That night Arthur’s condition was, to Pearl’s sharp eyes, alarming.

He tried to quiet her fears. He would be well directly, it was nothing, nothing at all, a mere indisposition (Pearl didn’t know what that was); but when she went into the granary with a pitcher of water for him, and found him writing letters in the feeble light of a lantern, she took one look at him, laid down the pitcher and hurried out to tell Tom.

Tom was in the kitchen taking off his boots preparatory to going to bed.

“Tom,” she said excitedly, “get back into yer boots, and go for the doctor. Arthur’s got the thing that Pa had, and it’ll have to be cut out of him or he’ll die.”

“What?” Tom gasped, with one foot across his knee.

“I think he has it,” Pearl said, “he’s actin’ just like what Pa did, and he’s in awful pain, I know, only he won’t let on; and we must get the doctor or he might die before mornin’, and then how’d we feel?”

Tom hesitated.

“Remember, Tom, he has a father and a mother and four brothers, and a girl called Thursa, and an uncle that is a bishop, and how’d we ever face them when we go to heaven if we just set around and let Arthur die?”

“What is it, Pearl?” Mrs. Motherwell said coming into the room, having heard Pearl’s excited tones.

“It’s Arthur, ma’am. Come out and see him. You’ll see he needs the doctor. Ginger tea and mustard plasters ain’t a flea-bite on a pain like what he has.”

“Let’s give him a dose of aconite,” Tom said with conviction; “that’ll fix him.”

Mrs. Motherwell and Pearl went over to the granary.

“Don’t knock at the door,” Pearl whispered to her as they went. “Ye can’t tell a thing about him if ye do. Arthur’d straighten up and be polite at his own funeral. Just look in the crack there and you’ll see if he ain’t sick.”

Mrs. Motherwell did see. Arthur lay tossing and moaning across his bed, his letter pad and pencil beside him on the floor.

Mrs. Motherwell did not want Tom to go to Millford that night. One of the harvesters’ excursions was expected-was probably in-then-there would be a wild time. Besides, the two-dollar bill still worried her. If Tom had it he might spend it. No, Tom was safer at home.

“Oh, I don’t think he’s so very bad,” she said. “We’ll get the doctor in the morning if he isn’t any better. Now you go to bed, Pearl, and don’t worry yourself.”

But Pearl did not go to bed.

When Mrs. Motherwell and Tom had gone to their own rooms, she built up the kitchen fire, and heated a frying-pan full of salt, with which she filled a pair of her own stockings and brought them to Arthur. She remembered that her mother had done that when her father was sick, and that it had eased his pain. She drew a pail of fresh water from the well, and brought a basinful to him, and bathed his burning face and hands. Arthur received her attentions gratefully.

Pearl knew what she would do. She would run over and tell Jim, and Jim would go for the doctor. Jim would not be in bed yet, she knew, and even if he were, he would not mind getting up.

Jim would go to town any time she wanted anything. One time when she had said she just wished she knew whether Camilla had her new suit made yet, Jim jumped right up and said he’d go and see.

Mrs. Motherwell had gone to her room very much concerned with her own troubles. Why should Tom fall into evil ways? she asked herself-a boy who had been as economically brought up as he was. Other people’s boys had gone wrong, but she had alway thought that the parents were to blame some way. Then she thought of Arthur; perhaps he should have the doctor. She had been slow to believe that Polly was really sick-and had had cause for regret. She would send for the doctor, in the morning. But what was Pearl doing so long in the kitchen?-She could hear her moving around-Pearl must go to her bed, or she would not be able to get up in the morning.

Pearl was just going out of the kitchen with her hat and coat on when Mrs. Motherwell came in.

“Where are you going, Pearl,” she asked.

“To git someone to go for the doctor,” Pearl answered stoutly.

“Is he worse?” Mrs. Motherwell asked quickly.

“He can’t git worse,” Pearl replied grimly. “If he gits worse he’ll be dead.”

Mrs. Motherwell called Tom at once, and told him to bring the doctor as soon as he could.

“Where’s my overcoat mother?” Tom called from the hall.

“Take your father’s” she said, “he is going to get a new one while he is in Winnipeg, that one’s too small for him now. I put yours outside to air. It had a queer smell on it I thought, and now hurry, Tom. Bring Dr. Barner. I think he’s the best for a serious case. Dr. Clay is too young, Anyway, the old man knowns far more than he does, if you can only get him sober.”

