will look for- 
 ward, not back, will you, Barney ? " The pleading 
 in her voice swept away all feeling but the desire 
 to gratify her. 
 
 " I promise you, lola, and I keep my word." 
 
 " Yes, you do, Barney. Oh, thank you, darling." 
 She wreathed her arms about his neck and laid her 
 head upon his breast. " Oh ! " she said with a deep 
 sigh, " I shall rest now — rest — rest. That's what 
 I've been longing for. I could not rest, Barney." 
 
 Barney shuddered. Only too well he knew the 
 meaning of that fateful restlessness, but he only 
 held her closer to him, his heart filled with a fierce 
 refusal of his lot. 
 
 " There is no one like you, Barney, after all," she 
 murmured, nestling down with a delicious sigh of 
 content. " You are so strong. You will make me 
 strong, I know. I feel stronger already, stronger 
 than for months." 
 
 Again Barney shuddered at that cruel deception, 
 so characteristic of the treacherous disease. 
 
 "Why don't you speak to me, Barney? You 
 haven't said a word except just ' lola, lola, lola.* 
 Haven't you anything else to say, sir.? After 
 
THE HEART'S REST 353 
 
 your long silence jou might " She raised her 
 
 bead and looked into his eyes with her old saucy 
 smile. 
 
 " There is nothing to say, lola. What need to 
 speak when I can hold you like this? But you must 
 not talk too much." 
 
 " Tell me something about yourself," she cried. 
 "What? Where? How? Why? No, not why. 
 I don't want that, but all the rest." 
 
 " It is hardly worth while, lola," he replied, " and 
 it would take a long time." 
 
 " Oh, yes, think what a delicious long time. All 
 the time there is. All the day and every day. Oh, 
 Barney! does one want more Heaven than this? 
 Tell me about Margaret and — ^yes — and Dick," she 
 shyly added. " Are they well and happy? " 
 
 " Now, darling," said Barney, stroking her hair ; 
 "just rest there and I'll teU you everything. But 
 you must not exhaust yourself." 
 
 " Go on then, Barney," she replied with a sigh of 
 ineffable bliss, nestling down again. " Oh, lovely 
 rest!" 
 
 Then Barney told her of Margaret and Dick 
 and of their last few days together, making light 
 of Dick's injury and making much of the new joy 
 that had come to them all. " And it was your letter 
 that did it all, lola," he said. 
 
 " No," she replied gently, " it was our Father's 
 goodness. I see things so differently, Barney. Lady 
 Ruthven has taught me. She is an angel from 
 Heaven, and, oh, what she has done for me ! " 
 
354. THE DOCTOR 
 
 " I, too, lola, have great things to be thankful 
 for." 
 
 A tap came to the door and, in response to their 
 invitation, Lady Ruthven, with Jack in the back-" 
 ground, appeared. 
 
 " Dinner will be served in a few minutes, lola, and 
 I am sure Dr. Boyle would like to go to his room. 
 You can spare him, I suppose.? " 
 
 " No, I can't spare him, but I will If you let me 
 go down to-night to dinner." 
 
 " Is it wise, do you think? " said Lady Ruthven 
 gravely. " You must save your strength now, you 
 know." 
 
 " Oh, but I am strong. Just for to-night," she 
 pleaded. " I'm not going to be an invalid to-night. 
 I'm going to forget all about it. I am going to eat 
 a good dinner and I'm going to sing, too. Jack, 
 tell them I can go down. Barney, you will take me 
 down. You may carry me, if you like. I am going. 
 Jack," she continued with something of her old 
 imperious air. 
 
 Barney searched her face with a critical glance, 
 holding his fingers upon her wrist. She was grow- 
 ing excited. " Well, I think she might go down for 
 a httle. What do you think, Charrington? You 
 know best." 
 
 " If she Is good she might," said Jack doubtfully. 
 " But she must promise to be quiet." 
 
 " Jack, you're a dear. You're an angel. I'll 
 be good — ^as good as I can." With which extremely 
 doubtful promise they had to content themsdves. 
 
THE HEART'S REST 355 
 
 At dinner none was more radiant that lola. 
 Without effort or strain her wit and gaiety bubbled 
 over, till Barney, watching her in wonder, asked him- 
 self whether in his first impression of her he had not 
 been mistaken. As he still watched and Hstened his 
 wonder grew. How brilliantly clever she was ! How 
 quick her wit! How exquisitely subtle her fancy! 
 Her mind, glowing like a live coal, seemed to kindle 
 by mere contact the minds about her, till the whole 
 table, catching her fire, scintillated with imagina- 
 tion's divine flame. Through it all Barney became 
 conscious of a change in her. She was brighter 
 than of old, cleverer by far. Her conversation was 
 that of a highly cultured woman of the world. But 
 it was not these that made the change. There was 
 a new quality of soul in her. Patience had wrought 
 her perfect work. She exhaled that exquisite aroma 
 of the spirit disciplined by pain. She was less of the 
 earth, earthy. The airs of Heaven were breathing 
 about her. 
 
 To Barney, with his new sensitiveness to the 
 spiritual, this change in lola made her inexpressi- 
 bly dear. It seemed as if he had met her in 
 a new and better country where neither had seen 
 the other before. And yet it filled him with an odd 
 sense of loss. It was as if earth were losing its 
 claim in her, as if her earthward affinities were re- 
 fining into the heavenly. She was keenly interested 
 in the story of Dick's work and, in spite of his 
 reluctance to talk, she so managed the conversation, 
 that, before he was aware, Barney was in the full 
 
356 THE DOCTOR 
 
 tide of the thrilling tale of his brother's heroic 
 service to the men in the mountains of Western 
 Canada. As Barney waxed eloquent, picturing the 
 perils and privations, the discouragements and de- 
 feats, the toils and triumphs of missionarj life, the 
 lustrous eyes grew luminous with deep inner light, 
 the beautiful face, its ivory pallor relieved by a 
 touch of carmine upon lip and cheek, appeared to 
 shed a very radiance of glorjr that drew and held 
 the gaze of the whole company. 
 
 " Oh, what splendid work ! " she cried. " How 
 good to be a man ! But it's better," she added, with 
 a quick glance at Barney and a little shy laugh, " to 
 be a woman." 
 
 It was the anxiety in Charrington's eyes that 
 arrested Lady Ruthven's attention and made her 
 bring the dinner somewhat abruptly to a close. 
 
 " Oh, Lady Ruthven, must we go? " cried lola, 
 as her hostess made a move to rise. " What a 
 delightful dinner we have had! Now you are not 
 going to send me away just yet. * After dinner sit 
 a while,' you know, and I believe I feel like singing 
 to-night." 
 
 " My dear, my dear," said Lady Ruthven, " do 
 you think you should exert yourself any more? You 
 have had an exciting day. What does your doctor 
 say? " 
 
 " Barney? " 
 
 " Barney, indeed ! " echoed Jack indignantly. 
 
 "Oh, the ingratitude of the female heart! Here 
 for all these weeks I have " 
 
THE HEART'S REST 357 
 
 "Forgive me, Jack. I am quite sure you won't 
 be hard-hearted enough to banish me." 
 
 " An hour on the hbrary couch, whence one can 
 look upon the sea, in an atmosphere of restful quiet, 
 listening to cheerful but not too exciting conversa- 
 tion," said Jack gravely. 
 
 " And music, Doctor? " inquired lola, with mock 
 humility. 
 
 " Well, I'D sing a little myself," replied Jack. 
 
 " Oh, my dear lola," cried Miss Ruthven, " hasten 
 to bed, I beg of you, and save us all. And yet, do 
 you know, I rather like to hear Dr. Charrington 
 sing. It makes me think of our automobile tour in 
 the Highlands last year," she continued with mis- 
 chievous gravity. 
 
 " Ah," said Jack, much flattered, " I don't 
 quite " 
 
 " Oh, the horn, you know." 
 
 "Wretch! Now I refuse outright to sing." 
 
 "Really? And after we had prepared ourselves 
 for the — ah — experience." 
 
 " How do you feel now, lola? " said Jack, quietly 
 placing his fingers upon her pulse. 
 
 " Perfectly strong, I assure you. Listen." And 
 she ran up her chromatics in a voice rich and strong 
 and clear. 
 
 "Well, this is most wonderful!" exclaimed Jack. 
 " Her pulse is strong, even, steady. Her respiration 
 is normal." 
 
 • "I told you!" cried lola triumphantly. "Now 
 you will let me sing — ^not a big song, but just that 
 
858 THE DOCTOR 
 
 wee Scotch thing I learned from old Jennico Bar- 
 ney's mother used to sing it." 
 
 " My dear Ida," entreated Lady Ruthven, " do 
 you think you should venture? Do you think she 
 should. Dr. Boyle? " 
 
 " Don't ask me," said Barney. " I should forbid 
 it were it anyone else." 
 
 " But it isn't anyone else," persisted lola, " and 
 my doctor says yes. I'll only hum, Jack." 
 
 " Well, one only. And mind, no fugues, arpeg- 
 gios, double-stoppings, and such friUs." 
 
 She took her guitar. " I'll sing this for Barney's 
 dear mother," she said. And in a voice soft, rich 
 and full of melody, and with perfect reproduction 
 of the quaint old-fashioned cadences and quavers, 
 she sang the Highland lament, " O'er the Moor." 
 
 '" O'er the moor I wander lonely, 
 Ochon-a-rie, my heart is sore; 
 Where are all the joys I cherished? 
 With my darling they have perished. 
 And they will return no more. 
 
 " 1 loved thee first, I loved thee only, 
 Ochon-a-rie, my heart is sore; 
 1 loved thee from the day I met thee. 
 What care I though all forget thee? 
 1 wUl love thee evermore." 
 
 And then, before anyone could utter a word of pro- 
 test, she said, " You never heard this, I think, Bar- 
 ney. I'll sing it for you." And in a low, soft voice, 
 thrilling with pathetic feeling, she sang the quaint 
 
THE HEART'S REST 359 
 
 little song that described so fittingly her own ex- 
 perience, " My Heart's Rest." 
 
 *I had wandered far, and the wind was cold. 
 And the sharp thoms clutched, and the day was old. 
 When the Master came to close His fold 
 And saw that one had strayed. 
 
 "Wild paths I fled, and the wind grew chill. 
 And the sharp rocks cut, and the day waned, till 
 The Master's voice searched vale and hill: 
 I heard and fled afraid. 
 
 "Dread steeps I climbed, and the wind wailed on. 
 And the stars went out, and the day was gone. 
 Then the Master foimd, laid me upon 
 His bosom, unafraid." 
 
