ore, and asked if she had in her mind any particular kind of
success her husband might be working to obtain. Was there something,
apart from his profession, and the unfinished volume of history, which
had occupied the thoughts of Doctor James in old days?

The little woman answered this question almost reluctantly, and I soon
guessed why. There was a serum which the doctor had been trying to
perfect. It was to be used instead of chloroform or ether, for people
with weak hearts, or when for other reasons anaesthetics were dangerous.
A patient in peril of death had begged Doctor James to try it upon him.
The doctor had consented. The patient had died, and though it was not
really because of the serum, but because the man couldn't possibly have
lived in any case, the doctor's enemies had blamed him. "That was what
broke his heart," Mrs. James explained, still staring at the statue with
wide-open eyes, to keep the tears from falling. "That is why he died to
the world which misjudged him."

"And do you think, if he can perfect this serum, he will come back?"
asked Sir Somerled.

"_When_, not 'if.' But I always knew it would take a long time, because
unless some rich person or people had faith and helped him, he would
have to get together a good deal of money for a laboratory before he
could make a great success or a great name. And he went away almost
without a penny."

"I see," said Sir S., thoughtfully. "Well, such faith as yours is enough
to inspire a man with courage to push the stone of Sisyphus to the top
of the hill. And it deserves a high reward. I hope the reward may come,
and that I may see the day. Now, we must go on, for this afternoon won't
last as long as I could wish."

He helped Mrs. James to her place with extra kindness, almost
tenderness, tucking behind her back the gray silk-covered air-cushion
which she says makes her feel she is leaning against a nice pudding.

Neither of us had asked Sir S. what we were to see next, for we trusted
him to choose; but when we were ready to leave Annan and go back to the
high road, he said that the thought of Galloway was haunting him. "We
can spin on to Glasgow by way of Moffat and see a lot of interesting
places; or we can turn west from Carlyle country, for a run through
Crockett country," he explained. "Which, shall it be?"

I was ashamed to confess that I didn't know why he called Galloway
"Crockett country"; but Mrs. James saw my sheepish look, and excused me