Pearl’s heart sank.

“Arthur’s as good as dead,” she said as she went to the granary, crying softly to herself. “Dr. Clay is the only man who could save him, and they won’t have him.”

The sun had gone down and heavy clouds filled the sky. Not a star was to be seen, and the night was growing darker and darker.

A sound of wheels came from across the creek, coming rapidly down the road. The old dog barked viciously. A horse driven at full speed dashed through the yard; Pearl ran shouting after, for even in the gathering darkness she recognised the one person in all the world who could save Arthur. But the wind and the barking of the dog drowned her voice, and the sound of the doctor’s wheels grew fainter in the distance.

Only for a moment was Pearl dismayed.

“I’ll catch him coming back,” she said, “if I have to tie binding twine across the road to tangle up Pleurisy’s long legs. He’s on his way to Cowan’s, I know. Ab Cowan has quinsy. Never mind, Thursa, we’ll get him. I hope now that the old doctor is too full to come-oh, no I don’t either, I just hope he’s away and Dr. Clay will have it done before he gets here.”

When Tom arrived in Millford he found a great many people thronging the streets. One of the Ontario’s harvesters’ excursions had arrived a few hours before, and the “Huron and Bruce” boys were already making themselves seen and heard.

Tom went at once to Dr. Barner’s office and found that the doctor was out making calls, but would be back in an hour. Not at all displeased at having some time to spend, Tom went back to the gaily lighted front street. The crowds of men who went in and out of the hotels seemed to promise some excitement.

Inside of the Grand Pacific, a gramophone querulously sang “Any Rags, Any Bones, Any Bottles To-day” to a delighted company of listeners.

When Tom entered he was received with the greatest cordiality by the bartender and others.

“Here is life and good-fellowship,” Tom thought to himself, “here’s the place to have a good time.”

“Is your father back yet, Tom?” the bartender asked as he served a line of customers.

“He’ll come up Monday night, I expect,” Tom answered, rather proud of the attention he was receiving.

The bartender pushed a box of cigars toward him.

“Have a cigar, Tom,” he said.

“No, thank you,” Tom answered, “not any.” Tom could not smoke, but he drew a plug of chewing tobacco from his pocket and took a chew, to show that his sympathies were that way.

“I guess perhaps some of you men met Mr. Motherwell in Winnipeg. He’s in there hiring men for this locality,” the bartender said amiably.

“That’s the name of the gent that hired me,” said one.

“Me too.”

“And me,” came from others. “I’d no intention of comin’ here,” a man from Paisley said. “I was goin’ to Souris, until that gent got a holt of me, and I thought if he wuz a sample of the men ye raise here, I’d hike this way.”

“He’s lookin’ for a treat,” the bartender laughed. “He’s sized you up, Tom, as a pretty good fellow.”

“No, I ain’t after no treat,” the Paisley man declared. “That’s straight, what I told you.”

Tom unconsciously put his hand in his coat pocket and felt the money his father had put there. He drew it out wondering. The quick eyes of the bartender saw it at once.

“Tom’s getting out his wad, boys,” he laughed. “Nothin’ mean about Tom, you bet Tom’s goin’ to do somethin’.”

In the confusion that followed Tom heard himself saying:

“All right boys, come along and name yer drinks.”

Tom had a very indistinct memory of what followed. He remembered having a handful of silver, and of trying to put it in his pocket.

Once when the boys were standing in front of the bar at his invitation he noticed a miserable, hungry looking man, who drank greedily. It was Skinner. Then someone took him by the arm and said something about his having enough, and Tom felt himself being led across a floor that rose and fell strangely, to a black lounge that tried to slide away from him and then came back suddenly and hit him.

The wind raged and howled with increasing violence around the granary where Arthur lay tossing upon his hard bed. It seized the door and rattled it in wanton playfulness, as if to deceive the sick man with the hope that a friend’s hand was on the latch, and then raced blustering and screaming down to the meadows below. The fanning mill and piles of grain bags made fantastic shadows on the wall in the lantern’s dim light, and seemed to his distorted fancy like dark and terrible spectres waiting to spring upon him.

