th it? He was again conscious that
he felt of a sudden older than Leila, and did not fully realize that in
the race of life he had gone swiftly past her during these few months,
and that in the next year she in turn would sweep past him in the
developmental changes of life. Now she seemed to him more timid, more
childlike than usual; but long thinkings are not of the psychic habits of
normal youth, and Dixy recovered his attention.

He satisfied the well-bred horse, who of late had been losing his temper
in the society of a rough groom, ignorant of the necessity for good
manners with horses. Neither strange noises nor machines disturbed Dixy
as John rode through the busy iron-mills to the door of a small brick
house, so well known that no sign announced it as the home of the only
medical man available at the mills or in Westways. John tied Dixy to the
hitching-post, gnawed by the doctor's horse during long hours of waiting
on an unpunctual man.

The doors were open, and as John entered he was aware of an odour of
drugs and saw Dr. McGregor sound asleep in an armchair, a red silk
handkerchief over his bald head, and a swarm of disappointed flies
hovering above him. In the back room the clink and rattle of a pestle and
mortar ceased as Tom appeared.

John, in high good-humour, said, "Good afternoon, Tom. My uncle has let
up on the swimming. He asked me to let you fellows know."

"It's about time," said Tom crossly. "After all it was your fault and we
had to pay for it."

"Now, Tom, you made me pretty angry when you talked to me the other day,
and if you want to get me into another row, I won't object; but I was not
asked for any names, and I did not put the blame on any one. Can't you
believe a fellow?"

"No, I can't. If that parson hadn't come, I'd have licked you."

"Perhaps," said John.

"Isn't any perhaps about it. You look out, that's all."

John laughed. He was just now what the Squire described as horse-happy
and indisposed to quarrel. "Suppose you wake up the old gentleman. He
_can_ snore."

Tom shook the doctor's shoulder, "Wake up, Dad. Here's John Penhallow."

The Doctor sat up and pulled off his handkerchief. The flies fell upon
his bald pate. "Darn the flies," he said. "What is it, John?"

"My uncle wants you to come to Westways to-morrow and doctor old Josiah's
rheumatism."

"I'll come."

"He wants you to look after Peter Lamb. He's been drinking again."

"What! that whisky-rotted scamp. I