 A hush foUowed upon her song. Far down the 
 valley the moon rose red out of the sea, the sweet 
 night air, breathing its fragrance of mignonette 
 and roses, moved the lace of the curtains at the open 
 window as it passed. A late thrush was singing its 
 night song of love to its mate. 
 
 " I feel as if I could sleep now," said lola. " Bar- 
 ney, carry me." Like a tired child she nestled down 
 in Barney's strong arms. " Good-night, dear 
 friends, all," she said. " What a happy evening it 
 has been." Then, with a little cry, " Oh, Barney ! 
 hold me. I'm slipping," she locked her arms tight 
 about his neck, hfting her face to his. " Good- 
 night, Barney, my love, my own love," she whis- 
 pered, her breath coming in gasps. " How good 
 you are to me — ^how good to have you. Now kiss 
 me — quick — don't wait — again, dear — good-night." 
 
360 THE DOCTOR 
 
 Her arms slipped down from his neck. Her head 
 sank upon his breast. 
 
 " lola ! " he cried, in a voice strident with fear 
 and alarm, glancing down into her face. He car- 
 ried her to the open window. " Oh, my God ! My 
 God ! She is gone ! Oh, my love, not yet ! not yet ! " 
 
 But the ear was dull even to that penetrating cry 
 of the broken heart, and the singing voice was for- 
 ever still from words or songs that mortal ears 
 could hear. In vain they tried to revive her. The 
 tired lids rested upon the lustrous eyes from which 
 all light had fled. The weary heart was quiet at 
 last. Gently, Barney placed her on the couch, 
 where she lay as if asleep, then, standing upright, 
 he gazed round upon them with eyes full of dumb 
 anguish till they understood, and one by one they 
 turned and left him alone with his dead. 
 
 For two days Barney wandered about the valley, 
 his spirit moving in the midst of a solemn and mys- 
 terious peace. The light of life for him had not 
 gone out, but had brightened into the greater glory. 
 Heaven had not snatched her away. She had 
 brought Heaven near. 
 
 At first he was minded to carry her back with him 
 to the old home and lay her in the churchyard there. 
 But Lady Ruthven took him to the spot where her 
 dead lay. 
 
 "We should be glad that she should sleep beside 
 our dear ones here," she said. " You know we love 
 her dearly." 
 
THE HEART'S REST 361 
 
 " It is a great kindness you are doing, Lady 
 Ruthven," Barney replied, his heart responding with 
 glad acceptance to the suggestion. " She loved this 
 valley, and it was here she first found rest." 
 
 " Yes, she loves this valley," replied Lady Ruth- 
 ven, refusing to accept Barney's tense. To her, 
 death made no change. " And here she found peace 
 and perfect love again." 
 
 A single line in the daily press brought a few close 
 friends from London to bury her. Old Sir Walter 
 himself was present. He had taken such pride in 
 her voice, and had learned to love his pupil as a 
 daughter, and with him stood Herr Lindau, the 
 German impresario, under whose management she 
 had made her London debut in " Lohengrin." There 
 in the sunny valley they laid her down, their faces 
 touched with smiles that struggled with their tears. 
 But on his face who loved her best of all there were 
 no tears, only a look of wonder, and of gladness, and 
 of peace. 
 
XXIII 
 THE LAST CALL 
 
 DICK was discouraged and, a rare thing with 
 I him, his face showed his discouragement. 
 ' In the war against the saloon and vice 
 m its various forms he felt that he stood almost 
 alone. 
 
 At the door of The Clarion office the editor, Lemuel 
 Daggett, hailed him. He hesitated a moment, then 
 entered. A newspaper office was familiar territory 
 to him, as was also that back country that stretches 
 to the horizon from the back door of every printing 
 office. The Clarion was the organ of the political 
 Outs as The Pioneer was that of the Ins. Politics 
 in British Columbia had not yet arrived at that stage 
 of development wherein parties differentiate themselves 
 from each other upon great principles. The Ins 
 were in and the Outs opposed them chiefly on that 
 ground. 
 
 " Well," said Daggett, with an air of gentle 
 patronage, " how did the meeting go last night.*' " 
 
 " I don't suppose you need to ask. I saw you 
 there. It didn't go at all." 
 
 " Yes," replied Daggett, " your men are all right in 
 their opinions, but they never allow their opinions to 
 interfere with business. I could have told you every 
 
THE LAST CALL 
 
 last man of them was scared. There's Matheson, 
 couldn't stand up against his wholesale grocer. Re- 
 ligion mustn't interfere with sales. The saloons and 
 * red lights ' pay cash ; therefore, quit your nonsense 
 and stick to business. Hutton sells more drugs and 
 perfumes to the ' red lights ' than to all the rest of 
 the town and country put together. Goring's chief 
 won't stand any monkeying with polities. Leave 
 things as they are. Why, even the ladies decline to 
 imperil their husbands' business." 
 
 Dick swallowed the bitter pill without a wink. He 
 was down, but he was not yet completely out. Only 
 too well he knew the truth of Daggett's review of the 
 situation. 
 
 " There is something in what you say," he con- 
 ceded, « but " 
 
 " Oh, come now," interrupted Daggett, " you know 
 better than that. This town and this country is run 
 by the whiskey ring. Why, there's Hickey, he daren't 
 arrest saloonkeeper or gambler, though he hates 
 whiskey and the whole outfit worse than poison. 
 Why doesn't he? The Honourable McKenty, M. P., 
 drops him a hint. Hickey is told to mind his own 
 business and leave the saloon and the ' red lights ' 
 alone, and so poor Hickey is sitting down trying to 
 discover what his business is ever since. The safe 
 thing is to do nothing." 
 
 "You seem to know all about it," said Dick. 
 " What's the good of your paper.? Why don't you 
 get after these men.'' " 
 
 " My dear sir, are you an old newspaper man, and 
 
364 THE DOCTOR 
 
 ask that? It is quite true that The Clarion is the 
 champion of liberty, the great moulder of public 
 opinion, the leader in all moral reform, but unhappily, 
 not being an endowed institution, it is forced to con- 
 sider advertising space. Advertising, circulation, 
 subscriptions, these are the considerations that deter- 
 mine newspaper policy." 
 
 Dick gazed ruefully out of the window. " It's 
 true. It's terribly true," he said. " The people 
 don't want anything better than they have. The 
 saloon must continue to be the dominant influence 
 here for a time. But you hear me, Daggett, a better 
 day is coming, and if you want an opportunity to do, 
 not the heroic thing only, but the wise thing, jump 
 into a campaign for reform. Do you think Cana- 
 dians are going to stand this long? This is a Chris- 
 tian country, I tell you. The Church will take a 
 hand." 
 
 Daggett smiled a superior smile. " Coming? 
 Yes, sure, but meantime The Pioneer spells Church 
 with a small c, and even the Almighty's name with a 
 small g." 
 
 "I tell you, Daggett," said Dick hotly, "The 
 Pioneer's day is past. I see signs and I hear rum- 
 blings of a storm that will sweep it, and you, too, un- 
 less you change, out of existence." 
 
 " Not at all, my dear sir. We will be riding on 
 that storm when it arrives. But the rumblings are 
 somewhat distant. I, too, see signs, but the time is 
 not yet. By the way, where is your brother? " 
 
 " I don't see much of him. He is up and down the 
 
THE LAST CALL' 365 
 
 line, busy with his sick and running this library and 
 clubroom business." 
 
 " Yes," replied Daggett thoughtfully, " I hear of 
 him often. The railroad men and the lumbermen 
 grovel to him. Look here, would he run in this con- 
 stituency? " 
 
 Dick laughed at him. " Not he. Why, man, he's 
 straight. You couldn't buy him. Oh, I know the 
 game." 
 
 Daggett was silenced for some moments. 
 
 " Hello ! " said Daggett, looking out of the win- 
 dow, " here is our coming Member." He opened the 
 door. " Mr. Hull, let me introduce you to the 
 Reverend Richard Boyle, preacher and moral re- 
 former. Mr. Boyle — Mr. Hull, the coming Member 
 for this constituency." 
 
 " I hope he will make a better fist of it than the 
 present incumbent," said Dick a little gruffly, for he 
 had little respect for either of the political parties or 
 their representatives. "I must get along. But, 
 Daggett, for goodness' sake do something with this 
 beastly gambling-hell business." With this he closed 
 the door. 
 
 " Good fellow, Boyle, I reckon," said Hull, " but 
 a little unpractical, eh? " 
 
 " Yes," agreed Daggett, " he Is somewhat vision- 
 ary. But I begin to think he is on the right track." 
 
 " How.? What do you mean? " 
 
 " I mean the West is beginning to lose its wool, 
 and it's time this country was getting civilized. That 
 fool editor of The Pioneer thinks that because h» 
 
366 THE DOCTOR 
 
 keeps wearing buckskin pants and a cowboy hat, he 
 can keep back the wheels of time. He hasn't brains 
 enough to last him over night. Boyle says he sees 
 the signs of a coming storm. I believe I see them, 
 too." 
 
 " Signs ? " inquired Hull. 
 
 " Yes, the East is taking notice. The big cor- 
 porations are being held responsible for their men, 
 their health, and their morals. ' Mexico,' too, has 
 something up his sleeve. He's acting queer, and this 
 Boyle's brother is taking a hand, I believe.** 
 
 " The doctor, eh? Pshaw! let him." 
 
 " Do you know him .'' " 
 
 " Not well." 
 
 " You get next him quick. He's the coming man 
 in this country, don't forget it." 
 
 Hull grunted rather contemptuously. He himself 
 was a man of considerable wealth. He was an old 
 timer and cherished the old timer's contempt for the 
 tenderfoot. 
 
 " All right," said Daggett, " you may sniff. I've 
 watched him and I've discovered this, that what he 
 wants to do he does. He's an old poker player. 
 He has cleaned out ' Mexico ' half a dozen times. 
 He has quit poker now, they say, and he's got ' Mex- 
 ico ' going queer." 
 
 "What's his game?" 
 
 " Can't make it out quite. He has turned reli- 
 gious, they say. Spoke here at a big meeting last 
 spring, quite dramatic, I believe. I wasn't there. 
 Offered to pay back his ungodly winnings. Of 
 
THE LAST CALL 867 
 
 course, no man would listen to that, so he's putting 
 libraries into the camps and establishing clubrooms." 
 
 "By Jove! it's a good game. But what do the 
 boys, what does ' Mexico ' think of it? " 
 
 " Why, that's the strangest part of it. He's got 
 them going his way. He's a doctor, you know, has 
 nursed a lot of them, and they swear by him. He's a 
 sign, I tell you. So Is ' Mexico.' " 
 
 " What about ' Mexico '? " 
 
 " Well, you know ' Mexico ' has been the head cen- 
 tre of the saloon outfit, divides the spoil and collects 
 the ' rents.' But I say he's acting queer." 
 
