the time
when he would hold them in his own, caressing them, kissing them.
Would it be possible to forget them, to reconcile oneself to them? He
must think--must get away from these crowded streets where faces seemed
to grin at him. He remembered that Parliament had just risen, that
work was slack in the office. He would ask that he might take his
holiday now--the next day. And they had agreed.

He packed a few things into a knapsack. From the voices of the hills
and streams he would find counsel.

He took no count of his wanderings. One evening at a lonely inn he met
a young doctor. The innkeeper's wife was expecting to be taken with
child that night, and the doctor was waiting downstairs till summoned.
While they were talking, the idea came to him. Why had he not thought
of it? Overcoming his shyness, he put his questions. What work would
it be that would cause such injuries? He described them, seeing them
before him in the shadows of the dimly lighted room, those poor,
pitiful little hands.

Oh! a dozen things might account for it--the doctor's voice sounded
callous--the handling of flax, even of linen under certain conditions.
Chemicals entered so much nowadays into all sorts of processes and
preparations. All this new photography, cheap colour printing, dyeing
and cleaning, metal work. Might all be avoided by providing rubber
gloves. It ought to be made compulsory. The doctor seemed inclined to
hold forth. He interrupted him.

But could it be cured? Was there any hope?

Cured? Hope? Of course it could be cured. It was only local--the
effect being confined to the hands proved that. A poisoned condition
of the skin aggravated by general poverty of blood. Take her away from
it; let her have plenty of fresh air and careful diet, using some such
simple ointment or another as any local man, seeing them, would
prescribe; and in three or four months they would recover.

He could hardly stay to thank the young doctor. He wanted to get away
by himself, to shout, to wave his arms, to leap. Had it been possible
he would have returned that very night. He cursed himself for the
fancifulness that had prevented his inquiring her address. He could
have sent a telegram. Rising at dawn, for he had not attempted to
sleep, he walked the ten miles to the nearest railway station, and
waited for the train. All day long it seemed to creep with him through
the endless country. But London came at last.

It