Pearl knelt down beside him, tenderly bathing his burning face.

“Why do you do all this for me, Pearl?” he asked slowly, his voice coming thick and painfully.

She changed the cloth on his head before replying.

“Oh, I keep thinkin’ it might be Teddy or Jimmy or maybe wee Danny,” she replied gently, “and besides, there’s Thursa.”

The young man opened his eyes and smiled bravely.

“Yes, there’s Thursa,” he said simply.

Pearl kept the fire burning in the kitchen-the doctor might need hot water. She remembered that he had needed sheets too, and carbolic acid, when he had operated on her father the winter before.

Arthur did not speak much as the night wore on, and Pearl began to grow drowsy in spite of all her efforts. She brought the old dog into the granary with her for company. The wind rattled the mud chinking in the walls and drove showers of dust and gravel against the little window. She had put the lantern behind the fanning mill, so that its light would not shine in Arthur’s eyes, and in the semi-darkness, she and old Nap waited and listened. The dog soon laid his head upon her knee and slept, and Pearl was left alone to watch. Surely the doctor would come soon...it was a good thing she had the dog...he was so warm beside her, and...

She sprang up guiltily. Had she been asleep...what if he had passed while she slept...she grew cold at the thought.

“Did he pass, Nap?” she whispered to the dog, almost crying. “Oh Nap, did we let him go past?”

Nap yawned widely and flicked one ear, which was his way of telling Pearl not to distress herself. Nobody had passed.

Pearl’s eyes were heavy with sleep.

“This is not the time to sleep,” she said, yawning and shivering. Arthur’s wash-basin stood on the floor beside the bed, where she had been bathing his face. She put more water into it.

“Now then,” she said, “once for his mother, once for his father, a big long one for Thursa,” holding her head so long below the water that it felt numb, when she took it out. “I can’t do one for each of the boys,” she shivered, “I’ll lump the boys, here’s a big one for them.”

“There now,” her teeth chattered as she wiped her hair on Arthur’s towel, “that ought to help some.”

Arthur opened his eyes and looked anxiously around him. Pearl was beside him at once.

“Pearl,” he said, “what is wrong with me? What terrible pain is this that has me in its clutches?” The strength had gone out of the man, he could no longer battle with it.

Pearl hesitated. It is not well to tell sick people your gravest fears. “Still Arthur is English, and the English are gritty,” Pearl thought to herself.

“Arthur,” she said, “I think you have appendicitis.”

Arthur lay motionless for a few moments. He knew what that was.

“But that requires an operation,” he said at length, “a very skilful one.”

“It does,” Pearl replied, “and that’s what you’ll get as soon as Dr. Clay gets here, I’m thinking.”

Arthur turned his face into his pillow. An operation for appendicitis, here, in this place, and by that young man, no older than himself perhaps? He knew that at home, it was only undertaken by the oldest and best surgeons in the hospitals.

Pearl saw something of his fears in his face. So she hastened to reassure him. She said cheerfully:

“Don’t ye be worried, Arthur, about it at all at all. Man alive! Dr. Clay thinks no more of an operation like that than I would o’ cuttin’ your nails.”

A strange feeling began at Arthur’s heart, and spread up to his brain. It had come! It was here!

From lightning and tempest; from plague, pestilence
and famine; from battle and murder and sudden
death;-Good Lord, deliver us!

He had prayed it many times, meaninglessly. But he clung to it now, clung to it desperately. As a drowning man. He put his hand over his eyes, his pain was forgotten:

Other lights are paling-which for long years we have
rejoiced to see...we would not mourn them for we go
to Thee!

Yes it was all right; he was ready now. He had come of a race of men who feared not death in whatever form it came.

Bring us to our resting beds at night-weary and
content and undishonoured-and grant us in the end
the gift of sleep.

He repeated the prayer to himself slowly. That was it, weary and content, and undishonoured.

“Pearl,” he said, reaching out his burning hand until it rested on hers, “all my letters are there in that black portmanteau, and the key is in my pocket-book. I have a fancy that I would like no eye but yours to see them-until I am quite well again.”

She nodded.

“And if you...should have need...to write to Thursa, tell her I had loving hands around me...at the last.”

Pearl gently stroked his hand.

