pipe. He had very little chance of a talk, and was glad to talk, even to
a girl.

"Just in those people you've mentioned, Marcella, you've almost every
cause of illness." He paused, puffed at the pipe and went on,
"Wullie--he was born like it."

"Yes. I know. It seems all wrong."

"It is wrong. It's a mistake," said the doctor slowly.

"Whose mistake?" she asked quickly.

"Ah, there you have me, Marcella. It was to answer questions like that
that men invented the devil, I believe; they like to say he put the grit
in the machine that turned out Wullie, and made him like that out of
perversity."

"But what do you say?" she said, looking into his face.

"I don't know. I think several things. For one thing, I like to imagine
that God, or Nature, whichever you like to call it--isn't a perfect
machine yet, and that we human beings can step in to help a bit."

"But how?"

"Wullie's father, I've heard, was drowned before he was born, and his
mother was too proud to tell when she was hungry. She used to go out
every night and take his place with the fishing boats, rowing, sitting
cramped, drawing the nets. We can help there by stopping that sort of