deeper in his chair. These were the times in which
he loved to think of her--when, with pipe in mouth,
he could sit alone by his fire and build castles in the
coals, every rosy mountain-top aglow with the love
he bore her; with no watchful mother's face trying
to fathom his thoughts; only his faithful dog
stretched at his feet.

Picking up his brierwood, lying on a pile of books
on his desk, and within reach of his hand, he started
to fill the bowl, when a scrap of paper covered with
a scrawl written in pencil came into view. He
turned it to the light and sprang to his feet.

"Tod worse," he said to himself. "I wonder
how long this has been here."

The dog was now beside him looking up into the
doctor's eyes. It was not the first time that he had
seen his master's face grow suddenly serious as he
had read the tell-tale slate or had opened some note
awaiting his arrival.

Doctor John lowered the lamp, stepped noiselessly
to the foot of the winding stairs that led to the sleeping
rooms above--the dog close at his heels, watching
his every movement--and called gently:

"Mother! mother, dear!" He never left his
office when she was at home and awake without telling