ing he touched seemed to
turn to gold.

While his mother lived he had visited her regularly, but for thirty
years his mother had been lying in Priorsford churchyard, and he had not
cared to keep in touch with the few old friends he had. For forty-five
years he had lived in London, so there was almost nothing of Priorsford
left in him--nothing, indeed, except the desire to see it again before
he died.

They had been forty-five quite happy years for Peter Reid. Money-making
was the thing he enjoyed most in this world. It took the place to him of
wife and children and friends. He did not really care much for the
things money could buy; he only cared to heap up gold, to pull down
barns and build greater ones. Then suddenly one day he was warned that
his soul would be required of him--that soul of his for which he had
cared so little. After more than sixty years of health, he found his
body failing him. In great irritation, but without alarm, he went to see
a specialist, one Lauder, in Wimpole Street.

He supposed he would be made to take a holiday, and grudged the time
that would be lost. He grudged, also, the doctor's fee.

"Well," he said, when the examination was over, "how long are you going
to keep me from my work?"

The doctor looked at him thoughtfully. He was quite a young man, tall,
fair-haired, and fresh-coloured, with a look about him of vigorous
health that was heartening and must have been a great asset to him in
his profession.

"I am going to advise you not to go back to work at all."

"_What!_" cried Peter Reid, getting very red, for he was not accustomed
to being patient when people gave him unpalatable advice. Then
something that he saw--was it pity?--in the doctor's face made him white
and faint.

"You--you can't mean that I'm really ill?"

"You may live for years--with care."

"I shall get another opinion," said Peter Reid.

"Certainly--here, sit down." The doctor felt very sorry for this hard
little business man whose world had fallen about his ears. Peter Reid
sat down heavily on the chair the doctor gave him.

"I tell you, I don't feel ill--not to speak of. And I've no time to be
ill. I have a deal on just now that I stand to make thousands out
of--thousands, I tell you."

"I'm sorry," James Lauder said.

"Of course, I'll see another man, though it means throwing away more
money. But"--his face fell--"they told me you were the best man for the
heart.... Leave my work! The thing's ri