which usually had a soporific effect on him. But it was no
good.

He got up and took to pacing his room, a portly, solid old figure in
striped pajamas and the pair of knitted bedroom slippers which were
always Mrs. Morgan's Christmas offering. "To Doctor David, with love and
a merry Xmas, from Angeline Morgan."

At last he got his keys from his trousers pocket and padded softly down
the stairs and into his office, where he drew the shade and turned on
the lights. Around him was the accumulated professional impedimenta of
many years; the old-fashioned surgical chair; the corner closet which
had been designed for china, and which held his instruments; the
bookcase; his framed diplomas on the wall, their signatures faded, their
seals a little dingy; his desk, from which Dick had removed the old
ledger which had held those erratic records from which, when he needed
money, he had been wont--and reluctant--to make out his bills.

Through an open door was Dick's office, a neat place of shining linoleum
and small glass stands, highly modern and business-like. Beyond the
office and opening from it was his laboratory, which had been the fruit
closet once, and into which Dick on occasion retired to fuss with slides
and tubes and stains and a microscope.

Sometimes he called David in, and talked at length and with enthusiasm
about such human interest things as the Staphylococcus pyogenes aureus,
and the Friedlander bacillus. The older man would listen, but his eyes
were oftener on Dick than on the microscope or the slide.

David went to the bookcase and got down a large book, much worn, and
carried it to his desk.

An hour or so later he heard footsteps in the hall and closed the book
hastily. It was Lucy, a wadded dressing gown over her nightdress and a
glass of hot milk in her hand.

"You drink this and come to bed, David," she said peremptorily. "I've
been lying upstairs waiting for you to come up, and I need some sleep."

He had no sort of hope that she would not notice the book.

"I just got to thinking things over, Lucy," he explained, his tone
apologetic. "There's no use pretending I'm not worried. I am."

"Well, it's in God's hands," she said, quite simply. "Take this up and
drink it slowly. If you gulp it down it makes a lump in your stomach."

She stood by while he replaced the book in the bookcase and put out the
lights. Then in the darkness she preceded him up the stairs.

"You'd better take the milk yourse