 Hull was at once on the alert. " That's interest- 
 ing. You are sure of your facts? It might be all 
 right to corral those chaps. The virtue campaign is 
 bound to come. A little premature yet, but that 
 doctor fellow is to be considered." 
 
 But the virtue campaign did not immediately begin. 
 The whole political machinery of both parties was 
 too completely under the control of the saloon and 
 " red light " influence to be easily emancipated. The 
 business interests of the little towns along the line 
 were so largely dependent upon the support of the 
 saloon and the paJtronage of vice that few had the 
 courage to openly espouse and seriously champion a 
 campaign for reform. And while many, perhaps the 
 majority, of the men employed in the railroad and in 
 the lumber camps, though they were sub j erf; to 
 periodic lapses from the path of sobriety and virtue, 
 were really opposed to the saloon and its allies, yet 
 they lacked leadership and were, therefore, unreliaible. 
 
368 THE DOCTOR 
 
 It was at this point that the machine in each party 
 began to cherish a nervous apprehension in regard to 
 the influence of Dr. Boyle. Bitter enemies though 
 they were, they united their forces in an endeavour to 
 have the doctor removed. The wires ordinarily effec- 
 tive were pulled with considerable success, when the 
 manipulators met with an unexpected obstacle in Gen- 
 eral Manager Fahey. Upon him the full force of 
 the combined influences available was turned, but to 
 no purpose. He was too good a railway manager 
 to be willing to lose the services of a man " who knew 
 his work and did it right, a man who couldn't be 
 bullied or blocked, and a man, bedad, who could play 
 a good game of poker." 
 
 " He stays while I stay," was Fahey's last word in 
 reply to an influential director, labouring in the in- 
 terests of the party machine. 
 
 Failing with Fahey, the allied forces tried another 
 line of attack. " Mexico " and the organization of 
 which he was the head were instructed to " run him 
 out." Receiving his orders, " Mexico " called his 
 agents together and invited their opinions. A sharp 
 cleavage immediately developed, one party led by 
 " Peachy " being strongly in favour of obeying the 
 orders, the other party, leaderless and scattering, 
 strongly opposed. Discussion waxed bitter. " Mex- 
 ico " sat silent, watchful, impassive. At lengtji, 
 " Peachy," in full swing of an impassioned and 
 sulphurous denunciation of the doctor, his person and 
 his ways, was called abruptly to order by a peremp- 
 tory word from his chief. 
 
THE LAST CALL 369 
 
 " Shut up your fool head, ' Peachy.' To hear you 
 talk you'd think you'd do something." 
 
 A grim laugh at " Peachy's " expense went round 
 the company. 
 
 "Do somethin'.?" snarled "Peachy," stung to 
 fury, " I'll do somethin' one of these days. Fve stood 
 you all I want." 
 
 " Peachy's " oaths were crude in comparison with 
 " Mexico's," but his fury lent them force. " Mex- 
 ico " turned his baleful, gleaming eyes upon him. 
 
 "Do something.'' Meaning?" 
 
 " Never mind," growled " Peachy." 
 
 " Git ! " " Mexico " pointed a long finger to the 
 door. It was a word of doom, and they aU knew it, 
 for it meant not simply dismissal from that meeting, 
 but banishment from the company of which " Mex- 
 ico " was head, and that meant banishment from the 
 line of the Crow's Nest Pass. " Peachy " was 
 startled. 
 
 " You needn't be so blanked swift," he growled 
 apologetically. " I didn't mean for to " 
 
 " You git ! " repeated " Mexico," turning the 
 pointing finger from the door to the face of the 
 startled wretch. 
 
 With a fierce oath " Peachy " reached for his gun, 
 but hesitated to draw. " Mexico " moved not a line 
 of his face, not a muscle of his body, except that his 
 head went a little back and the heavy eyelids fell 
 somewhat over the piercing black eyes. 
 
 " You dog ! " he ground out through his clenched 
 teeth, " you know you can't bring out your gun. I 
 
870 THE DOCTOR 
 
 know you. You poor cur ! You thought you'd sell 
 me up to the other side ! I know your scheme ! Now 
 git, and quick ! " 
 
 The command came sharp like a snap of an ani- 
 mal's teeth, while " Mexico's " hand dropped swiftly 
 to his side. Instantly " Peaehy " rose and backed 
 slowly toward the door, his face wearing the grin of 
 a savage beast. At the door he paused. 
 
 " ' Mexico,' " he said, " is this the last between you 
 and me? " 
 
 " Mexico " kept his gleaming eyes fastened upon 
 the face of the man backing out of the door. 
 
 " Git out, you cur ! " he said, with contemptuous 
 deliberation. 
 
 " Take that, then." 
 
 Like a flash, " Mexico " threw himself to one side. 
 Two shots rang out as one. A sHght smile curled 
 " Mexico's " lip. 
 
 " Got him that time, I reckon." 
 
 " Hurt, ' Mexico '.'' " anxiously inquired his friends. 
 
 " Naw. He aint got the nerve to shoot straight." 
 The bartender and some others came running in with 
 anxious faces. " Never mind, boys," said " Mexico." 
 " ' Peachy ' was f oolin' with his gun ; it went off and 
 hurt him some." 
 
 " Say, there's blood here ! " said the bartender. 
 « He's been bleedin' bad." 
 
 " Guess he's more scared than hurt. Now let's git 
 to business." 
 
 The bartender and his friends took the hint and 
 retired. 
 
THE LAST CALL 371 
 
 " Now, boys, listen to me," said " Mexico " impres- 
 sively, leaning over the table. " Right here I want to 
 say that the doctor is a friend of mine, and the man 
 that touches him touches me." There was an omi- 
 nous silence. 
 
 " Just as you say, ' Mexico,' " said one of the men, 
 " but I see the finish of our game in these parts. The 
 doctor's got the boys a-goin' and you know he ain't 
 the kind that quits." 
 
 " You're right an' you're wrong. The Doc ain't 
 the whole Government of this country yet. His 
 game's the winnin' game. Any fool can see that. 
 But we hold most of the trumps just now. _ So for the 
 present we stay." 
 
 As the meeting broke up, " Mexico's " friends 
 warned him against " Peachy." 
 
 " Pshaw ! ' Peachy ' ! " said " Mexico " contemptu- 
 ously. "He couldn't hold his gun steady at me." 
 
 " He's all right behind a tree, though, an' there's 
 lots of 'em roxind." 
 
 But " Mexico " only spat out his contempt for any- 
 thing that " Peachy " could do, and went calinly on 
 his way, " keeping the boys in line." But he began 
 to be painfully conscious of an undercurrent of feel- 
 ing over which he could exercise no control. Not 
 that there was any lack of readiness on the part of 
 the boys to " line up " at the word, but there was no 
 corresponding readiness in pledging their support to 
 the " same old party." There was, on the contrary, 
 a very marked reserve on the part of the men who 
 formerly, especially after the lining up process had 
 
372 THE DOCTOR 
 
 been several times repeated, had been distinguished 
 for unlimited enthusiasm for all " Mexico " repre- 
 sented. They " lined up " still, but beyond this they 
 did not go. 
 
 The editor of The Pioneer, too, became conscious 
 of this change in the attitude of the men he had al- 
 ways counted upon to do his bidding at the polls. 
 " It's that cursed doctor ! " he exclaimed to McKenty, 
 the Member for the district. " He's been working a 
 deep game. Of course, his brother's putting up all 
 kinds of a fight, but we expect that and we know how 
 to handle him. But this fellow is different. I tell 
 you I'm afraid of him." 
 
 " Pshaw ! He hasn't got any backing," said Mc- 
 Kenty. 
 
 "How?" 
 
 "Well, he hasn't got any grease, and you can't 
 make anything go without grease." McKenty spoke 
 out of considerable experience. 
 
 " That's all right as an ordinary thing, but the 
 doctor has grease of another kind. This library and 
 clubroom business is catching the boys all round." 
 
 " I've heard about it," said McKenty. " I guess 
 the Government could take a hand in libraries and in- 
 stitutes and that sort of thing, too." 
 
 " That's all right," replied the editor. " Might do 
 some good. But you can't beat him at that game. 
 It isn't his libraries and his clubs altogether or chiefly, 
 it's himself and his work. He's a number one doctor, 
 and night and day he's on the road. By Jove ! he's 
 everywhere. He's got no end of stay, confound him ! 
 
THE LAST CALL 373 
 
 I tell you he's a winner. He can get a thousand men 
 in a week to back him for anything he says." 
 
 McKenty thought deeply for some moments. 
 " Well," he said, finally, " something has got to be 
 done. We can't afford, you and I, at this stage to 
 get out of the game. What about ' Mexico '? " 
 
 " ' Mexico ' ! " exclaimed the editor, breaking out 
 into profanity. "There's the weakest spot in the 
 whole combination, just where it used to be strongest. 
 The doctor's got him, body and soul. Why, ' Mexico ' 
 'd be after him with a gun if he stayed anywhere else 
 when he visits town. The best in ' Mexico's ' saloon 
 isn't qtiite good enough for the doctor. No, sir! 
 He's got a line on ' Mexico,' all right." 
 
 " Can't you shake him loose ? There are the usual 
 ways, you know, of loosening up people." 
 
 " But, my dear sir, I'm just telling you that the 
 usual ways won't work here. This combination is 
 something quite unusual. I believe there's some re- 
 ligion in it." 
 
 McKenty laughed loud. It was a good joke. 
 
 " I tell you I mean it," said the editor, testily. 
 " The doctor's got it hard. Talk about conversion ! 
 You weren't at that meeting last spring — I was — 
 when he got up and preached us a sermon that would 
 make your hair curl." And the editor proceeded to 
 give a graphic account of the meeting in question. 
 
 " Well," said McKenty, " I guess we can't touch 
 the doctor. But ' Mexico,' pshaw ! we can keep 
 ' Mexico ' solid. We've got to. He knows too much. 
 You've simply got to get after him." 
 
874 THE DOCTOR 
 
 This the editor of The Pioneer proceeded to do 
 without delay, for, looking out through the dusty 
 windows of The Pioneer office, he perceived " Mexico " 
 sauntering down the other side of the street. 
 
 " There he is now," he cried, going toward the 
 door. " Hi ! ' Mexico ' ! " he called, and " Mexico " 
 came slouching across. " Ugly looking beggar, ain't 
 he? " said the editor. " Jaw like a bulldog. Morn- 
 ing, ' Mexico ' ! " 
 
 " Momin'," grunted " Mexico," nodding first to 
 the editor and then to McKenty. 
 
