He had never been more contented in his life. His work was going
well--that day the Liberals had offered him the nomination for the
coming provincial election! It was an honor which he appreciated,
though he had no desire to enter politics. He loved his work--the
people he served were devoted to him--he could read it in their faces
and their stammering words. He knew what they wanted to say,
even though it was conveyed in a few halting fragments of
sentences--"You're all right--Doc--sure--glad you got here--we knew
you'd make it--somehow--you and them high steppers of yours can get
through the snow--if any one can."

Slowly, for a great weariness was on him, he began to think of Pearl,
the red-cheeked shining-eyed Pearl, who had singled him out for her
favor ever since he came to the village six years ago; Pearl, with her
contagious optimism and quaint ways, who had the good gift of putting
every one in good humor. He smiled to himself when he thought of
how often he had made it convenient to pass the school just at four
o'clock, and give Pearl and the rest of them a ride home, and the
delight he had always had in her fresh young face, so full of lights
and shadows.

"Robbing the cradle, eh, Doc?" Sam Motherwell had once said, in his
clumsy way, when he met them on the road--"Nothin' like pickin' them
out young and trainin' them up the way you want them."

He had made no answer to this, but he still felt the wave of anger
that swept over him at the blundering words. "All the same, I wish
Pearl were older"--he had admitted to himself that day. "If she
keeps her wise little ways and her clever tongue, she'll be a great