ontent.

He was passing John McIntyre's shanty one dazzling mid-January day,
and, tying his horse, ran in to see how he was faring. He found his
patient, dressed in one of his own warm bathrobes--a present from Mrs.
Munn--sitting in a cushioned rocking-chair by the fire. The place was
exquisitely clean and tidy, and there was a subtle touch here and
there--a blooming geranium in the window, a smoothness of the feather
bed--that showed the recent mark of a woman's hand. Seated in the most
comfortable chair, behind the stove, was the eldest Sawyer orphan,
happily devouring the remains of a boiled chicken, and talking fast and
furiously. John McIntyre was pale and haggard, as usual, but his air
of fierce reserve had changed to a dreary toleration of the
companionship of his fellow-mortals. He was still reticent and silent,
but in a helpless, broken-hearted way.

Since his recovery the young doctor felt constrained in his presence.
He could not forget their first interview; so he confined his remarks
and questions to strictly professional matters, and made his visits as
short as possible.

"And how are you feeling to-day?" he asked cheerily, as he removed his
coat, and stood warming his hands by the shining stove.

"Oh, better--quite better." It was John McIntyre's unfailing answer.
The doctor slipped his fingers over his pulse, and nodded in a
satisfied way.

"I don't know that it's very wise of you to be out of bed yet, though,"
he said. "You must not sit up too long."

He placed a bottle on the table, gave a few instructions concerning
diet, and then turned to go. John McIntyre had been regarding him as
though he wanted to speak.

"Sit down a moment, I would like to say something," he said suddenly.

Gilbert took a chair opposite, and looked at him inquiringly.

"They were telling me yesterday how you saved my life that night you
found me here," he began slowly.

"Oh, never mind that. It's nothing. Any doctor would have done the
same."

"I am not thanking you for it," said John McIntyre, in his old hard
voice. "I would much rather you had left me alone. But you did what
you thought best, and you have been very kind since." He paused a
moment, then went on slowly: "I once said something to you, it is
likely you have not forgotten. I would like to take it back. I know
now I must have been mistaken."

Dr. Gilbert Allen arose. The room felt stifling. "Will you tell me
exactly what you meant?