ere the usual letters
from old patients, prospective patients, people who had wonderful
remedies and had been cruelly snubbed by the medical profession. He
glanced through them casually, but with an absentmindedness which did
not escape his housekeeper when she came in.

Mrs. Burns was determined to tell him something, so determined, that
as soon as she entered, he felt it coming. He knew that was why she
came. The bluff of asking him if he got his telephone messages was too
simple.

Mrs. Burns was a sad looking woman, with a tired voice. It was not
that Mrs. Burns was tired or sad, but in that part of the East from
which she had come, all the better people spoke in weary voices of
ladylike weakness.

"Well, Mrs. Burns," the doctor said, "what has happened today?" He
knew he was going to get it anyway--so he might as well ask for it.

"George Steadman was in an awful state about the young fellow who came
out from the city to see Pearl Watson. He got lost in the storm, and
stayed three days at Paines, and then Pearl came over and took him
home with her. Some say the Government sent him about the piece in the
paper, and some say he's her beau. I don't know. Mrs. Crocks saw Pearl
when she brought him in, and she could get nothing out of her. He's at
the hotel still, though nobody seems to know what his business is."

"O well," laughed the doctor, "we'll just have to watch him. Don't
leave washings on the line, and lock our doors--he can't scare us."

Mrs. Burns afterwards told Mrs. Crocks that "Doctor Clay can be
very light at times, and it seems hardly the thing, considering his
profession."

Mrs. Burns could never quite forgive herself for leaving so early that
night, and almost lost her religion, because no still small voice
prompted her to stay. Just as she left the office, the young man, the
mysterious stranger, came to the door, and Mrs. Burns knew there was
no use going back through the drug store and listening at the door.
The doctor had heavy curtains at each door in his office, and had a
way of leaving the key in the door, that cut off the last hope. So she
went home in great heaviness of spirit.

P.J. Neelands presented his card, and was given a leather chair
beside the fire. He asked the doctor if he might smoke, and was given
permission.

"I am going to talk to you in confidence, Doctor Clay," he said,
nervously. "I guess you're used to that."

The doctor nodded encouragingly: "That's what doctors