 "How is things, 'Mexico'?" said the editor, in 
 his most ingratiating manner, 
 
 "How?" 
 
 " How are the boys? Vote solid? Election's 
 coming on, you know." 
 
 " Comin' on soon? " 
 
 " Well, it looks that way, but really one can't say. 
 We ought to be ready, though." 
 
 " Can't be too soon," said " Mexico." 
 
 "How is that?" 
 
 " Time's agin ye. Leather pants goin' out of 
 fashion," with a glance at the schapps which the edi- 
 tor delighted to wear. " People beginnin' to go to 
 j^etin' in this country." 
 
 " I hear you're going yourself a little, ' Mexico,' " 
 said McKenty, facetiously. 
 
 " Mexico " turned his eyes slowly upon the Mem- 
 ber. 
 
 "Anything to say agin it? " 
 
 " Not at all, ' Mexico,' not at all. Good thing ; 
 
THE LAST CALL 375 
 
 but they say the doctor's got the boys rather away 
 from you, that you're losing your grip." 
 
 "Who says?" 
 
 " Oh, I hear it everywhere." 
 
 " Guess it must be right, then," repKed " Mexico," 
 grimly. 
 
 " And they say he's got a line on you, * Mexico,' 
 getting you right up to the mourners' bench." 
 
 "Do, eh.?" 
 
 " Look here, ' Mexico,' " said. McKenty, dropping 
 his bantering tone, " you're not going to let the blank 
 preacher-doctor combination work you, are you? " 
 
 " Don't know about that." 
 
 "You don't?" 
 
 " No. But I do know that there ain't any other 
 combination kin. I'm working for myself in this 
 game. If any combination wants to shove my way;^ 
 they can jump in. They'll quit when it don't pay to 
 shove, I guess. Me the same. You fellers ain't any 
 interest in me, I reckon." 
 
 " Well, do you imagine the doctor has? " 
 
 " Mexico " paused, then said thoughtfully, 
 " Blanked if I can git on to his- game ! " 
 
 " Oh^ come, 'Mexico,' you can't get on to him? 
 He's working you. You don't really think he has 
 your interest at heart? " 
 
 " Can't quite teU." " Mexico " wore a vexed and 
 thoughtful air., "Wish I could. If I thought so 
 I'd " 
 
 "What?" 
 
 " Tie up to him tight, you bet your eternal lifo ! " 
 
S76 THE DOCTOR 
 
 There was a sudden gleam from under " Mexico's " 
 heavy brows and a ring in his usually drawling voice, 
 that sufficiently attested his earnestness. " There 
 ain't too many of that' kind raound." 
 
 "What do you think of that? " inquired the edi- 
 tor, as " Mexico " sauntered out of the door. 
 
 " Think? I think there's a law against gamblers 
 in this province and it ought to be enforced." 
 
 " That means war," said the editor. 
 
 " Well, let it come. That doctor is the whole 
 trouble, I can see. I'd give a thousand dollars down 
 to see him out of the country." 
 
 But there was no sign that the doctor had any 
 desire to leave the country, and all who knew him were 
 quite certain that until he should so desire, leave he 
 would not. All through the winter he went about his 
 work with a devotion that taxed even his superb phys- 
 ical strength to the uttermost. In addition to his 
 work as Medical Superintendent of the railroad he 
 had been asked to take oversight of the new coal mines 
 opening up here and there in the Pass, which brought 
 him no end of both labour and trouble. The man- 
 agers of the mines held the most primitive ideas in 
 regard to both safety in operating a mine and sani- 
 tation of miners' quarters. Consequently, the doctor 
 had to enter upon a long campaign of education. It 
 was an almost hopeless task. The directors were re- 
 mote from the ground and were unimpressed by the 
 needs so urgently reported by their doctor. The 
 managers on the ground were concerned chiefly with 
 keeping down the expenses of operation. The miners 
 
THE LAST CALL 377 
 
 themselves were, as a class, too well accustomed to the 
 wretched conditions under which they lived and worked 
 to make any strenuous objection. 
 
 How to bring about a better condition of things 
 beckme, with the doctor, a constant subject of 
 thought. It was also the theme of conversation on 
 the occasion of his monthly visits to the Kuskinook 
 Hospital, where it had become an established custom 
 for Dick and him to meet since his return from Scot- 
 land. 
 
 " We'll get them to listen when we kill a few score 
 men, not before," grumbled Barney to Dick and 
 Margaret. 
 
 " It's the universal law," replied Dick. " Some 
 men must die for their nation. It's been the way 
 from the first." 
 
 " But, Barney, is it wise that you should worry 
 yourself and work yourself to death as you are do- 
 ing?" said Margaret, anxiously. "You know you 
 can't stand this long. You are not the man you were 
 when you came back." 
 
 Barney only smiled. " That would be no great 
 matter," he said, lightly. " But there is no fear of 
 me," he added. " I don't pine for an early death, you 
 know. I've got a lot to live for." 
 
 There was silence for a minute or two. They were 
 thinking of the grave in the little churchyard across 
 the sea. Ever since Barney's return, and as often 
 as they met together, they allowed themselves to think 
 and speak freely of the httle valley at Craigraven, so 
 full of light and peace, with its grave beside the little 
 
378 THE DOCTOR 
 
 church. At first Dick and Margaret shrank from 
 all reference to lola, and sought to txsxn Barney's 
 mind from thoughts so full of pain. But Barney 
 would not have it so. Frankly and simply he began 
 to speak of her, dwelling lovingly and tenderly upon 
 all the details of the last days of her life, as he had 
 gathered them from Lady Ruthven, her friend. 
 
 " It would be easier for me not to speak of her," 
 he had said on his return, " but I've lost too much to 
 I'isk the loss of more. I want you to talk of her, 
 and by and by I shall find it easy." 
 
 And this they did most loyally, and with tender 
 solicitude for him, till at length the habit grew, so 
 that whenever they came together it only deepened 
 and chastened their joy in each other to keep fresh the 
 memory of her who had filled so large a place, and so 
 vividly, in the life of each of them. And this was 
 good for them all, but especially for Barney. It took 
 the bitterness out of his grief, and much of the pain 
 out of his loss. The memory of that last evening 
 with lola, and Lady Ruthven's story of the purifying 
 of her spirit, during those last few months, combined 
 to throw about her a radiance such as she had never 
 shed even in the most radiant moments of her life. 
 
 " There is only place for gratitude," he said, one 
 evening, to them. " Why should I allow any mean or 
 selfish thought to spoil my memory of her or to hinder 
 the gratitude I ought to feel, that her going was so 
 free from pain, and her last evening so full of joy.'' " 
 
 It was with these feehngs in his heart that he went 
 back to the camps to his work among the sick and 
 
THE LAST CALL 379 
 
 wounded in body and in heart. And as he went in 
 and out among the men they became conscious of a 
 new spirit in him. His touch on the knife was a% 
 sure as ever, his nerve as steady, but while the old 
 reserve still held his lips from overflowing, the words 
 that dropped were kinder, the tone gentler, the touch 
 more tender. The terrible restlessness, too, was gone 
 out of his blood. A great calm possessed him. He 
 was always ready for the ultimate demand, prepared 
 to give of his life to the uttermost. To his former 
 care for the physical well-being of the men, he added 
 now a concern for their mental and spiritual good, 
 and hence the system of libraries and clubrooms he 
 had initiated throughout the camps and towns along 
 the line. It mattered not to him that he had to meet 
 the open opposition of the saloon element and the 
 secret hostility of those who depended upon that ele- 
 ment for the success of their political schemes. His 
 love of a fight was as strong as ever. At first the 
 men could not fathom his motives, but as men do, they 
 silently and observantly waited for the real motive to 
 emerge. As " Mexico " said, they " couldn't get onto 
 his game." And none of them was more completely 
 puzzled than was " Mexico " himself, but none more 
 fully acknowledged, and more frankly yielded to the 
 fascination of the new spirit and new manner which 
 the doctor brought to his work. At the same time, 
 however, " Mexico " could not rid himself of a sus- 
 picion, now and then, that the real game was being 
 kept dark. The day was to come when " Mexico " 
 would cast away every vestige of suspicion and give 
 
380 THE DOCTOR 
 
 himself up to the full luxury of devotion to a man, 
 worthy to be followed, who lived not for his own 
 things. But that day was not yet, and " Mexico " 
 was kept in a state of uncertainty most disturbing 
 to his mind and injurious to his temper. Day by 
 day reports came of the doctor's ceaseless toil and 
 unvarying self-sacrifice, the very magnitude of which 
 made it difficult for " Mexico " to accept it as being 
 sincere. 
 
 " What's his game ? " he kept asking himself more 
 savagely, as the mystery deepened. " What's in it 
 for him.'' Is he after McKenty's job.-' " 
 
 One night the doctor came in from a horseback 
 trip to a tie camp twelve miles up the valley, wearied 
 and soaked with the wet snow that had been falling 
 heavily aU day. " Mexico " received him with a 
 wrathful affection. 
 
 " What the — ah — ^what makes you go out a night 
 like this .'' " " Mexico " asked him with indignation, 
 struggling to check his profanity, which he had come 
 to notice the doctor disliked. " I can't get onto you. 
 It's aU just d — , that is, cursed foolishness ! " 
 
 " Look here, ' Mexico,' wait till I get these wet 
 things off and I'll tell you. Now listen," said the 
 doctor, when he sat warm and dry before " Mexico's " 
 fire. " I've been wanting to tell you this for some 
 time." He opened his black bag and took out a New 
 Testament which now always formed a part of his 
 equipment, and finding the place, read the story of the 
 two debtors. " Do you remember, ' Mexico,' the talk 
 I gave you last spring? " " Mexico " nodded. That 
 
THE LAST CALL 381 
 
 talk he would not soon forget. " I had a big debt 
 on then. It was forgiven me. He did a lot for me 
 that time, and since then He has piled it up till I feel 
 as if I couldn't live long enough to pay back what I 
 owe." Then he told " Mexico " in a low, reverent 
 tone, with shining eyes and thrilling voice, the story 
 of lola's going. " That's why," he said, when he 
 concluded his tale. " That was a great thing He did 
 for her and for me. And then, ' Mexico,' these poor 
 chaps! they have so little. Who cares for them.!* 
 That's why I go out on a night like this. And 
 don't you think that's good enough.? " 
 
 Then " Mexico " turned himself loose for five min- 
 utes and let off the sulphurous emotion that had 
 been collecting during the doctor's tale. After he 
 had become coherent again he said with slow em- 
 phasis : 
 
 " You've got me, Doc. Wipe your feet on me 
 when you want." 
 
