afraid of bronchitis."

Derry's voice lacked sympathy. "I shouldn't worry, Bronson. He
usually comes around all right."

"Yes, sir. I hope so, sir," and Bronson's spare figure rose to a
portentous shadow, as he preceded Derry to the door.

On the threshold he said, "Dr. Richards has gone to the front. Shall I
call Dr. McKenzie if we need someone--?"

"Has he been left in charge?"

"Yes, sir."

Derry stood for a moment undecided. "I suppose there's no reason why
you shouldn't call McKenzie. Do as you think best, Bronson."

On his way to his own room, Derry paused for a moment at the head of
the great stairway. His mother's picture hung on the landing. The
dress in which she was painted had been worn to a dinner at the White
House during the first Cleveland Administration. It was of white
brocade, with its ostrich feather trimming making it a rather regal
robe. It had tight sleeves, and the neck was square. Around her
throat was a wide collar of pearls with diamond slides. Her fair hair
was combed back in the low pompadour of the period, and there were
round flat curls on her temples. The picture was old-fashioned, but
the painted woman was exquisite, as she had always been, as she would
always be in Derry's dreams.