the back, everything a little on the slant--roofs, windows,
and doors. As they approached the gate, Peter Kron-
borg's pace grew brisker. His nervous, ministerial cough
annoyed the doctor. "Exactly as if he were going to give
out a text," he thought. He drew off his glove and felt
in his vest pocket. "Have a troche, Kronborg," he said,
producing some. "Sent me for samples. Very good for a
rough throat."

"Ah, thank you, thank you. I was in something of a
hurry. I neglected to put on my overshoes. Here we are,
doctor." Kronborg opened his front door--seemed de-
lighted to be at home again.

The front hall was dark and cold; the hatrack was hung
with an astonishing number of children's hats and caps and
cloaks. They were even piled on the table beneath the
hatrack. Under the table was a heap of rubbers and over-
shoes. While the doctor hung up his coat and hat, Peter
Kronborg opened the door into the living-room. A glare of
light greeted them, and a rush of hot, stale air, smelling of
warming flannels.


At three o'clock in the morning Dr. Archie was in the
parlor putting on his cuffs and coat--there was no spare
bedroom in that house. Peter Kronborg's seventh child,
a boy, was being soothed and cosseted by his aunt, Mrs.
Kronborg was asleep, and the doctor was going home. But
he wanted first to speak to Kronborg, who, coatless and