 " ' Mexico,' " replied the doctor, " you know I 
 don't preach at you. I haven't, have 1? " 
 
 " Blanked if — that is, no, you haven't." 
 
 " Well, you say I can have you. I'll take you 
 right here. You are my friend." He put out his 
 hand, which " Mexico " gripped and held fast. 
 " But," continued the doctor, " I want to say that 
 He wants you more than I do, wants to wipe off that 
 debt of yours, wants you for His friend." 
 
 " Say, Doc," said " Mexico," drawing back a little 
 from him, " I guess not. That there debt goes back 
 for twenty years, and it's piled out of sight. It never 
 
382 THE DOCTOR 
 
 bothers me much except when I see you and hear you 
 talk. It would be a blank — that is, a pretty fine thing 
 to have it cleaned oflF. But say, Doc, your heap agin 
 mine would be like a sandhill agin that mountain 
 there." 
 
 " The size makes no difference to Him, ' Mexico,' " 
 said the doctor, quietly. " He is great enough to 
 wipe out anything. I tell you, ' Mexico,' it's good 
 to get it wiped off. It's simply great ! " 
 
 " You're right there," said " Mexico," emphatic- 
 ally. Then, as if a sudden suspicion flashed in upon 
 him, " Say, you're not talkin' religion to me, are 
 you.P I ain't goin' to die just yet." 
 
 "Religion.'' Call it anything you like, 'Mex- 
 ico.' All I know is I've got a good thing and I want 
 my friend to have it." 
 
 When the doctor was departing next morning 
 " Mexico " stopped him at the door. " I say. Doc, 
 would you mind letting me have that there book of 
 yours for a spell? " 
 
 The doctor took it out of his bag. " It's yours, 
 * Mexico,' and you can bank on it." 
 
 The book proved of absorbing interest to " Mex- 
 ico." He read it openly in the saloon without any 
 sense of incongruity, at first, between the book and 
 the business he was carrying on, but not without 
 very considerable comment on the part of his cus- 
 tomers and friends. And what he read became the 
 subject of frequent discussions with his friend, the 
 doctor. The book did its work with " Mexico," as 
 it does with all who give it place, and the first sign 
 
THE LAST CALL 383 
 
 of its influence was an uncomfortable feeling in 
 " Mexico's " mind in regard to his business and his 
 habits of life. His discomfort became acute one 
 pay night, after a very successful game of poker 
 in which he had relieved some half a dozen lumber- 
 men of their pay. For the first time in his life his 
 winnings brought him no satisfaction. The great 
 law of love to his brother troubled him. In vain 
 he argued that it was a fair deal and that he himself 
 would have taken his loss without whining. The 
 disturbing thoughts would not down. He deter- 
 mined that he would play no more till he had talked 
 the matter over with his friend, and he watched 
 impatiently for the doctor's return. But that week 
 the doctor failed to appear, and " Mexico " grew 
 increasingly uncertain in his mind and in his temper. 
 It added to his wretchedness not a little when the 
 report reached him that the doctor was confined to 
 his bed in the hospital at Kuskinook. In fact, this 
 news plunged " Mexico " into deepest gloom. 
 
 " If he's took to bed," he said, " there ai^t much 
 hope, I guess, for they'd never get him there unless 
 he was too far gone to fight 'em off." 
 
 But at the Kuskinook Hospital there was no 
 anxiety felt in regard to the doctor's illness. He 
 was run down with the fall and winter's work. He 
 had caught cold, a. slight inflammation had set up 
 in the bowels, and that was all. The inflammation 
 had been checked and in a few days he would be on 
 his feet again. 
 
 " If we could only work a scheme to keep him in 
 
384. THE DOCTOR 
 
 bed a month," groaned Dick to his nurse as they 
 stood beside his bed. 
 
 h " There is, unhappily, no one in authority over 
 him," replied Margaret, " but we'll keep him ill as 
 long as we can. Dr. Cotton," and here she smilingly 
 appealed to the newly appointed assistant, " you 
 will help, I am sure." 
 
 " Most certainly. Now we have him down we 
 shall combine to keep him there." 
 
 " Yes, a month at the very least," cried Dick. 
 
 But Barney laughed their plans to scorn. In two 
 days he promised them he would be fit again. 
 
 " It is the Superintendent of the Hospital against 
 the Medical Superintendent of the Crow's Nest Rail- 
 way," said Dr. Cotton, " and I think in this case 
 I'll back the former, from what I've seen." 
 
 " Ah," replied Margaret, " that Is because you 
 haven't known your patient long. Doctor. When 
 he speaks the word of command we simply obey." 
 
 And that is just what happened. On the after- 
 noon of the second day, when both the doctor and 
 Dick had gone off to their work and Barney had 
 apparently fallen into a quiet sleep, the silence 
 that reigned over the flat was broken by Ben 
 Fallows coming up the stair with a telegram in his 
 hand. 
 
 " It's fer the doctor," said Ben, " an' the messen- 
 ger said as 'ow ' Mexico ' had got shot and " 
 
 Swiftly Margaret closed the door of the room in 
 which Barney lay. Ben's voice, though not loud, 
 was of a peculiarly penetrating quality. Two 
 
THE LAST CALL 385 
 
 words had caught Barney's ear, " Mexico " and 
 « shot." 
 
 "Let me have the wire," he said quietly, when 
 Margaret came in. 
 
 " I intended to give it to you, Barney," she re- 
 plied as quietly. " You will do notliing rash, I am 
 sure, and you always know best." 
 
 Barney opened the telegram and read, " ' Mexico ' 
 shot. Bullet not found.. Wants doctor to come if 
 possible." 
 
 "Dr. Cotton is not in?" inquired Barney. 
 
 " He is gone up the Big Horn." 
 
 " We can't possibly get him to-night," replied 
 Barney. 
 
 Silently they looked at each other, thinking rap- 
 idly. They each knew that the other was ready to 
 do the best, no matter at what cost. 
 
 " Take my temperature, Margaret." It was nine- 
 nine and one-fifth. " That's not bad," said Barney. 
 Margaret, I must go. It's for ' Mexico's ' life. Yes, 
 and more." 
 
 Margaret turned slightly pale. " You know best, 
 Barney," she said, " but it may be your life, you 
 know." 
 
 " Yes," he replied gravely. " I take that chance. 
 But I think I ought to take it, don't you?" But 
 Margaret refused to speak. "What do you think, 
 Margaret? " he asked. 
 
 " Oh, Barney ! " she cried, with passionate protest, 
 " why should you give your life for him? " 
 
 "Why?" he repeated slowly. "There was Onfl 
 
THE DOCTOR 
 
 who gave His life for me. Besides," he added, after 
 a pause, " there's a fair chance that I can get 
 through." 
 
 She threw herself on her knees beside his bed. 
 " No, Barney, there's almost no chance, you know 
 and I know, and I can't let you go now ! " The pas- 
 sionate love in her voice and in her eyes startled 
 him. Gravely, earnestly, his eyes searched her face 
 and read her heart. Slowly the crimson rose in her 
 cheeks and flooded the fair face and neck. She 
 buried her face in the bed. Gently he laid his hand 
 upon her head, stroking the golden hair. For some 
 moments they remained thus, silent. Then, refusing 
 to accept the confession of her word and look and 
 act, he said, in a voice grave and kind and tender, 
 " You expect me to do right, Margaret." 
 
 A shudder ran through the kneeling girl. Once 
 more the cup of renunciation was being pressed to 
 her lips. To the last drop she drained it, then 
 raised her head. She was pale but calm. The bright 
 blue eyes looked into his bravely while she answered 
 simply, " You will do what is right, Barney." 
 
 Just as he was about to start on his journey 
 another wire came in. " Didn't know you were so 
 ill. Don't you come. I'm all right. ' Mexico.' " A 
 rumour of the serious nature of the doctor's illness 
 had evidently reached " Mexico," and he would not 
 have his friend risk his life for him. A fierce storm 
 was raging. The out train was hours late, but a 
 light engine ran up from the Crossing and brought 
 the doctor down. 
 
THE LAST CALL 387 
 
 When he entered the sick man's room " Mexico " 
 glanced into his face. " Good Lord, Doctor ! " he 
 cried, " you shouldn't have come ! You're worse 
 than me ! " 
 
 " All right, ' Mexico,' " replied the doctor cheer- 
 fully. " I had to come, you know. We can't go 
 back on our friends." 
 
 " Mexico " kept his eyes fastened on the doctor's 
 face. His lips began to tremble. He put out his 
 hand and clutched the doctor's hard. " I know now," 
 he said hoarsely, " why He let 'em kill Him." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 " Couldn't go back on His friends, eh? " 
 
 " You've got it, ' Mexico,' old man. Pretty 
 good, eh.'' " 
 
 " You bet ! Now, Doc, get through quick and get 
 to bed." 
 
 The bullet was found in the lung and safely ex- 
 tracted. It was a nasty wound and dangerous, but 
 in half an hour " Mexico " was resting quietly. 
 Then the doctor lay down on a couch near by and 
 tossed till morning, conscious of a return of tiie pain 
 and fever. The symptoms he well knew indicated a 
 very serious condition. When " Mexico " woke the 
 doctor examined him carefully. 
 
 " You're fine, ' Mexico.' You'll be all rigkt in a 
 week or two. Keep quiet and obey orders." 
 
 " Mexico's " hand grasped him. " Doc," he said 
 anxiously, " you look awful bad. Can't you get to 
 bed quick .-" You're going to be terrible sick." 
 
 " I'm afraid I'm going to be pretty bad^ ' Meadco,' 
 
888 THE DOCTOR 
 
 but I'm glad I came. I couldn't have stayed away, 
 could I? Remember that, ' Mexico.' I'm glad I 
 came." 
 
 " Mexico's " fierce black eyes softened. " Doc, I'm 
 sorry and I'm glad. I had a lot of things to ask, but 
 I don't need to. I know now. , And I want to tell you, 
 I've quit all that business, cut it right out." He 
 waved his band toward the bar. 
 
 " ' Mexico,' " said Barney earnestly, " that's great '. 
 That's the best news I've had all summer. Now I 
 must get back quick." He took the gambler's hand 
 in his. " Good-bye, ' Mexico.' " His voice was ear- 
 nest, almost solemn. " You've done me a lot of good. 
 Good-bye, old boy. Play the game. He'll never go 
 back on a friend." 
 
 " Mexico " reached out and held him with both 
 hands. " Git out," he said to the attendant. " Doc," 
 his voice dropped to a hoarse whisper as he drew the 
 doctor down to him, " there ain't nobody here, is 
 there .'' " he asked, with a glance round the room. 
 
 " No, ' Mexico,' no one." 
 
