rything will be done for her comfort. She has an elegant chance of
pulling through, there. And you can see her when you go down with the
stage--" Pelliter suddenly stopped; he appeared disconcerted by what he
had said.

"Well," Gordon demanded, his attention held by the other's manner, "can't
I?"

"You were away from Greenstream yesterday and to-day," the doctor replied
evasively, "you didn't hear ... oh, there's nothing in it if you didn't.
I heard that Simmons had had you taken off the stage. Did you have trouble
with Buckley, cut him with a whip? Buck has been blowing about showing you
a thing or two."

A feeling of angry dismay enveloped Gordon. He had recognized, obscurely,
that Simmons and old man Hollidew dominated the community, but he had
never before come in actual contact with their arbitrary power, he had
never before been faced by the overmastering weapon of their material
possessions, the sheer weight of their wealth. It stirred him to revolt,
elemental and bitter; every instinct rose against the despotic power which
threatened to overwhelm him.

"By God!" he exclaimed, "but they will find that I'm no sheep to drive
into their lot and shear!"

"Now, about Clare," the doctor interposed.

"When will you come for her?" Gordon inquired. He took from his pocket the
roll of money he had won at Sprucesap, and counted two hundred dollars,
which he tended to the doctor.

"To-morrow, about seven. Everything will be done for her, Gordon. I reckon
that's only an empty splash about the stage."

The dusk had thickened in Clare's room; he could scarcely distinguish her
face white against the darkened squares of the quilt. "Whoever will get
your supper," she worried, when he had told her; "and the cow'll need
bedding, and those cheeses brought in off the roof, and--"

He closed her mouth with a gentle palm. "I've done 'em all a hundred
times," he declared. "We're going to get you right, this spell, Clare," he
proclaimed; "you'll get professional, real stylish, care at Stenton."

She rose, trembling, on her arms. "Are they going to cut at me?" she
asked.

The lie on his lips perished silently before her grave tones. "It's not
rightly a dangerous operation," he protested; "thousands come out of it
every year."

"Gordon, I'm afeared of it."

"No, you're not, Clare Makimmon; there's not a drop of fear in you."

"It's not just death I'm afeared of, it's--oh; you will never understand
for being a man," her voi