had any association of a professional nature with him. It was near the end of the summer, up in the mountains. An elderly lady, a member of a well-known family, was suddenly taken ill. I was hurriedly called to see her, and on arriving at her cottage was told that Dr. Janeway had been sent for also and would be there soon; but they were anxious to have me go to the patient at once. The state of excitement into which this, my first professional call, threw me, was in itself enough without the crushing thought of what the great man might think of me, a then full-fledged M.D. I was ushered into the bedroom where she lay, totally unconscious and breathing heavily. As I hastened to the house, I had been formulating in my mind just the questions I should put to her—for I had learned in the medical school how to take a careful history—and there she lay without speech, without hearing, and without response. As I stood looking at her I could feel, rather than see, the family anxiously crowding about the doorway, waiting for me to tell them just what the trouble was, how serious it was, what were the chances of her recovery. At that moment I wondered why I had ever thought of studying medicine. I sat down by the bedside and felt her pulse. Why was she unconscious? I tried to think of all the things which caused a state of unconsciousness. Suppose she should die before I could think of what the trouble was, and before I could do anything to save her life! The thought was staggering! And then as I looked down at the patient again I realized, alas, that my chance of making a diagnosis to give to the family and then to proudly repeat it to Dr. Janeway, had vanished—for at that moment the doctor's voice could be heard outside the door and the next he was quietly stepping into the room. As he came forward, I stood aside to give him my place at the bedside. He asked one or two simple questions which I was fortunately able to answer. As I look back, I feel sure he did this to put me at my ease. This was the first time I had ever seen Dr. Janeway in the sick-room. It would be hard to describe the difference between this man I now saw examining the sick woman and the Dr. Janeway I had known before. There was a light in his eyes and an alertness in his voice, entirely new to me, as he deftly built up his diagnosis, pointing out this physical sign and that, until the complete pathological picture seemed to stand out as on the page of a book.

A little later as we came out from a talk with the family, he turned to them and said: "Now the doctor and I wish to have a little consultation together." How well I remember my feelings at that moment as he led me into a room apart and closed the door. Anticipating what seemed to me inevitable I said: "Of course, Dr. Janeway, they will want someone who is older, someone with more—" He cut me short with, "You are going to take care of her." "But—but—" I said. As if reading my thoughts he smiled as he remarked: "That's what we are going to talk over now. Get a pencil and paper and we will outline the necessary treatment." I wrote down what he suggested, we arranged about getting the trained nurses, and then, somehow, as the Doctor rose to go, the feeling came over me that after all this was more of a job than, perhaps, I had any right to undertake alone. I stood for a moment with these thoughts in my mind when the Doctor put his hand on my shoulder and said: "If things don't go just right come up any time and see me and we'll have a little talk; or if you need me here, let me know. I am going now to tell the family you will take charge of this case."

And thus it was that the old lady was guided back to consciousness and comfort by the steady head and generous hand in the background; while the fledgeling physician reaped praise for her