re of your nostrums," said Lot.

"Very well," said the doctor, replacing the bottles. "I would not
make out that certificate sooner than necessary--that is all."

"Dose death and go to the root of the matter," said Lot. "Then you
won't sign this paper?"

"No," replied the doctor, with a great emphasis of negation.

"There is one thing you will do," said he.

"What?" asked the doctor, suspiciously.

"If I die within a year, to your truest belief, from any other cause
than this wound now in my side you will say so."

"Of course I will do that," replied the doctor, staring at him.

"And you will in such a case let this wound drop into oblivion, you
will hold your peace concerning it, 'forever after?'"

"Of course I will."

"Swear to it?"

"I swear. But what in--"

Lot smiled. "Some time, when you have leisure, write a treatise on
'Who killed the man?'" he said, as if to turn the subject, "and keep
going back to first causes. You'll find startling results; you may
decide that 'twas your duty to sign the paper."

"I have no time for treatises," returned the doctor, gruffly.

"You may trace the killing back to yourself."

"I'm not afraid of it. Good-day."

"Shake hands with me, doctor," pleaded Lot, with a curious change of
tone, "to show you bear no grudge for the breakfast you lost."

The doctor stared a second, then went up to him with extended hand,
looking at him seriously. He thought Lot's illness had begun to
affect his mind.

"Keep yourself quiet, and you may outlive the best of us," he said,
soothingly, as if to a child or a woman, shook Lot's lean hand
kindly, repeated his good-day, and was gone.

Lot waited until he heard the outer door close. Then he tinkled his
bell for Margaret Bean. "When are they coming home?" he asked,
shortly, when she stood beside him.

"His mother said she was expectin' of 'em Saturday."

"Get my clothes out of the closet, will you," said Lot.

"You ain't a-goin' to get up?"

"Yes, I'm better; get the clothes."

When Margaret Bean had laid the clothes out ready for him, and was
gone, Lot laid still a moment, reflecting, with his eyes on the
ceiling. He wished to cough, but with an effort he checked it,
gasping once or twice. "Saturday," he said, aloud. "To-day is
Wednesday--three days. Can I wait?" He paused; then as if answering
another self, he said, "No; I could die a thousand deaths in that
time. I can't wait."

Lot Gordon got up, moving by inches, wit