The doctor was seen riding by
on his way to the sick man. From the window where he sat, Sweetwater
watched him pass up the street and take the road he had himself so
lately traversed. It was so straight a one and led so directly northward
that he could follow with his eye the doctor's whole course, and even
get a glimpse of his figure as he stepped from the buggy and proceeded
to tie up the horse. There was an energy about him pleasing to
Sweetwater. He might have much to do with this doctor. If
Oswald Brotherson died--but he was not willing to consider this
possibility--yet. His personal sympathies, to say nothing of his
professional interest in the mystery to which this man--and this man
only--possibly held the key, alike forbade. He would hope, as these
others were hoping, and if he did not count the minutes, he at least
saw every move of the old horse waiting with drooping head and the
resignation of long custom for the re-appearance of his master with his
news of life or death.

And so an hour--two hours passed. Others were watching the old horse
now. The street showed many an eager figure with head turned northward.
From the open door-ways women stepped, looked in the direction of their
anxiety and retreated to their work again. Suspense was everywhere;
the moments dragged like hours; it became so keen at last that some
impatient hearts could no longer stand it. A woman put her baby into
another woman's arms and hurried up the road; another followed, then
another; then an old man, bowed with years and of tottering steps, began
to go that way, halting a dozen times before he reached the group now
collected in the dusty highway, near but not too near that house. As
Sweetwater's own enthusiasm swelled at this sight, he thought of the
other Brotherson with his theories and active advocacy for reform, and
wondered if men and women would forego their meals and stand for hours
in the keen spring wind just to be the first to hear if he were to live
or die. He knew that he himself would not. But he had suffered much both
in his pride and his purse at the hands of the Brooklyn inventor;
and such despoliation is not a reliable basis for sympathy. He was
questioning his own judgment in this matter and losing himself in the
mazes of past doubts and conjectures when a sudden change took place in
the aspect of the street; he saw people running, and in another moment
saw why. The doctor had shown himself on the porch which all w