“And to my father write that I knew no fear”-his voice grew steadier-“and passed out of life glad to have been a brave man’s son, and borne even for a few years a godly father’s name.”

“I will write it, Arthur,” she said.

“And to my mother, Pearl” his voice wavered and broke-“my mother...for I was her youngest child...tell her she was my last...and tenderest thought.”

Pearl pressed his hand tenderly against her weather-beaten little cheek, for it was Danny now, grown a man but Danny still, who lay before her, fighting for his life; and at the thought her tears fell fast.

“Pearl,” he spoke again, after a pause, pressing his hand to his forehead, “while my mind holds clear, perhaps you would be good enough, you have been so good to me, to say that prayer you learned. My father will be in his study now, and soon it will be time for morning prayers. I often feel his blessing on me, Pearl. I want to feel it now, bringing peace and rest...weary and content and undishonoured, and...undishonoured...and grant us...” His voice grew fainter and trailed away into incoherency.

And now, oh thou dignified rector of St. Agnes, in thy home beyond the sea, lay aside the “Appendix to the Apology of St. Perpetua,” over which thou porest, for under all thy dignity and formalism there beats a loving father’s heart. The shadows are gathering, dear sir, around thy fifth son in a far country, and in the gathering shadows there stalks, noiselessly, relentlessly, that grim, gray spectre, Death. On thy knees, then, oh Rector of St. Agnes, and blend thy prayers with the feeble petitions of her who even now, for thy house, entreats the Throne of Grace. Pray, oh thou on whom the bishop’s hands have been laid, that the golden bowl be not broken nor the silver cord loosed, for the breath of thy fifth son draws heavily, and the things of time and sense are fading, fading, fading from his closing eyes.

Pearl repeated the prayer.

She stopped abruptly. The old dog lifted his head and listened. Snatching up the lantern, she was out of the door before the dog was on his feet; there were wheels coming, coming down the road in mad haste. Pearl swung the lantern and shouted.

The doctor reined in his horse.

She flashed the lantern into his face.

“Oh Doc!” she cried, “dear Doc, I have been waitin’ and waitin’ for ye. Git in there to the granary. Arthur’s the sickest thing ye ever saw. Git in there on the double jump.” She put the lantern into his hand as she spoke.

Hastily unhitching the doctor’s horse she felt her way with him into the driving shed. The night was at its blackest.

“Now, Thursa,” she laughed to herself, “we got him, and he’ll do it, dear Doc, he’ll do it.” The wind blew dust and gravel in her face as she ran across the yard.

When she went into the granary the doctor was sitting on the box by Arthur’s bed, with his face in his hands.

“Oh, Doc, what is it?” she cried, seizing his arm.

The doctor looked at her, dazed, and even Pearl uttered a cry of dismay when she saw his face, for it was like the face of a dead man.

“Pearl,” he said slowly, “I have made a terrible mistake, I have killed young Cowan.”

“Bet he deserved it, then,” Pearl said stoutly.

“Killed him,” the doctor went on, not heeding her, “he died in my hands, poor fellow! Oh, the poor young fellow! I lanced his throat, thinking it was quinsy he had, but it must have been diphtheria, for he died, Pearl, he died, I tell you!”

“Well!” Pearl cried, excitedly waving her arms, “he ain’t the first man that’s been killed by a mistake, I’ll bet lots o’ doctors kill people by mistake, but they don’t tell-and the corpse don’t either, and there ye are. I’ll bet you feel worse about it than he does, Doc.”

The doctor groaned.

“Come, Doc,” she said, plucking his sleeve, “take a look at Arthur.”

The doctor rose uncertainly and paced up and down the floor with his face in his hands, swaying like a drunken man.

“O God!” he moaned, “if I could but bring back his life with mine; but I can’t! I can’t! I can’t!”

Pearl watched him, but said not a word. At last she said:

“Doc, I think Arthur has appendicitis. Come and have a look at him, and see if he hasn’t.”

With a supreme effort the doctor gained control of himself and made a hasty but thorough examination.

“He has,” he said, “a well developed case of it.”

Pearl handed him his satchel. “Here, then,” she said, “go at him.”

“I can’t do it, Pearl,” he cried. “I can’t. He’ll die, I tell you, like that other poor fellow. I can’t send another man to meet his Maker.”

