At the thought of Ralph, the man's face softened a trifle and his keen
eyes became a little less keen. The boy's picture was before him upon
his chiffonier. Ralph was twenty-three now and would finish in a few
weeks at a famous medical school--Doctor Dexter's own alma mater. He
had not been at home since he entered the school, having undertaken to
do in three years the work which usually required four.

He wrote frequently, however, and Doctor Dexter invariably went to the
post-office himself on the days Ralph's letters were expected. He had
the entire correspondence on file and whiled away many a lonely evening
by reading and re-reading the breezy epistles. The last one was in his
pocket now.

"To think, Father," Ralph had written, "in three weeks more or less, I
shall be at home with my sheepskin and a fine new shingle with 'Dr.
Ralph Dexter' painted on it, all ready to hang up on the front of the
house beside yours. I'll be glad to get out of the grind for a while,
I can tell you that. I've worked as His Satanic Majesty undoubtedly
does when he receives word that a fresh batch of Mormons has hit the
trail for the good-intentions pavement. _Decensus facilis Averni_.
That's about all the Latin I've got left.

"At first, I suppose, there won't be much for me to do. I'll have to
win the confidence of the community by listening to the old ladies'
symptoms three or four hours a day, regularly. Finally, they'll let me
vaccinate the kids and the rest will be pitifully easy. Kids always
like me, for some occult reason, and if the children cry for me, it
won't be long till I've got your whole blooming job away from you.
Never mind, though, dad--I'll be generous and whack up, as you've
always done with me."