interment in Syracuse, "if everybody in this world was as good as Dr.
Fiddler, what a happy place it would be. Just think of it! He gave all
of his time, all of his experience--everything--and now refuses to
take a cent from me. It isn't everybody who is as easy on the poor as
that man is, my dear. He is a--a real nobleman."

Mrs. Bingle had been thinking too. "Well, I dare say he makes up for
it by being a little harder on the rich every time he finds it
necessary to be easy on the poor," she said cryptically.

"What do you mean?"

"Nothing," she said, ashamed of her estimate of the good doctor. "I
shouldn't have said that."

"I insist on an explanation."

"Well, if you must have it, I'll bet he gets even somehow. I'd hate to
be his next patient if I was rich enough to call him in to attend me."

"I am surprised at you, Mary," said Mr. Bingle, and his expression
convinced her that he really was.




CHAPTER IV

FORTY MINUTES LATE