of those to whom he has rendered back life, their own or a dearer, and
the Doctor (having long outlived the time when it flattered him) was
often exasperated to the limits of endurance by the blind faith which
asked miracles of him as simply as cups of tea. The strain these
women--they were mostly women, of course--put upon him was beyond
belief, and he got but a mild pleasure out of the reflection that,
being in their nature foolish, they could not help it.

It was quite in keeping, therefore, that one of them should have
broken up his night's sleep. He knew those attacks of the boy's by
heart; there was exactly one chance in one hundred that his presence
should be necessary. He had sent a safe remedy, telephoned a severe
but soothing message, and mentally prayed now for patience to meet the
irrational, angered eyes of maternity, and to administer a reproof
equally gentle and deterrent--gentle, for of course the woman's nerves
had to be allowed for; she had been nursing this boy for months. The
Doctor slipped into his long, fur-trimmed overcoat and reached for his
tall hat.

"You may as well send those Symphony tickets to somebody," he said,
impatiently, to his wife; "I sha'n't be able to go. Ten to one I shall
be late to dinner, and I doubt if I get home to lunch at all."

His wife, who was patiently holding his gloves and cigar-case, looked
at him with a sweet maternal anxiety as he tumbled together the papers
on the table, but she only said, "Very well." As he turned to take the
gloves and cigar-case, she added, quickly, with a second anxious
glance:

"Do try to get a few minutes' rest somewhere. Any of our friends will