norted McPherson. "To perdition with the professional
man who gabs to his wife!"

"Oh, Doctor!" expostulated Mrs. Batholommey. "How can----?"

"I am inexpressibly grieved," said her husband, "to learn that Mr.
Grimm has an incurable malady. And is it true that the nature of it
is----?"

"The nature of the whole affair is _this_," returned McPherson. "He
isn't to be told. Understand that, please. He must _not_ know. I didn't
say he had to die at once. He may outlive us all. He probably will. And,
in any event, no one must speak to him about it."

"I should think," said Mrs. Batholommey in lofty rebuke, "that a man's
rector might be allowed to talk to him on such a theme. It seems to me,
Dr. McPherson, if _you_ can't do any more, it's _his_ turn. From the way
you doctors assume control of everything, it's a wonder to me you don't
want to baptise the babies, too."

"Rose!" murmured the doctor in mild reproof.

"At the last moment," Mrs. Batholommey insisted, ignoring her husband,
"Mr. Grimm will want to make a will. And you know he _hasn't_. He'll
want to remember the Episcopal Church of Grimm Manor, and his
charities--and his--friends. If he doesn't, the rector will be blamed as
usual. You're not doing right, Doctor, in keeping----"

"Rose! My dear!" interjected her husband. "These private matters----"

"But----"

"I'll trouble you, Mrs. Batholommey," shouted McPherson, "to attend to
your own affairs, and----"

"Doctor!" bleated the rector.

"Oh, let him talk, Henry!" sniffed Mrs. Batholommey in semi-tearful
exaltation. "I can bear it. Besides," coming to earth level, "no one in
town pays any attention to what he says since he has taken up with
spiritualism."

"Oh, Rose! My dear!"

"Shut up!" whispered McPherson wrathfully. "Here he comes. Remember what
I----"

Peter Grimm put an end to the warning by reappearing from the cellar
with a small demijohn in his hand. His face brightened into a smile of
pleasant greeting as he saw his two new guests.

"Why," he exclaimed, "this is the jolliest sort of a surprise. I hope I
haven't kept you waiting long?"

The rector and his wife glanced at each other in embarrassment. Mrs.
Batholommey turned toward Peter with a lachrymose grimace, intended
doubtless for a consoling smile, and seemed about to break into a
torrent of speech. But the rector, after a timid look at McPherson,
nervously forestalled her by coming hurriedly to the front.

"Good-morning, dear frie