cared to keep in touch with the few old friends he had. For forty-five
years he had lived in London, so there was almost nothing of Priorsford
left in him--nothing, indeed, except the desire to see it again before
he died.

They had been forty-five quite happy years for Peter Reid. Money-making
was the thing he enjoyed most in this world. It took the place to him of
wife and children and friends. He did not really care much for the
things money could buy; he only cared to heap up gold, to pull down
barns and build greater ones. Then suddenly one day he was warned that
his soul would be required of him--that soul of his for which he had
cared so little. After more than sixty years of health, he found his
body failing him. In great irritation, but without alarm, he went to see
a specialist, one Lauder, in Wimpole Street.

He supposed he would be made to take a holiday, and grudged the time
that would be lost. He grudged, also, the doctor's fee.

"Well," he said, when the examination was over, "how long are you going
to keep me from my work?"

The doctor looked at him thoughtfully. He was quite a young man, tall,
fair-haired, and fresh-coloured, with a look about him of vigorous
health that was heartening and must have been a great asset to him in
his profession.

"I am going to advise you not to go back to work at all."

"_What!_" cried Peter Reid, getting very red, for he was not accustomed
to being patient when people gave him unpalatable advice. Then