“Oh, he’s ready!” Pearl interrupted him. “Don’t hold back on Arthur’s account.”

“I can’t do it,” he repeated hopelessly. “He’ll die under my knife, I can’t kill two men in one night. O God, be merciful to a poor, blundering, miserable wretch!” he groaned, burying his face in his hands, and Pearl noticed that the back of his coat quivered like human flesh.

Arthur’s breath was becoming more and more laboured; his eyes roved sightlessly around the room; his head rolled on the pillow in a vain search for rest; his fingers clutched convulsively at the bed-clothes.

Pearl was filled with dismay. The foundations of her little world were tottering.

All but One. There was One who had never failed her. He would not fail her now.

She dropped on her knees.

“O God, dear God,” she prayed, beating her hard little brown hands together, “don’t go back on us, dear God. Put the gimp into Doc again; he’s not scared to do it, Lord, he’s just lost his grip for a minute; he’s not scared Lord; it looks like it, but he isn’t. You can bank on Doc, Lord, he’s not scared. Bear with him, dear Lord, just a minute-just a minute-he’ll do it, and he’ll do it right, Amen.”

When Pearl rose from her knees the doctor had lifted his head.

“Do you want hot water and sheets and carbolic?” she asked.

He nodded.

When she came back with them the doctor was taking off his coat. His instruments were laid out on the box.

“Get a lamp,” he said to Pearl.

Pearl’s happy heart was singing with joy. “O Lord, dear Lord, You never fail,” she murmured as she ran across to the kitchen.

When she came back with the lamp and a chair to set it on, the doctor was pinning a sheet above the bed. His face was white and drawn, but his hand was firm and his mouth was a straight line.

Arthur was tossing his arms convulsively.

The doctor listened with his ear a minute upon the sick man’s heart, then the gauze mask was laid upon his face and the chloroform soon did its merciful work.

The doctor handed Pearl the bottle. “A drop or two if he moves,” he said.

Then Horace Clay, the man with a man’s mistakes, his fears, his heart-burnings, was gone, and in his place stood Horace Clay, the doctor, keen, alert, masterful, indomitable, with the look of battle on his face. He worked rapidly, never faltering; his eyes burning with the joy of the true physician who fights to save, to save a human life from the grim old enemy, Death.

“You have saved his life, Pearl,” the doctor said two hours later. Arthur lay sleeping easily, the flush gone from his face, and his breath coming regularly.

The doctor put his hand gently on her tumbled little brown head.

“You saved him from death, Pearl, and me-from something worse.”

And then Pearl took the doctor’s hand in both of hers, and kissed it reverently.

“That’s for Thursa,” she said, gravely.

Tom was awakened by some one shaking him gently.

“Tom, Tom Motherwell, what are you doing here?”

A woman knelt beside him; her eyes were sweet and kind and sad beyond expression.

“Tom, how did you come here?” she asked, gently, as Tom struggled to rise.

He sat up, staring stupidly around him. “Wha’ ’s a matter? Where’s this?” he asked thickly.

“You’re in the sitting-room at the hotel,” she said. He would have lain down again, but she took him firmly by the arm.

“Come Tom,” she said. “Come and have a drink of water.”

She led him out of the hotel to the pump at the corner of the street. Tom drank thirstily. She pumped water on his hands, and bathed his burning face in it. The cold water and the fresh air began to clear his brain.

“What time is it?” he asked her.

“Nearly morning,” she said. “About half-past three, I think,” and Tom knew even in the darkness that she had lost more teeth. It was Mrs. Skinner.

“Tom,” she said, “did you see Skinner in there? I came down to get him-I want him-the child is dead an hour ago.” She spoke hurriedly.

Tom remembered now. Yes, he had seen Skinner, but not lately; it was a long, long time ago.

“Now Tom, go home,” she said kindly. “This is bad work for you, my dear boy. Stop it now, dear Tom, while you can. It will kill you, body and soul.”

A thought struggled in Tom’s dull brain. There was something he wanted to say to her which must be said; but she was gone.

He drank again from the cup that hung beside the pump. Where did he get this burning thirst, and his head, how it pounded! She had told him to go home. Well, why wasn’t he at home? What was he doing here?

