athe on anything, especially if the breathing were
very deep and very early in the morning.

"And then the new doctor knows how to cure the plague, aunt Penelope,
dear," said Ruth, suddenly looking up from the things on the
candle-stand. She was always the peacemaker of the family. "The Sisters
told me. They are not afraid now that he has come. They were never
afraid for themselves; it was for the children--the orphans. They said
that little ones were dying all over the wilderness like frozen lambs."

"This new doctor is a most presumptuous person," said William Pressley,
with the chilly deliberation which invariably marked his irritation. "He
refuses to bleed his patients or to allow them to be bled. These
unheard-of objections of his are levelled at the fundamental principles
of the established practice and calculated to undermine it. Every
physician of reputable standing will tell you that bleeding is the only
efficacious treatment for the Cold Plague, and that it is entirely safe
if no more than eight ounces of blood be taken at a time, and not
oftener than once in two or three hours."[1]

[Footnote 1: "Medical Repository," 1815, p. 222.]

No one said anything for a moment. When William Pressley spoke in that
tone, which he frequently did, there seemed to be nothing left for any
one else to say. The subject appeared to have been done up hard and fast
in a bundle and laid away for good and all. The judge was dozing again,
Philip Alston was still gazing at Ruth, Miss Penelope was busy over the
coffee-pot, and the widow Broadnax was watching every movement that she
made. It was Ruth who replied after a momentary pause. She never lacked
courage to stand by her own opinions, timid and gentle as they were; and
she spoke now firmly though gently:

"But, William, just think! These were little bits of babies. Such poor,
weak, bloodless little mites anyway. And it is said that the greatest
pain and danger from the plague is from weakness and cold. The strongest
men shiver and shiver till they freeze out of the world."

William Pressley bent his head in the courtesy that stings more than
rudeness. He never argued. He had spoken; there was no need to say
anything more. So that with this bow to Ruth he turned to Philip Alston
and again took up the topic which he was so anxious to resume. It had
already been interrupted, he thought, by far too much unimportant talk.
Ruth looked at him expectantly when he started to speak, bu