 " Doc," he began again, his strong frame shak- 
 ing, " I can't say it. It's all in here till it hurts. 
 You're — you're like Him, I think. You make me 
 think o' Him." 
 
 Barney dropped quickly on his knees beside the 
 bed, threw his arms about his friend, and held him 
 for a few moments in a tight embrace. " God bless 
 you, ' Mexico,' for that word," he said. " Good- 
 bye, my friend." 
 
 They held each other fast for a moment or two. 
 
THE LAST CALL 389 
 
 looking into each other's eyes as if taking a last 
 farewell. Then Barney took his journey through 
 the storm, which was still raging, his fever mount- 
 ing higher with every moment, back to the hospital, 
 where Margaret received him with a brave welcom- 
 ing smile. 
 
 " Dr. Cotton has returned," she announced. " And 
 Dr. Neeley of Nelson is here, Barney." 
 
 He gave her a look of understanding. He knew 
 well what she meant. " That was right, Margaret. 
 [And Dick.? » 
 
 " Dick will be here this afternoon." 
 
 " You think of everything, Margaret dear, and 
 everybody except yourself," said Barney, as he made 
 his way painfully up the stairs. 
 
 " Let me help you, Barney," she said, putting her 
 arms about him. " You're the one who wiU not 
 think of yourself." 
 
 " We've all been learning from you, Margaret. 
 And it is the best lesson, after aU." 
 
 The consultation left no manner of doubt as to 
 the nature of the trouble and the treatment neces- 
 sary. It was appendicitis, and it demanded imme- 
 diate operation. 
 
 " We can wait till my brother comes, can't we, 
 Doctor.!* " Barney asked, a little anxiously. " An 
 hour can't make much difference now, you know." 
 
 " Why, certainly we shall wait," cried the doctor. 
 
 Twenty miles through the storm came Dick, in 
 answer to Margaret's urgent message, to find his 
 brother dangerously ill and preparing for a serious 
 
THE DOCTOR 
 
 operation. The meeting of the brothers was without 
 demonstration of emotion. Each for the sake of the 
 other held himself firmly in hand. The issues were 
 so graye that there was no room for any expenditure 
 of strength and indulging in the luxury of grief. 
 Quietly, Barney gave his brother the few directions 
 necessary to the disposal of his personal effects. 
 
 " Of course, Dick, I expect to get through all 
 right," he said, with cheerful courage. 
 
 " Of course," answered Dick, quickly. 
 
 " But it's just as well to say things now when one 
 can think quietly." 
 
 " Quite right, Barney," said Dick again, his voice 
 steady and even. 
 
 The remaining minutes they spent in almost com- 
 plete silence, except for a message of remembrance 
 for the mother and the father far away; then the 
 doctor came to the door. 
 
 "Are you ready. Doctor.''" said Dick, in a firm, 
 almost dieerful voice. 
 
 " Yes, we're all ready." 
 
 " A minute. Doctor, please," said Barney. 
 
 The doctor backed out of the room, leaving the 
 brothers alone. 
 
 " Just a little word, Dick." 
 
 " Oh, Barney," cried his brother, his breast heav- 
 ing in a great sob, " I don't think I can." 
 
 " Never mind then, old chap," replied Barney, 
 putting out his hand to him. 
 
 " Wait a minute, Barney. I will," said Dick, in- 
 stantly regaining hold of himself. As he spoke he 
 
THE LAST CALL 391 
 
 tnelt by the bed, took his brother's hand in both of 
 his and, holding it to his face, spoke quietly and 
 simply his prayer, closing with the words, "And 
 O, my Father, keep my brother safe." " And mine," 
 added Barney. " Amen." 
 
 " Now, Dick, old boy, we're all ready." And with 
 a smile he met the doctor at the door. 
 
 In an hour all was over, and the grave faces of 
 the doctor and the nurse told Dick all he dared not 
 ask. 
 
 " How long before he will be quite conscious 
 again.'' " he inquired. 
 
 " It will be an hour at least," replied the sur- 
 geon, kindly, " before he can talk much." 
 
 Without a word to anyone, Dick went away to his 
 room, locked the door upon his lonely fight and 
 came forth when the hour was gone, ready to help 
 his brother, if he should chance to need help for " the 
 last weariaess, the final strife." 
 
 " We must help him," he said to Margaret as 
 they stood together waiting till he should waken. 
 " We must forget our side just now." 
 
 But he need not have feared for her, nor for 
 Barney. Through the night they watched him 
 grow weaker, watched not in growing gloom, but, 
 as it were, in an atmosphere bright with the light 
 of hope and warm with strong and tender love. At 
 times Barney would wander in his delirium, but 
 a word would call him back to them. As the end 
 drew near, by Nature's kindly ministry the pain 
 departed. 
 
892 THE DOCTOR 
 
 " This is not too bad, Dick," he said. " How 
 much worse it might have been. He brought us 
 two together again — us three," he corrected, glanc- 
 ing at Margaret. 
 
 " Yes, Barney," replied Dick, " nothing matters 
 much beside that." 
 
 " And then," continued his brother, " He let me 
 do a little work for the boys, for ' Mexico.' Poor 
 ' Mexico ' ! But he'll stick, I think. Help him, Dick. 
 He is my friend." 
 
 '* Mine, too, Barney," said Dick ; " mine forever." 
 
 " Poor chaps, they need me. What a chance for 
 gome man ! — for a doctor, I mean ! " 
 
 " We'll get someone, Barney. Never fear." 
 
 " What a chance ! " he murmured again, wearily, 
 as he fell asleep. 
 
 Day dawned clear and still. The storm was gone, 
 the whole world was at peace. The mountains and 
 the wide valleys lay beautiful in their unsullied robes 
 of purest white, and, over all, the rising sun cast a 
 rosy sheen. As Margaret rolled up the blinds and 
 drew back the curtains, letting in the glory of the 
 morning, Barney opened his eyes and turned his 
 face toward the window, moving his lips in a 
 whisper. 
 
 Bending over him his brother caught the words, 
 " Night no more." The great day was dawning for 
 him. With a long, lingering look upon the moun- 
 tains, he turned his eyes away from the window and 
 let them rest upon his brother's face. " It is near 
 now, Dick — ^I think — and it's not hard at all. I'd 
 
THE LAST CALL 
 
 like to sleep out there — under the pines — ^but I think 
 mother — ^would like — ^to have me near." 
 
 " Yes, Barney, my boy. We'll take you home to 
 mother." Dick's voice was steady and clear. 
 
 "Margaret," said Barney. She came and knelt 
 .where he could see her. An odd little smUe played 
 over his face. " I wasn't worth it, Margaret — ^but 
 I thank you — I like to think of it now — I would like 
 you — ^to kiss me." She kissed him on the lips once, 
 twice, for a single moment her superb courage fal- 
 tering as she whispered in his ear, " Barney, my 
 love ! my love ! " 
 
 Again he smiled up at her. "Margaret," he 
 said, " take care — of Dick — for me." 
 
 " Yes, Barney, I will." The brave blue eyes 
 and the clear, sweet voice carried full conviction to 
 his mind. 
 
 " I know you will," he said with a sigh of content. 
 For a long time he lay still, his eyes closed, his 
 breathing growing more rapid. Suddenly he opened 
 his eyes, turned himself toward his brother. " Dick, 
 my boy," he cried, in a clear, strong voice, " my 
 brother — my brother." He lifted up both his arms 
 and wound them round Dick's neck, drew a deep 
 breath, then another. They waited anxiously. Then 
 one more. Again they waited, tense and breathless, 
 but the eternal silence had fallen. 
 
 " He's gone, Margaret ! " cried Dick, in a voice 
 of piteous surprise, lifting up a white appealing 
 face to her. " He's gone ! Oh ! he has left us ! " 
 
 She came quickly round to him and knelt at his 
 
394 THE fiOCTOR 
 
 side. " We have only each other now, Dick," she 
 said, and took him in her arms. And so, in the 
 strength of the great love that Hound them to the 
 dead, they found courage to turn again and live. 
 
 Three days later, when the road was clear again, 
 they bore him through the Pass, the General Mana- 
 ger placing his private car at their disposal. It 
 was no poor funeral. It was rather the triumphal 
 procession of a king. At every station stood a 
 group of men, silent and sorrow-stricken. It was 
 their friend who was being carried past. At Bull 
 Crossing a longer stay was made. The station 
 house and platform and the street behind were 
 blocked with men who had gathered in from the 
 lumber camps and from down the line. One of their 
 number came up, bearing a large wreath of the 
 costliest flowers brought from the far south, and 
 laid it on the bier. The messenger stood there a 
 moment and then said, hesitatingly, " The men 
 would like to see him again, if you think best." 
 
 " Tell them to come," replied Dick, quickly, pro- 
 ceeding to uncover the face. For almost an hour 
 they filed past, solemn, silent for the most part, but 
 many weeping as only strong men can weep. But 
 as they looked upon the strong dead face, its serene 
 dignity, its proud look of triumph subdued their 
 sobbing, and they passed out awed and somewhat 
 comforted. The look on that dead face forbade 
 pity. They might grieve for the loss of their 
 friend, but to him the best had come. 
 
 By Margaret's side stood Tommy Tate, till the 
 
THE LAST CALL 395 
 
 last. " Ochone ! " he sobbed, " when I think of me- 
 silf me heart is bruck entirely, but when I luk at him 
 I feel no pain at all." It was the feeling in the 
 hearts of aU. For themselves they must weep, but 
 not for him. 
 
 At length, all had gone. " Could you say a word 
 to them, Dick? " said Margaret. " I think he would 
 like it." And Dick, drawing a deep breath, went 
 forth to them. His words were few and simple. 
 " We must not speak words of grief to-day. He was 
 glad to help you and he grew to love you as his 
 friends. In his last hours he thought of you. I 
 know you will not forget him. But were he giving 
 me my words to-day, he would not ask me to speak 
 of him, but of the One who made him what he was. 
 Whom he loved and served with his life. For His 
 sake it was, and for yours, that he gave himself to 
 you." 
 
 As his voice ceased a commotion rose at the back 
 of the crowd. A sleigh dashed up, two men got out, 
 helping a third, before whom the crowd quickly 
 made way. It was " Mexico," pale, feeble, leaning 
 heavily upon his friends. He came up to Dick. 
 "May I see him.''" he asked humbly. 
 
 " Come in," said Dick, giving him both his hands 
 and lifting him on to the platform, while a great 
 sob swept over the crowd. They all knew by this 
 time that it was to save " Mexico " the doctor had 
 given his life. With heads bared they waited till 
 " Mexico " came out again. As he appeared on the 
 platform of the car with Dick's arm supporting him. 
 
