st come
up and see me some time; come up and have a look over the books we were
speaking of."

"I am much obliged," said Theron, without enthusiasm. The thought of the
doctor by himself did not attract him greatly.

The reservation in his tone seemed to interest the doctor. "I suppose
you are the first man I have asked in a dozen years," he remarked,
frankly willing that the young minister should appreciate the favor
extended him. "It must be fully that since anybody but Vincent Forbes
has been under my roof; that is, of my own species, I mean."

"You live there quite alone," commented Theron.

"Quite--with my dogs and cats and lizards--and my Chinaman. I mustn't
forget him." The doctor noted the inquiry in the other's lifted brows,
and smilingly explained. "He is my solitary servant. Possibly he
might not appeal to you much; but I can assure you he used to interest
Octavius a great deal when I first brought him here, ten years ago or
so. He afforded occupation for all the idle boys in the village for a
twelve-month at least. They used to lie in wait for him all day long,
with stones or horse-chestnuts or snowballs, according to the season.
The Irishmen from the wagon-works nearly killed him once or twice, but
he patiently lived it all down. The Chinaman has the patience to live
everything down--the Caucasian races included. He will see us all to
bed, will that gentleman with the pigtail!"

The music over in the church had lifted itself again into form and
sequence, and defied the closed window. If anything, it was louder than
before, and the sonorous roar of the bass-pedals seemed to be shaking
the very walls. It was something with a big-lunged, exultant, triumphing
swing in it--something which ought to have been sung on the battlefield
at the close of day by the whole jubilant army of victors. It was
impossible to pretend not to be listening to it; but the doctor
submitted with an obvious scowl, and bit off the tip of his third cigar
with an annoyed air.

"You don't seem to care much for music," suggested Mr. Ware, when a lull
came.

Dr. Ledsmar looked up, lighted match in hand. "Say musicians!" he
growled. "Has it ever occurred to you," he went on, between puffs at the
flame, "that the only animals who make the noises we call music are of
the bird family--a debased offshoot of the reptilian creation--the
very lowest types of the vertebrata now in existence? I insist upon
the parallel among humans. I have in