his wife's forehead deepened.

The doctor had few opportunities for discussing any subjects but the
most ordinary. Neighborhood gossip, the weather, the price of corn, were
the usual sources of conversation in Kilo, except when an election gave
a political tinge to discussions, or when a revival turned all attention
to religious matters; but the doctor's mind scorned these limitation,
and he found few persons from year's end to year's end to whom he could
speak openly on his favorite themes.

To Kilo in general the doctor was something of a mystery. Ordinarily
he was the most silent of men, but on occasion, as for instance when he
could buttonhole an intelligent stranger, he dissolved into a torrent of
words.

Doc Weaver held views. He believed there were other things besides the
Republican party and the Methodist Church, and being liberal-minded,
he believed all these other things in turn, and he had believed them
enthusiastically. He could not help thinking that he was of a little
finer clay than Skinner, or Wilkins, or Colonel Guthrie. Kilo
considered the doctor one of her peculiar institutions; as Kilo took
the ever-joking Toole seriously, so she took the ever serious doctor
good-naturedly, but not too seriously. He was "jist Doc Weaver," and
Kilo reserved the right to laugh at him in private, and to brag about
him to strangers, and they were apt to "joke" him about his beliefs.
As he was sensitive and dreaded the rough raillery of his neighbors, he
kept his enthusiasms to himself. He was like an overcharged bottle of
soda water.

Eliph' and the doctor were discussing Christian Science and faith cures
generally, and when the doctor's wife passed to and fro, catching a
phrase now and then, a look of deep anxiety spread over her face, until,
as she brushed the crumbs from the red tablecloth, her shoulders seemed
to droop in dejection.

When she smoothed the cloth and set the lamp on the mat in the center
the doctor glanced at his watch and arose. He buttoned his frock coat
over his breast (it was the only frock coat in Kilo), and drew on his
driving gloves, holding his hands on a level with his chin. It was a
habit, an aristocratic touch, which, like his side-whiskers, detached
him from the rest of Kilo. He had once worn a silk hat, but he soon
abandoned it for gray felt; for even he saw that a silk hat emphasized
his individuality too strongly for comfort. It was a tempting mark for
snowballs in winter.

Whe