in, and he spoke jestingly to Toby about it,
reminding him, however, seriously enough, that it was only in visions
that there could be any such direct passing from earth to heaven.

"For you see, old man, there's a place on the way where most of us must
tarry a while. Maybe you might be able to pass by and go straight on. I
am afraid there wouldn't be much of a chance for me."

But they were both still far from their long, hard journey's end on that
gloomy November evening. They were merely turning a little aside from
their usual broad path for a still wider service to humanity. They had
not seen the doctor that day, and there was always reason to fear that
he might at any moment fall a victim to the epidemic which he was
ceaselessly fighting, so that they were now going in some anxiety to see
what had kept him away from the places in which they were used to seeing
him. They were both very tired, yet Toby, nevertheless, quickened his
weary pace at a gentle hint from Father Orin, and they got to the
doctor's house just as the sun went down behind the cottonwoods on the
other shore.

The cabin stood near the river bank. It was a single room of logs, rough
without and bare within. The doctor was not very poor, as poverty and
riches were considered in the wilderness, having inherited a modest
fortune. But he was generous and charitable, and had gone from Virginia
into Kentucky with an earnest wish to serve his kind. And then his
acquaintance with Father Orin had brought him in close contact with want
as well as suffering, and would have given him good uses for larger
means than his own. Yet rude and empty as the cabin was, there were
traces of refinement here and there, as there always must be wherever
true refinement dwells. A miniature of his mother, whom he could not
remember, hung against the logs at the head of his bed. There were a few
good books on a rough shelf, and a spray of autumn leaves lay on the
table. The beauty of the leaves had drawn him to break the spray from
the bough and bring it home. But he had forgotten it as soon as he had
laid it down on the table, and the leaves were withering as he sat
beside them with his head bowed upon his hands.

The man of conscience, who cares for the bodies of his kind, bears
almost as heavy a burden as he who cares for their souls. He must
everywhere, and unrestingly, fight ignorance and prejudice with one
hand, while he strives to heal with the other, and this double