"in one of the redwood groves not far from
San Francisco for the summer, the doctor having been appointed an
attending surgeon at one of the larger hospitals, although he was very
young. We had been married only a little over a year. One evening just
after supper, Rifle-Eye, although we did not know him then, walked into
camp.

"'You are a doctor, an operating doctor?' he inquired.

"'Yes,' my husband replied, 'I am a surgeon.'

"Then the old hunter came to where I was standing.

"'You are a doctor's wife?' he queried. You know that direct way of
his?"

"Indeed I do," Wilbur replied. "It's one you've got to answer."

"So I said, 'Yes, I am a doctor's wife,' just as if I was a little girl
answering a catechism.

"'The case is seventy miles away,' he said, 'and there's a horse
saddled.' He turned to me. 'A woman I know is coming over in a little
while to stay the night with you, so that you will not be lonely.
Come, doctor.' There was a hurried farewell, and they were gone. I can
laugh now, as I think of it, but it was dreadful then.

"Presently, however, the woman that he had spoken of came over to our
camp. She was a mountaineer's wife, and very willing and helpful. But I
was a little frightened, as I had never seen any one quite like her
before."

"You couldn't have had much in common," said Wilbur, who was observant
enough to note the artistic nature of the room wherein he lay, the
exquisite cleanliness and freshness of all his surroundings, and the
faultless English of the doctor's wife. Besides, she was pretty and
sweet-looking, and boys are quick to note it.

"We didn't," she answered, "but when I happened to mention the old
hunter, why the woman was transformed. She brightened up, and told me
tales far into the night of what the old hunter had done until," she
smiled, "I almost thought he must be as nice as Doctor Davis."

"Doctor Davis does look awfully fine," agreed Wilbur.

"I always think so," said his wife demurely. "Two days passed before the
men returned, and when I got a chance alone with my husband, he was
twice as bad as the mountaineer's wife. He would talk of nothing but
Rifle-Eye and the need of surgical work in the mountains.

"'And you, Violet,' he said, 'you're going to ride there with me to-day
and help look after this man.' It did rather surprise me, because I knew
that he hated to have me troubled with any details of his work, for he
used to like to leave his profession behind w