396 THE DOCTOR 
 
 the men gazed at him in deathly stillness. The 
 ghastly face with its fierce, gleaming eyes held them 
 as with a spell. For a moment " Mexico " stood 
 leaning heavily upon Dick, but suddenly he drew 
 himself erect. 
 
 " Boys," he said, his voice hoarse and broken, but 
 distinctly audible over the crowd, " he died because 
 he wouldn't go back on his friend. He gave me 
 this." He took from his breast the New Testament, 
 held it up and carried it reverently to his lips. " I'm 
 a-goin' to follow that trail." 
 
 Two thousand miles and more they carried him 
 home to his mother, and then to the old churchyard, 
 where he sleeps still, forgotten, perhaps, even by 
 many who had known and played with him in his 
 boyhood, but remembered by the men of the moun- 
 tains who had once felt the touch of that strong 
 love that gave the best and freely for their sakes, 
 and for His Whom it was his pride and joy to call 
 Master and Friend. 
 
XXIV 
 
 FOR LOVE'S SAKE 
 
 A GAIN it was June, and over all the fields 
 A% Nature's ancient miracle had been wrought. 
 A J^ The trees by the snake fences stood in the 
 full pride of their rich leafage, casting deep shad- 
 ows on the growing grains. As of old, the MiU lane, 
 with its velvet grassy banks, ran between snake 
 fences, swe*et-scented, cool, and shaded. Between the 
 rails peeped the clover, red and white. Over the 
 top rail nodded the rich berries of the dogwood, 
 while the sturdy thorns held bravely aloft their hard 
 green clusters waiting the sun's warm passion. The 
 singing voices of summer were alla-throb, filling the 
 air with great antlphonies of praise, till this good 
 June day was fairly wild with the sheer joy of life. 
 At the crest of the hill Margaret paused. This 
 was Barney's spot. " I'll wait here," she said to 
 herself, a faint flush lighting up the chaste beauty 
 of her face. But the hot sun beat down upon her 
 with his fierce rays. " I must get into the shade," 
 she said, climbed the fence, and, on the fragrant 
 masses of red clover, threw herself down in the 
 shade of the thorn tree. On this spot, how vividly 
 the past came to her. How weU she remembered the 
 heartache of that day so long ago. The ache would 
 
 397 
 
898 THE DOCTOR 
 
 never quite be gone, but with it mingled now a sweet- 
 ness that only love knows how to distil from pity 
 where trust is and high esteem. 
 
 A year had passed since she had sent Dick back 
 alone to his work, remaining herself to bring the 
 lonely hearts of the Old Mill such help and comfort 
 as she could. At the parting with him, Barney's 
 words, " Take care of Dick for me," had moved 
 her to offer with shy courage to go back with him. 
 But Dick was far too generous to avail himself of 
 any such persuasion. 
 
 " You must not come to me for pity," he said» 
 bidding her good-bye. 
 
 But throughout the year she had waited, listening 
 to her heart and wondering at its throbs, as from 
 time to time the story of Dick's heroic service came 
 to her ears ; and now the year was done. Last night 
 he had returned. To-day he would come to her. 
 She would meet him here. Ah, there he was now. 
 On the crest of the hill he would turn and look 
 toward her. There, he had turned. 
 
 As Dick caught sight of her he raised his voice 
 in a shout, " Margaret ! " and came running toward 
 her. 
 
 She rose, and with her hands pressed hard upon 
 her heart to quiet the throbbing that threatened to 
 choke her, she stood waiting him. 
 
 Touching a top rail, he vaulted lightly over the 
 fence and stood there waiting. " Margaret ! " he 
 cried again, with a note of anxiety in his voice 
 that trembled under the intensity of his feeling. 
 
FOR LOVE'S SAKE 399 
 
 But still she could not move for the tumult of joy 
 that possessed her. } " Oh, I am so glad," she whis- 
 pered to herself. | Dick came toward her slowly, 
 almost timidly, it seemed to her. He took her hands 
 down from her breast, held her at arm's length, 
 seeking to read the meaning in the blue eyes lifted 
 so bravely to his. 
 
 !■ ; " For pity's sake, Margaret? " he asked, the note 
 of anxiety deepening in his voice. 
 ' For a moment she stood pouring her heart's love 
 into his eyes. " Yes," she said, shyly dropping her 
 eyes before his ardent gaze, " and for love's sake, 
 too." 
 
 SJ And for Dick the day's gladness grew riotous, 
 fiUing his world full from earth to heaven above. 
 
 The End 
 
7!{alph Connor's 
 
 WORKS 
 
 IHe Prospector 
 
 A Tale of Crow's Nest Pass. i2mo, cloth, $1.50 
 
 N". y. Evenine Post: '"The huge clientele which Ralph Connor's 
 former novels have attracted will not be disappointed, for it 
 has all of the 'heart interest* of the preceding, and the 
 plot is better developed. There is action, too, and the characters are 
 'caught on the move/ The temptation to compare Ralph Connor with 
 Owen Wister is strong They both get hold of their types in a natural, 
 convincing way, and both have the knack of turning incidents into 
 dramatic little short stories." 
 
 Chicago Tribune: "It far surpasses its predecessor A novel 
 
 so tense that one grinds his teeth, less the sinews should snap, ere the 
 strain is released." 
 
 Boston Times: *1t is certainly one of the strongest novels of the 
 year. In every way it is a masterpiece, where goodness blends with 
 humor, and simplicity with courage," 
 
 Cleveland Plain Dealer: "There is more plot and action than in 
 any of his previous books. Practice has improved his skill without 
 impairing the freshness of his style. Will tind an immediate and 
 tremendously extended reading." 
 
 San Francisco Chronicle: "The book is written with all the fire 
 and enthusiasm that made 'Black Rock' noteworthy, and it is sure to 
 have many readers, who will be strongly moved by its passionate 
 appeals to all that is best in human nature." 
 
 Minneapolis: "The Prospector" is a real story, exciting, entertain- 
 ing, clean, convincing — it beguiles without cheating the 
 emotions.'* 
 
 125th 1000 
 
 i^ 1^^ ^«^ The Famous Canyon Idyll from 
 
 iriPen "The Sky Pilot." 
 
 Each page decorated in colors, Frontispiece artistically 
 
 bound in New Scenic Photo Style. Boards net, 75cts. 
 
 Newark Advertiser : ''One of the most beautifully written little 
 stories in American literature. Ralph Connor portrays life, warmth 
 and color, with brilliant, vivid and pathetic word pictures that show 
 literary skill of the highest order. Pathos, fascinating pathos, is tho 
 keynote of the story, which fascinates by its realism. The little vol- 
 ume is superbly bound and makes a gift book of unusual beauty 
 and value." 
 
 12th 1000 
 
By RALPH CONNOR 
 
 A Tale of the Lumbermen of the Ottawa. 
 
 IRe Han from Glengarry 
 
 i2mo. Cloth, $1.50. 
 
 Thelnierio^l "As straight as a pine, as sweet as a balsam, as 
 sound as a white oak." 
 
 The Literary Digest: "A legitimate successor to 'The Sky Pilot* 
 and 'Black Rock/ which secured him the swift fame that leaps to the 
 author who strikes a new and effective note.'' 
 
 The Tribune, Chicago: "His men are sturdy giants of the forest, 
 whose power breathes from every word. Leaves one's nerves tingling 
 long afterwards." 
 
 Public Ledger, Philadelphia: "The material is magnificent in its 
 contrasts and opportunities. Ralph Connor is a man to keep in mind 
 as one of the most virile, faithful and wholesome writers of the day." 
 
 Louisville Times: "One of the best and strongest of the season, a 
 work of splendid strength and action, and one to create in the memory 
 a lasting picture. With such an atmosphere, with such characters it 
 would seem difficult to make a failure. But Connor has not only 
 risen to the emergency, but recorded his best work so far." 
 
 Boston Herald: "His field is unquestionably his own._ To create 
 atmosphere is one of the most difficult things in novel writing, and at- 
 mosphere. ''The Man from Glengarry* most certainly has. It is 
 distinctive, vital and entertaining and related with a freedom from 
 afiectatioi) whicU is singularly refreshing."' 
 
 160th 1000 
 
 A Tale of Early Days in Glengarry. 
 
 Glengarry School Days 
 
 l2mo, Cloth, Illustrated, $1.25. 
 
 Chicago Journal: "In this rough country of Glengarry, Ralph 
 Connor has found human nature in the rough. He has brought it to 
 the light, that we of the world may see and judge and admire what he 
 has found, for it is sterling." 
 
 Mail and Express : "Gets a swing of incident and danger that 
 keep you tearing away at the pages till the book is done." 
 
 X7. y. Independent: "Ralph Connor, plays his game with a siccer- 
 ity so absolutely convincing that one is swept along by his masterly 
 impulse through page after page, feeling part and parcel of the life he 
 depicts, and face to face with the characters he delineates. Those who 
 have read 'The Man from Glengarry* will need no introduction to the 
 minister's wife, Mrs. Murray, who here, as there, is the real heroine o! 
 the book." 
 
 76th 1000 
 
By RALPH CONNOR 
 
 A Tale of the Selkirks 
 
 3lack %pck 
 
 Illustrated by Louis Rhead. izmo. cloth, $1.25 
 
 St. Louis Globe Democrat: Ralph Connor is some man's nam de 
 flume. The world will insist on knowing whose. With entire fidel- 
 ity, with truest pathos, with freshest humor, he has delineated char- 
 acter, has analyzed motives, and has portrayed life. 
 
 Xhe Standard: Who it is that hides behind the assumed name of 
 Ralph Connor we have no means of knowing; but, whoever it is, the 
 cause of righteousness is his debtor. . . . The book is well written. 
 It is vital. It has to do with real men and women and with living 
 issues. 
 
 Boston Transcript; RalphConnor uses a pen dipped in the very 
 colors and tones of the canyon and sunlit hills. ... It touches just 
 the chords which vibrate luxuriously in the popular heart. 
 
 4S0th 1000 
 A Tale of the Foothills 
 
 The Sky Tilot 
 
 Illustrated by Lours Rhead. 
 
 l2mo. cloth, Illustrated, $1.25 
 
 The Outlook: "Ralph Connor's 'Black Rock' was good, but 
 the 'Sky Pilot* is better. The matter which he gives us is real life, 
 virile, true, tender, humorous, pathetic, spiritual, wholesome. His 
 Bret Harte manner in describing his life has at times a distinct and 
 refreshing quality of literary workmanship ; his style, fresh, crisp and 
 terse, accords with the Western life, which he well understands. 
 Henceforth the foothills of the Canadian Rockies will probably be as- 
 sociated in many a mind with the name of 'Ralph Connor.' " 
 
 Boston Transcript: "Ralph Connor uses a pen dipped in the 
 very colors and tones of the canyon and the sunlit hills, his grasp 
 of the characteristic slang is free and graphic, and his knowledge of 
 the primitive vices and virtues is obviously no mere book-lore. Such 
 a tale is sure to find numerous reader, for it touches just those chords 
 which vibrate luxuriously in the popular heart," 
 
 260th 1000 
 
THE HUBBARD EXPLORING EXPEDITION 
 
 By DILLON WALLACE 
 
 The Lure of the 
 Labrador Wild 
 
 Illustrated 8vo Cloth $1.50 net. 
 
