ing, "you don't mean that; you are not quite
yourself. I am Jordan's friend and yours. I have said harsh things to
you; it was the only way. I love your boy as I would a younger brother,
and I want you to keep him because I can understand what the loss of him
would mean to you. But you must know that you can't tie a man's heart to
you with angry commands, nor with tears and reproaches. You can tie
it--tight--by showing sympathy and understanding in this crisis of his
life. Believe me, I know."

His tone was very winning; his manner--now that he had said his
say--though firm, was gentle, and he held her hand in a way that did
much toward quieting her. Many patients in danger of losing self-control
had known the strengthening, soothing touch of that strong hand. Red
Pepper was not accustomed to misuse this power of his, which came very
near being hypnotic, but neither did he hesitate to use it when the
occasion called as loudly as did this one.

And presently Mrs. King was lying quietly on her couch again, her eyes
closed, the beating of her agitated pulses slowly quieting. And Burns,
bending close, was saying before he left her: "That's a brave woman.
Ladies are lovely things, but I respect women more. Only a mighty fine
one could be the mother of my friend Jord, and I knew she would meet
this issue like the Spartan she knows how to be."

If, as he stole away downstairs--leaving his patient in the hands of a
somewhat long-suffering maid--he was saying to himself things of a quite
different sort, let him not be blamed for insincerity. He had at the
last used the one stimulant against which most of us are powerless: the
call to be that which we believe another thinks us.

CHAPTER X

THE SURGICAL FIRING LINE

"Len, I've something great to tell you," announced Red Pepper Burns, one
evening in August, as he came out from his office where he had been
seeing a late patient, and joined his wife, who was wandering about her
garden in the twilight. "To-day I've had the compliment of my life. Whom
do you think I'm to operate on day after to-morrow?"

She looked up at him as he stood, his hands in his pockets, looking down
at her. In her sheer white frock, through which gleamed her neck and
arms, her hands full of pink and white snapdragon, she was worth
consideration. Her eyes searched his face and found there a curious
exultation of a very human sort. "How could I guess? Tell me."

"Who should you say was the very