is mother, for reasons of her own, never
gave and which no other woman had yet dared suggest.

For an instant the doctor sat with his elbows on the desk in deep
thought, the light illuminating his calm, finely chiselled features and
hands--those thin, sure hands which could guide a knife within a hair's
breadth of instant death--and leaning forward, with an indrawn sigh
examined some letters lying under his eye. Then, as if suddenly
remembering, he glanced at the office slate, his face lighting up as he
found it bare of any entry except the date.

Rex had been watching his master with ears cocked, and was now on his
haunches, cuddling close, his nose resting on the doctor's knee. Doctor
John laid his hand on the dog's head and smoothing the long, silky
ears, said with a sigh of relief, as he settled himself in his chair:

"Little Tod must be better, Rex, and we are going to have a quiet
night."

The anxiety over his patients relieved, his thoughts reverted to Jane
and their talk. He remembered the tone of her voice and the quick way
in which she had warded off his tribute to her goodness; he recalled
her anxiety over Lucy; he looked again into the deep, trusting eyes
that gazed into his as she appealed to him for assistance; he caught
once more the poise of the head as she listened to his account of
little Tod Fogarty's illness and heard her quick offer to help, and
felt for the second time her instant tenderness and sympathy, never
withheld from the sick and suffering, and always so generous and
spontaneous.

A certain feeling of thankfulness welled up in his heart. Perhaps she
had at last begun to depend upon him--a dependence which, with a woman
such as Jane, must, he felt sure, eventually end in love.

With these thoughts filling his mind, he settled deeper in his chair.
These were the times in which he loved to think of her--when, with pipe
in mouth, he could sit alone by his fire and build castles in the
coals, every rosy mountain-top aglow with the love he bore her; with no
watchful mother's face trying to fathom his thoughts; only his faithful
dog stretched at his feet.

Picking up his brierwood, lying on a pile of books on his desk, and
within reach of his hand, he started to fill the bowl, when a scrap of
paper covered with a scrawl written in pencil came into view. He turned
it to the light and sprang to his feet.

"Tod worse," he said to himself. "I wonder how long this has been here."

The dog wa