ht with morning.

The old dog who lay in front of the granary door raised his head at
their approach and lifted one ear, as if to command silence.

Tom helped the doctor out of the buggy. He tried to unhitch the horse,
but the beating of his heart nearly choked him--the fear of what might
be in the granary. He waited for the exclamation from the doctor which
would proclaim him a murderer. He heard the door open again--the doctor
was coming to tell him--Tom's knees grew weak--he held to the horse for
support--who was this who had caught his arm--it was Pearl crying and
laughing.

"Tom, Tom, it's all over, and Arthur's going to get well," she
whispered. "Dr. Clay came."

But Pearl was not prepared for what happened.

Tom put his head down upon the horse's neck and cried like a child--no,
like a man--for in the dark and terrible night that had just passed,
sullied though it was by temptations and yieldings and neglect of duty,
the soul of a man had been born in him, and he had put away childish
things forever.

Dr. Clay was kneeling in front of the box cleaning his instruments,
with his back toward the door, when Dr. Barner entered. He greeted the
older man cordially, receiving but a curt reply. Then the professional
eye of the old doctor began to take in the situation. A half-used roll
of antiseptic lint lay on the floor; the fumes of the disinfectants and
of the ansthetic still hung on the air. Tom's description of the case
had suggested appendicitis.

"What was the trouble?" he asked quickly.

The young doctor told him, giving him such a thoroughly scientific
history of the case that the old doctor's opinion of him underwent a
radical change. The young doctor explained briefly what he had
attempted to do by the operation; the regular breathing and apparently
normal temperature of the patient was, to the old doctor, sufficient
proof of its success.

He stooped suddenly to examine the dressing that the young doctor was
showing him, but his face twitched with some strong emotion--pride,
professional jealousy, hatred were breaking down before a stronger and
a worthier feeling.

He turned abruptly and grasped the young doctor's hand.

"Clay!" he cried, "it was a great piece of work, here, alone, and by
lamplight. You are a brave man, and I honour you." Then his voice
broke. "I'd give every day of my miserable life to be able to do this
once more, just once, but I haven't the nerve, Clay"; the hand that the
you