John Dale stumbled into the room, his arms full of wood, and an old dog,
lying before the fireplace, thumped his tail against the floor with
diminishing vigor.

She arose. "I'll get you a bite to eat, Doctor."

"Never mind! I must be going." He made a sign to Dale, who followed
to the gate.

"John, I've been calling here a long time--"

"I know I ought to pay somethin'," Dale started to say.

"It isn't that--I've just diagnosed the case; only one man can cure it."

"Would he--on credit?" Dale anxiously inquired.

"He never charges." Johnston smiled sorrowfully at the old man's
despair.

"Who is he?"

"The President; the President of the United States," he added as
Dale's eyes filled with questions. "I came out of college a sceptic,
John, and I'd be an infidel outright but for that wife of yours--she's
nearer the sky, somehow, than any other mortal I've seen. I don't
believe in anything, of course--but that dream--if I were you I'd trust
it--I'd follow where it led."

With his foot on the hub, the farmer slowly whetted his knife on