difficulty in recognizing in his effusive caller the old negro who had played a star part in the barn lot. But there was something which claimed his attention above the volubility of Peter, and that was a square envelope, tinted a delicate blue, which the darky carried in one of his wrinkled hands.

"Thank you, old gentleman," he said, "for your interest and your kindness. I hope the Dudleys did not suffer from exposure last night."

"De young missus tek a li'l col', suh, but de Major, suh, am all right—I'm 'bleeged to yo'." He made another profound obeisance. "I wuz sent dis mawnin', suh—doctuh—by de folks to 'quiah ob yo' health, suh, 'n' gib dis lettuh into yo' han'. It was writ by de Major, 'n' gib to me by de young missus, who says, says she—'Peter, gib dis to de man whut save our Prince, 'n' to nobody else.' Here it am, suh. I cyaried it on top o' my haid under my hat right to yo' do', kase I's feared I'd lose it."

He shambled across the room and gave the missive to the hand stretched out to receive it.

"I mus' be goin' now, suh—doctuh—but I's 'spressly to ax how yo' wuz?"

"Present my sympathy and respects to your folks, and assure them I am not hurt—only a few bruises and burns which do not annoy me in the least. Say, in fact, that you left me feeling well."

"Thank yo', suh—doctuh—'n' you're a man whut is a man!"

With this parting encomium, which to his mind represented the acme of praise, Peter shuffled to the door, bowed again, and went out.

"Heigh-ho!" mused Glenning. "It seems, indeed, that 'there is a tide in the affairs of men.' From what I can hear I have started in well. Let's see what that fine looking old gentleman has to say."

Tearing the tough fibre of the paper with some difficulty, he drew out the folded sheet, and opened it. The handwriting was angular, legible, and painfully correct. The ink was brownish, as though it had been watered often. He read rapidly.

"Dear Doctor Glenning:

"This morning we learned the name of the heroic stranger who did us such unparalleled service last night upon the occasion of the burning of our stable. We wish to convey to you at the earliest moment a sense of our profound gratitude for your noble act. My daughter and I feel that we can never repay the debt under which you have placed us by your marvelous bravery. I shall call this afternoon to thank you in person, and I pray you will at all times consider our house your own. The colt is practically uninjured. It is our prayer that you have not suffered seriously.

"Your obliged and obedient servant,

"Thomas Dudley."

"Fine!" breathed Glenning. "A little stilted, perhaps, but true and sincere. He means every word. Writes like a Clay or a Webster. There's blood back of it—Kentucky bluegrass blood. And she—she did not know she was a queen of tragedy last night when she made her appeal. Who could that have been who tried to get in ahead of me? Ugh! He was a devil! When she saw him coming she looked daggers of scorn and contempt. There's something back of it all, I'll wager. Could that terrible thing dare to love her, I wonder? If he does, it's one-sided. But she's beautiful! I'd go into another burning stable tonight if she looked at me as she did then, and asked me."

As he folded the letter and slipped it back into the envelope he suddenly realized that his coffee must be getting cold. He smiled at the incongruity of the thought, but he was very hungry, so he essayed to rise. The effort necessary to get onto his elbow brought numerous darting pains to a dozen places at once, and made his temples throb. But his firm jaws were not for nothing, and presently his feet were on the floor and he was standing upright, dizzy, and holding to the head of the bed. His chest burned as though coals of fire were laid upon it. He waited a few moments, battling with physical weakness, then steered an uncertain course for the washstand. How sweet was the touch of cool water on his hot, parched face! He dashed it over his head and neck and face by the handsful and felt his brain clear as if by magic. And there is magic in a basin of cold water, as anyone can testify. Directly he set about dressing. His trunk and suit case sat in a corner, and when he had donned underwear, shirt and trousers his strength left him, and he feebly sought a chair by the table and gulped down the coffee. Then, by sheer force of will, he began to eat. The food was half cold, and not good. It would not have been good had it come just from the oven, but it gave strength, nevertheless. The man felt the elation of returning vigour as he ate. His meal was not half finished when a hurried, thumping step was heard in the corridor without, his door was unceremoniously and roughly opened, and Doctor Kale entered. He was a man getting along in life; full bearded, grizzled. His beard and hair curled slightly, and beneath his rather heavy brows keen, kind eyes danced incessantly. He was not very particular as to his apparel. His clothing was baggy, and none too clean. He wore boots, with his trousers legs pulled down over them. His vest was secured by the bottom button alone. There was a row of buttons, but only one was used. This left exposed to fullest view a shirt front which had doubtless been clean when the garment to which it belonged had been first put on, but which was now flecked and streaked with yellow stains which showed plainly that its wearer used tobacco. A derby hat of a past age was on his head, and he carried a medicine case much battered from long use. His right leg was shorter than his left—rheumatism had done it—and this accounted for his peculiar gait. He stopped in blank surprise for a moment when he saw his erstwhile patient sitting up and eating, then the vials of his wrath exploded.

"What in the devil do you mean by getting up, young man?" he thundered. "Get back in bed! You'll die! You won't live till night!"

He placed his case on the floor, took a handkerchief from his pocket and removed his hat, and fiercely took a turn or two up and down the room, mopping his head and face as he went. It was well for Glenning that a friend had prepared him for this visit.

"Pardon me for not rising to meet you, Doctor Kale," he said, feeling his risibles stirring, and endeavoring to maintain a steady countenance. "But I feel much better, thanks to your attention."

"Any fool could have washed the dirt off and stuck court plaster on you," growled the caller, still belligerent. "How do you know my name, and who told you you might get up?"

"The young man who spent the night with me told me you would call this morning, and I got tired lying in bed with nothing the matter with me—"

"Nothing the matter with you! Why, you're burned, and cut, and thumped, and bruised. It's a wonder the Lord let you off alive for being such an idiot. It seems to me you'd have had better sense than to go in a burning stable just to pull out one good-for-nothing horse which don't earn its hay!"

"Circumstances were such that I had no other choice," answered Glenning, a bit distantly.

"Circumstances!" sniffed Doctor Kale. "Yes, I heard about the circumstances, and when you've lived as long as I have, you won't butt your head into a little hell every time a pretty girl winks!"

The blood rushed to John's face, and even Dillard's warning did not serve to check his tongue.

"She didn't wink!" he retorted, rather hotly. "But she asked for help, and I gave it to her, as any man would!"

The caller cast a sidelong glance at the figure by the table, then stumped over to the bed and sat down upon it.

"Tom Dillard told me that you were the new doctor the Herald said was coming here to locate, and that your name was Glenning."

"Yes, John Glenning is my name, and my profession is the same as yours."

"Well, it's a damn bad one!" ejaculated Doctor Kale. "That is, the profession ain't so bad, but