no more in exultation and confident strength. She began
to wonder--to doubt, and I, who knew her ways as well as I knew those of
a human being, realized that she was beginning to flag. The mud had
begun to tell on her.

It hurt me to urge her on, but the memory of my mother's agonized face
and the sound of my father's groan of pain steeled my heart. I set lash
to her side and so kept her to her highest speed.

At last a gleam of light! Someone in the village was awake. I passed
another lighted window. Then the green and red lamps of the drug store
cheered me with their promise of aid, for the doctor lived next door.
There too a dim ray shone.

Slipping from my weary horse I tied her to the rail and hurried up the
walk toward the doctor's bell. I remembered just where the knob rested.
Twice I pulled sharply, strongly, putting into it some part of the
anxiety and impatience I felt. I could hear its imperative jingle as it
died away in the silent house.

At last the door opened and the doctor, a big blonde handsome man in a
long night gown, confronted me with impassive face. "What is it, my
boy?" he asked kindly.

As I told him he looked down at my water-soaked form and wild-eyed
countenance with gentle patience. Then he peered out over my head into
the dismal night. He was a man of resolution but he hesitated for a
moment. "Your father is suffering sharply, is he?"

"Yes, sir. I could hear him groan.--Please hurry."

He mused a moment. "He is a soldier. He would not complain of a little
thing--I will come."

Turning in relief, I ran down the walk and climbed upon my shivering
mare. She wheeled sharply, eager to be off on her homeward way. Her
spirit was not broken, but she was content to take a slower pace. She
seemed to know that our errand was accomplished and that the warm
shelter of the stall was to be her reward.

Holding her down to a slow trot I turned often to see if I could detect
the lights of the doctor's buggy which was a familiar sight on our road.
I had heard that he kept one of his teams harnessed ready for calls
like this, and I confidently expected him to overtake me. "It's a
terrible night to go out, but he said he would come," I repeated as I
rode.

At last the lights of a carriage, crazily rocking, came into view and
pulling Kit to a walk I twisted in my saddle, ready to shout with
admiration of the speed of his team. "He's driving the 'Clay-Banks,'" I
called in great excitement.

The Cl