 New York Sun: "A remarkable story, and we are much mistaken 
 If it does not become a classic among tales of exploration." 
 
 Chicago Evening Post : **Two continents became interested in the 
 stories that came out of the wild about the hardships of the Hubbard 
 expedition Wallace's story and record — they are inseparable — pos« 
 sesses in its naked truth more of human interest than scores of volumes 
 of imaginative adventure and romance of the wild." 
 
 Review of Reviews : "The chronicle of high, noble purpose and 
 achievement and it appeals to the £nest, best, and most virile in man.'* 
 
 Chicago Record-Herald: "One of the most fascinating books of 
 travel and adventure in the annals of recent American exploration. 
 Every man or boy who has ever heard the 'red gods' of the wilder- 
 ness calling will revel in these graphic pages, in which the wild odor 
 of the pines, the roar of rapids, the thrill of the chase and of thicken- 
 ing dangers come vividly to the senses. " 
 
 New York Evening Post : "The story is told simply and well. It 
 may be added that for tragic adventure it has scarcely a parallel ex- 
 cept in Arctic exploration . " 
 
 New York Evening Mail: "A chronicle of the expedition from 
 first to last, and a fine tribute to the memory of Hubbard, whose spirit 
 struggled with such pitiable courage against the ravages of a purely 
 physical breakdown The story itself is well told." 
 
 Chicago Inter- Ocean: "In the records of the explorations of 
 recentyears there is no more tragic story than that of Hubbard's at- 
 tempt to cross the great unexplored and mysterious region of the 
 northeastern portion of the North American continent Wallace him- 
 self narrowly escaped death in the Labrador wild, but, having been 
 rescued,he has brought out of that unknown land a remarkable story. " 
 
 Brooklyn Eagles "One of the very best stories of a canoe trip Into 
 the wilds ever written," 
 
 TOUKTH ZDITION 
 
By NORMAN DUNCAN 
 Doctor Luke ne Labrador 
 
 l2ino, Cloth, $1.50. 
 
 N. y. Eveninff Post i "Mr. Duncan is deserving of much praise 
 for this, his first novel. ... In his descriptive passages Mr. Duncan is 
 sincere to the smallest detail. His characters are painted in with 
 bold, wide strokes. . . . Unlike most first novels, 'Dr. Luke' waxes 
 stronger as it progresses," 
 
 Henry van Dyke : "It is a real book, founded on truth and 
 lighted with imagination, well worth reading and remembering." 
 
 Review i^ Reviews : "Mr. Duncan has added -a new province to 
 the realm of literature. This strong, beautiful love story moves with a 
 distinctive rhythm that is as fresh as it is new. One of the seasons 
 two or three best books." 
 
 Hamilton W. Mabie, in the Ladie^ Home Journal: "Full of in- 
 cidents, dramatically told, of the heroism and romance of humble life; 
 strong, tender, pathetic ; one of the most wholesome stories of the 
 season." 
 
 Current Literature: "Beyond a peradventure, ranks as one of the 
 most remarkable novels issued in 1904. Stands out so prominently in 
 the year's fiction that there is little likelihood of its being over- 
 shadowed," 
 
 London Punch: "Since Thackeray wrote the last word of 'Colonel 
 Newcome,' nothing^ finer has been written than the parting scene 
 where Skipper Tommy Lovejoy, the rugged old fisherman, answers 
 the last call." 
 
 Saturday Evening Post : "There is enough power in this little 
 volume to magnetize a dozen o£ the popular novels of the winter." 
 
 Sir Robert Bond, Premier of Newfoundland : "I shall prize the 
 book. It is charmingly written, and faithfully portrays the simple 
 lives of the noble-hearted fisher folk." 
 
 Brooklyn Eagle: "Norman Duncan has fulfilled all that was ex- 
 pected of him in this story ; it establishes him beyond question as one 
 of the strong masters of present-day fiction." 
 
 SIXTH BDmON 
 
^uate of the ^^Robinson Crusoe''^ or ^''Treasure Island''^ iy^^t 
 with an individuality all its own. 
 
 By NORMAN DUNCAN 
 
 The Adventures of 
 Billy Topsail 
 
 Third Edition. Illustrated, $1.50 
 
 A ripping story of adventure by sea is regarded 
 by every true-hearted boy as the very best story 
 of all. The yarn — that's the thing! If the 
 sea is a northern sea, full of ice and swept by big 
 gales, if the adventures are real, if the hero is not a 
 prig, if the tale concerns itself vyith heroic deeds and 
 moves like a fiill-rigged ship with all sail spread to a 
 rousing breeze, the boy will say " Bully!" and read 
 the story again. "The Adventures of Billy Top- 
 sail " is a book to be chummy with. It is crowded 
 with adventure, every page of it, from the time 
 young Billy is nearly drowned by his dog, until in a 
 big blizzard, lost on an ice-floe, he rescues Sir Archi- 
 bald' s son, and the old Dictator weziheTi the g(Je. 
 
 There is "something doing" every minute — 
 something exciting and real and inspiring. The book 
 is big enough and broad enough to make Billy Top- 
 sail a tried friend of every reader — just the sort of 
 friend Archie found him to be. And Billy is good 
 company. He is not a prig; he is a real boy, frill of 
 spirit and frm and courage and the wish to distinguish 
 himself. In a word, as the lads say, he's «'all right, 
 all right!" He sails, fishes, travels the ice, goes 
 whaling, is swept to sea with the ice, captures 
 a devil-fish, hunts a pirates' cave, gets lost on a cliif^ 
 is wrecked, runs away to join a sealer, and makes 
 himself interesting in a hundred ways. He's a 
 good chum, in calm or gale, on water, ice or shore 
 ^-that's what Billy Topsail o' Ruddy Cove is. 
 
NORMAN DUNCAN 
 Dr. Gren fell's Parish 
 
 16 Illustrations, Cloth, $1.00 net 
 
 Outlook i "It is a series of sketches of GrenfelFs work m Labrador. 
 A very rare picture the author has given of a very rare man ; a true 
 story of adventure which we should like to see in the hands of every 
 boy and of every man of whatever age who still retains anything of 
 a boyish heroism in his soul." 
 
 N. V. Globe: * 'Mr. Duncan has given a very moving picture of 
 the dreadfully hard life of the northern fishermen. He has included 
 dozens of the little cameos of stories, true stories, as he vouches, full of 
 human nature as it is exhibited in primitive conditions." 
 
 Congregationalisi : *'Norman Duncan draws vivid pictures of the 
 Labrador and the service which Dr. Grenfell has rendered to its 
 people. It is a fascinating tale and told with real enthusiam and 
 charm- The unusual stage of action and the chivalrous quality of the 
 hero, once knowOf lay hold upon tiie imagination and will not let go.'* 
 
 Fifth Edition 
 ^ ^ ^ 
 
 By DR. WILFRED T. GRENFELL 
 
 The Harbest of the Sea 
 
 16 Illustrations, Cloth, $1.00 net. 
 
 New York Sim i "Relates the life of the North Sea fisherman on 
 the now famous Dogger Bank ; the cruel apprenticeship, the bitter 
 fife, the gallant deeds of courage and of seamanship, the evils of 
 drink, the work of the deep sea mission. These are real sea tales 
 that will appeal to every one who cares for salt water, and are told 
 admirably. 
 
 N. y. Tribune.* "Dr. Grenfell tells, in fiction form, but with strict 
 adherence to fact, how the mission to deep sea fishermen came to be 
 founded among the fishing fleets that frequent the Dogger Bank that 
 has figured prominendy in the recent international complication. 
 It is a story rich in adventure and eloquent of accomplishments for 
 the betterment of the men." 
 
 Chicago Tribune: "It is a plain unvarnished tale of the real life 
 of the deep sea fishermen and of the efforts which Grenfeirs_ mission 
 makes to keep before their minds the words of Him who stilled the 
 Ivaters and who chose His bosom disciples from men such as they." 
 
 Brooklyn Eagle : "A robust, inspiring book, making us better ac- 
 quaintedwith a man of the right sort, doing a man's work." 
 
 Fifth Edition 
 
By R. E. KNOWLES 
 The Undertow 
 
 A Tale of Both Sides op the Sea, $1.50 
 
 Have you never seen a strong swimmer, with set face and stiff- 
 ening muscles, fight for his life with the terrible grip of the under- 
 tow—and conquer— only to fall limp and almost lifeless on the 
 sand, just strength enough left to answer back a smile to the face 
 that looks so anxiously into his? 
 
 So Stephen fought— fought in the old home, in classic Edin- 
 burgh, in London's maelstrom, in the city church, always with his 
 ever present arch enemy, self, and won. His story is that of many, 
 told with fervor and pathos, the sympathy that helps, not the 
 scorn that scorches. 
 
 Mr. Knowles has the born story teller's gift of making the com- 
 monplaces of life appear in their real magnitude and meaningr. 
 It is a big theme, handled with masterly skill and in spite of a 
 severe probing of our common weakness its aftermath is sweet. 
 
 TENTH EtilTIOn 
 
 St Cuthberfs 
 
 A Parish Romance, $1.50 
 
 New York Mail: "Mr. Knowles has a sense of humor that 
 sparkles in these pages, a genuine love of humanity, gentle 
 patience with its weakness, and a fine recognition of its noble 
 qualities. The book is very human." 
 
 Boston Herald : "The book breathes a spirit of tenderness and 
 nobility, which is refreshing and inspiring. Some of the charac- 
 ters deserve a special setting, so lovingly has this big hearted, 
 whole-souled man written them," 
 
 London Daily Chronicle: "Charming, full of pawky Scots 
 humour and that subtle pathos which seems a part of Scots hu- 
 mour and life. . . . There is many a smile to be brought from 
 these pages, and not a few tears. Mr. Knowles is a new writer 
 who promises to be a light in the literary firmament." 
 
 Edinburgh Scotsman: "It would be difficult to praise too 
 highly this new work. There is very little indeed in the ever- 
 growing literature of that school which can excel Mr. Knowles' 
 sketches of the life and doings in a Scot's kirk and a Scot's 
 community." 
 
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