Slowly his memory came back-he had come for the doctor; and the doctor was to be back in an hour, and now it was nearly morning, didn’t she say?

He tried to run, but his knees failed him-what about Arthur? He grew chill at the thought-he might be dead by this time.

He reached the doctor’s office some way. His head still throbbed and his feet were heavy as lead; but his mind was clear.

A lamp was burning in the office but no one was in. It seemed a month ago since he had been there before. The air of the office was close and stifling, and heavy with stale tobacco smoke. Tom sat down, wearily, in the doctor’s armchair; his heart beat painfully-he’ll be dead-he’ll be dead-he’ll be dead-it was pounding. The clock on the table was saying it too. Tom got up and walked up and down to drown the sound. He stopped before a cabinet and gazed horrified at a human skeleton that grinned evilly at him. He opened the door hastily, the night wind fanned his face. He sat down upon the step, thoroughly sober now, but sick in body and soul.

Soon a heavy step sounded on the sidewalk, and the old doctor came into the patch of light that shone from the door.

“Do you want me?” he asked as Tom stood up.

“Yes,” Tom answered; “at once.”

“What’s wrong?” the doctor asked brusquely.

Tom told him as well as he could.

“Were you here before, early in the evening?”

Tom nodded.

“Hurry up then and get your horse,” the doctor said, going past him into the office.

“Yes, I thought so,” the doctor said gathering up his instruments. “I ought to know the signs-well, well, the poor young Englishman has had plenty of time to die from ten in the evening till four the next morning, without indecent haste either, while this young fellow was hitting up the firewater. Still, God knows, I shouldn’t be hard on him. I’ve often kept people waiting for the same reason and,” he added grimly, “they didn’t always wait either.”

When Tom and the old doctor drove into the yard everything was silent.
The wind had fallen, and the eastern sky was bright with morning.

The old dog who lay in front of the granary door raised his head at their approach and lifted one ear, as if to command silence.

Tom helped the doctor out of the buggy. He tried to unhitch the horse, but the beating of his heart nearly choked him-the fear of what might be in the granary. He waited for the exclamation from the doctor which would proclaim him a murderer. He heard the door open again-the doctor was coming to tell him-Tom’s knees grew weak-he held to the horse for support-who was this who had caught his arm-it was Pearl crying and laughing.

“Tom, Tom, it’s all over, and Arthur’s going to get well,” she whispered. “Dr. Clay came.”

But Pearl was not prepared for what happened.

Tom put his head down upon the horse’s neck and cried like a child-no, like a man-for in the dark and terrible night that had just passed, sullied though it was by temptations and yieldings and neglect of duty, the soul of a man had been born in him, and he had put away childish things forever.

Dr. Clay was kneeling in front of the box cleaning his instruments, with his back toward the door, when Dr. Barner entered. He greeted the older man cordially, receiving but a curt reply. Then the professional eye of the old doctor began to take in the situation. A half-used roll of antiseptic lint lay on the floor; the fumes of the disinfectants and of the ansthetic still hung on the air. Tom’s description of the case had suggested appendicitis.

“What was the trouble?” he asked quickly.

The young doctor told him, giving him such a thoroughly scientific history of the case that the old doctor’s opinion of him underwent a radical change. The young doctor explained briefly what he had attempted to do by the operation; the regular breathing and apparently normal temperature of the patient was, to the old doctor, sufficient proof of its success.

He stooped suddenly to examine the dressing that the young doctor was showing him, but his face twitched with some strong emotion-pride, professional jealousy, hatred were breaking down before a stronger and a worthier feeling.

He turned abruptly and grasped the young doctor’s hand.

“Clay!” he cried, “it was a great piece of work, here, alone, and by lamplight. You are a brave man, and I honour you.” Then his voice broke. “I’d give every day of my miserable life to be able to do this once more, just once, but I haven’t the nerve, Clay”; the hand that the young doctor held trembled. “I haven’t the nerve. I’ve been going on a whiskey nerve too long.”

“Dr. Barner,” the young man replied, as he returned the other’s grasp, “I thank you for your good words, but I wasn’t alone when I did it. The bravest little girl in all the world was here and shamed me out of my weakness and,” he added reverently, “I think God Himself steadied my hand.”

The old man looked up wondering.

“I believe you, Clay,” he said simply.