it at all—if I didn't know who she is getting—that makes all the difference in the world … of course her father and mother may object, but I believe what Pearl says, goes—what Pearl says will go—with all of us! The Parker house can be bought—and fixed up … we'll have a fireplace put in, and waterworks—I wish I did not feel so tough and tired … but she said she'd wait a thousand years!"

Suddenly the voice of Dr. Brander rasped through his brain, and brought him to attention:

"Clay, you're in love, or something—I don't believe you've heard a word I said, you young scamp, in the last six miles—and you've missed a fine exposition on cancers—causes and cure."

"I beg your pardon, Dr. Brander," he apologized, "I believe I was almost asleep. I get into a drowsy habit on my long drives—especially when I am coming home—when the days' work is over—it seems good to stretch out—but I do apologize: What were you saying?"

"O, I'm done now," said his companion, not in the least disturbed; "I want you to tell me about yourself and your work here. You know you interest me, Clay. You are a sort of popular idol with all these people, and I have been wondering how you do it. A man must give freely of himself to be as popular as you are, Clay—do you ever find yourself giving out under the strain, and in need of a rest?"

"Just a little tired, sometimes," the young man confessed, "but it's nothing—at all."

The old man watched him narrowly, taking careful note that the pallor of his face had suddenly changed to a heightened color. "When we get supper, Clay, I want to have a serious talk with you. You may remember that I approached this subject the last time you were in the city. I want to give you the report on the examination I gave you at that time." There was a quality in his voice which gave the young man a momentary sense of dread, not unmixed with a certain impatience. He was too tired to be bothered. He wanted nothing but a chance to think his own thoughts, as the sorrel team struck off the miles with their tireless feet.

When they had had supper at the Chinese restaurant, they went to the doctor's office. The sun, though long since set, still threw spikes of light upon the western sky and caught the under side of one ragged cloud which seemed to have been forgotten in an otherwise clear sky.

In the office, a cheerful coal fire glowed through its mica windows, and in front of the doctor's leather chair, were his slippers, and over it was thrown a brightly colored house coat.

A gasoline lamp threw a strong white light on the comfortable room, and the city papers lay, still unfolded, on the table beside a pile of letters.

The old doctor exclaimed with delight:

"Who fixes you up so fine, Clay—surely there's a woman around this place!"

"My landlady"—said the young doctor, "looks after me."

"I know, I know," said the older man, "I know the kind of fellow you are—the kind women love to fuss around. I'll bet you get dozens of bedroom slippers and ties and mufflers at Christmas. Women are like cats—they love to rub their heads against any one that will stroke them and say 'poor pussy'—they're all the same."

The old doctor seated himself in the big chair and warmed his hands before the glowing coals.

"And now, Clay, I want to talk to you. There are certain facts that must be told. I have been interested in your case ever since I met you. You are a distinct type, with your impulsive temperament, clear skin and tapering fingers. But what I have to say to you would have been said easier if I did not know you so well—and if I had not been here and seen you in your native setting—as it were…. Being a medical man yourself, Clay, you know the difficulties of the situation."

The young doctor sat down suddenly, and smiled wanly:

"There need be no difficulty, Dr. Brander", he said, "I am ready to hear …" he left the sentence unfinished.

The old doctor went on:

"There is no immediate cause for alarm," he said, speaking slowly, "people live for years with it, as you know—a cracked plate sometimes outlasts the good one—and as a matter of fact none of us are entirely free from it."

The old doctor was swaying backwards as he spoke, and his voice rose and fell with the motion, as the tone of a phonograph when the door is opened or shut.

"You will have to be more careful, though, Clay, you will have to call a halt on your activities—there must be no more of the all night sessions of yours—and those fifty mile drives—it is just like this—you are carrying a mortgage on your business—a heavy mortgage—and yet one that the business can carry—with care, great care. Many a good business man carries a heavy mortgage and pays well too, but of course it cannot stand financial strain or stress like the business which is clear of debt. With great care, you should be good for many years—but you must not draw on your reserves—you must never spend your capital—you must never be tired, or excited, or hurried, or worried."

And this climate is a bit strenuous in winter—you must get out before another one comes, and live some place that is easier. This country keeps a man on his toes all the time, with its brilliant sunshine, its strong winds, its bracing air. You need a softer air, a duller atmosphere, a sleepier environment that will make you never do today what you can put off till tomorrow, and never put off till tomorrow what you might as well put off till the day after tomorrow."

"What a life!" broke from the young man's lips.

"A very fascinating life, my dear sir," said the old doctor, intoning his words like a very young clergyman—"a fascinating life, and one that I would enjoy. Here we hurry up in the morning and hurry to bed at night so we can hurry to get up again in the morning—we chase ourselves around like a cat in the ancient pursuit of its own tail, and with about the same results. The Western mind is in a panic all the time—losing time by the fear of losing time. The delights of mediation are not ours—we are pursued, even as we pursue; we are the chasers and the chased; the hunter and the hunted; we are spending and the spent; we are borrowed and lent—and what is the good of it all? I have always wanted to be an Oriental, dreaming in the shade of a palm tree, letting the sun and the wind ripen my fruits and my brain, while I sat—with never a care—king of the earth—and the air—O, take it from me, young fellow, there are wonderful delights in contemplation, delights of which we are as ignorant as the color blind are of the changing hues of the Autumn woods, or the deaf man is of music. We are deaf, blind and dumb about the things of the soul! We think activity is the only form of growth."

The young doctor, whose handsome face had grown pale, watched him with a sort of fascination. The words seemed to roll from his lips without the slightest effort, and apparently without causing his heart one emotion. If the young doctor had not known him so well, he would have thought him entirely unconcerned:

"We are cursed, you and I, and all of us," he resumed, with too much activity. We are obscessed with a passion for material achievement! We are hand-worshippers—leg-worshippers—speed-worshippers. We mistake activity for progress."

"But it is progress," burst from the young man, "activity does bring achievement—development."

The door of the office opened suddenly, and two young fellows rushed in.

"Are you coming to the lacrosse meeting, Doc,—we are going to organize, and we want you for