it's a worrisome and unappreciative life. It's a hard way to earn a living, young man, and if you hadn't started in it I'd advise you to try something else, even if it was beating rock on the county road. People expect you to be always ready, day or night, to jump up and run to them, even if you are sick yourself. Then you are the last man they want to pay when it comes time to settle, and they always think you're trying to rob them. I've worn my life away trying to serve them, and they call me a skinflint and a miser because I own one or two nigger shacks and try to save what little I make! You've come to a mighty poor place to make your fortune, and it's a mighty hard life you're beginning."

"I've practiced some already, and did not find the work hard, or uncongenial. And I also found people very obliging. But I love the work, doctor, and I suspect that counts for a great deal!"

"Love it!" snorted Doctor Kale; "I never did love it! It's slavery—a dog's life! Here, last night, I was coming in from the country tired to death and headed for bed, when that fool Dillard held me up and hauled me up here to work on you! Don't you see? Work, work, work!"

"But that's what we're put here for. Employment is our salvation. Suppose everybody stopped work. What would happen to the world?... But you did a good job with me, and you must permit me to compliment your skill."

Unknowingly Glenning had found the vulnerable spot in the old fellow's armour. His eyes took on a kinder gleam, but the look he bent on the young man was not unmixed with suspicion.

"Think I helped you, eh? Maybe I did. I've fooled around diseased and mistreated bodies the most of a lifetime, and I ought to know something, if I don't. Where're you from? The Herald said, but I can't remember."

"Jericho. It's rather in the northeastern part of the State. Not large; something like this place in population."

"D'you take this for a hamlet, young man?" fired up Doctor Kale. "Fifth class city, sir, and we're growin' by the minute."

"No offense, I'm sure," smiled Glenning. "You must remember I haven't seen your tow—city, by daylight."

"You've seen the prettiest thing in it by firelight, though."

A swift change had come over the combative features of Doctor Kale, and his wrinkled face bore a reminiscent look. There was a distant expression in his eyes; he seemed to be gazing into the past.

Glenning pushed the tray and its contents away and leaned his head on his hand.

"The prettiest woman in the county, and I might say in Kentucky," mused the man on the bed.

He got up and walked limping to his patient, and as he began an examination of hidden bandages and general physical condition his flow of talk continued in a wonderfully changed and melodious voice.

"I've known the family always. These hands were the first hands which touched that little girl when she came into the world, and I've watched her in sickness and in health up till now. Julia's as sweet as God could make her, and that's about as sweet as a woman can get. The old Major's game, and stiff, and proud as the devil, and poor as Lazarus, but he's a gentleman; a gentleman, sir, who'd pawn his last coat to pay a debt and go through the winter in his shirt sleeves. I could never get closer than arm's length to the Major, but Julia—" His voice stopped, and Glenning, stealing a glance at his face, saw that his lips were tight and he was slowly shaking his head. "She's a wonderful girl," he resumed, presently, while his hands glided deftly about here and there. "She came to me once when nobody else would have done in her place, when my greatest sorrow was on me, and I won't forget it—I won't forget it—I'll tell it to God Almighty when we stand before Him together!"

Glenning had no words in which to answer this unusual discourse. He remained silent, and presently the doctor stepped aside.

"I swear you seem fit as a fiddle!" he avowed, in his old peremptory tones. "You must be a tough nut. How do you feel? Any internal pains?"

His patient drew a long breath, and a grimace which he could not check in time shot over his face.

"Don't lie to me, you young rascal! Where does it hurt?"

"Inside; here."

The speaker placed his hand on his right lung.

"It ought to hurt there, for you've a bruise as big as a soup plate. Nothing dangerous, but you must be careful. Stay in this room for two days, anyway, and lie down most of the time. Do you promise?"

"I suppose I'll have to," replied Glenning, somewhat ruefully.

Doctor Kale thumped over to his hat and medicine case. Jamming the hat on his head till it almost rested on his ears, he grabbed his case, then swung around and gazed keenly at the new doctor.

"Are you married?" he demanded, abruptly, and in a manner which in anyone else would have been highly impertinent.

"No," was the answer, given quite gravely.

A meaningless snort greeted this inoffensive monosyllable. Then Doctor Kale began to parade the room, thumping and storming.

"Why in hell ain't you? A doctor ought to be married—adds to his respectability. And here you come sneakin' into Macon not married!"

He stopped about three feet in front of the figure in the chair.

"I may be a rascal, as some people say, but I'm no fool. You're not married, and you went into a fiery furnace to save Julia Dudley's horse. Now I've got this to say. The man who gets her has me to reckon with as well as the old Major. Damned if he don't have to prove himself, and be as clean as a white-washed wall! Good morning, sir!"

He stamped to the door, went out, slammed it furiously behind him, and was gone.