atively. He could not
yet regard his failure to meet Rosalie's demands as anything but a
misfortune. And yet, there was that money still in the bank that
Martin might have. That was surely a satisfaction.

"Oh, everything seems to me to be guided by the merest chance," he said
half bitterly.

The girl shook her head. "I think it seems so only on the surface.
There can be no hazard about one's duty. The results are as sure as
cause and effect. You know that, Dr. Allen."

"Yes, I know it," said Gilbert as he assisted her to alight at the
door. "I am aware of it, I mean, but I don't act upon it."

He looked up at her, standing on the steps above him, and felt again
that longing her presence always inspired within him to do something
good and great. Why was he such a sham? John McIntyre's words of
praise returned, with their weight of humiliation, and he drove away in
utter self-contempt.

At college, the boys always said that generally Easy Allen, as they
called him, was only a very ordinary football player. He ambled
cheerily about the field, and seemed to enjoy the game so much that he
did not bother trying to do anything remarkable. But let something
arouse him to a sense of responsibility, a goal for the other side, a
knockdown that stirred his temper, then look out! He would put his
head down and pitch himself into the fray, and then something had to
give way, and the boys knew it wouldn't be Easy. To-day, something of
that old conquering mood had come over him. He was possessed with a
rage against his former dilatory self, and a fierce desire to win, to
do the clean, square thing, no matter what the consequences. He had
done it that New Year's morning, when John McIntyre's life lay in his
hand. The call of duty had been imperative then. He had not even
considered the possibility of shirking it, and in spite of all the
disappointment and sorrow his action had brought, he had never once
viewed it with regret. And now, once more, he had his head down, in
fierce determination, and cared for nothing but to score and feel
himself a man.

He marched straight past a group of patients waiting in his office and
sat down at his desk. What a long time since he had written to Martin!
He had almost forgotten his address. The letter was short and humble,
and inside it he slipped a check. When he left it at the post-office,
half an hour later, he was a poor man, and his prospects of starting a
city pract