along the fence in front, and down the Holmes Street side, are the
Doctor's roses--the admiration and despair of every flower-growing
housewife in town.

Full fifty years of the Doctor's professional life have been spent in
active practice in Corinth and in the country round about. He declares
himself worn out now and good for nothing, save to meddle in the affairs
of his neighbors, to cultivate his roses, and--when the days are
bright--to go fishing. For the rest, he sits in his chair on the porch
and watches the world go by.

"Old Doctors and old dogs," he growls, "how equally useless we are, and
yet how much--how much we could tell if only we dared speak!"

He is big, is the Doctor--big and fat and old. He knows every soul in
Corinth, particularly the children; indeed he helped most of them to
come to Corinth. He is acquainted as well with every dog and cat, and
horse and cow, knowing their every trick and habit, from the old brindle
milker that unlatches his front gate to feed on the lawn, to the bull
pup that pinches his legs when he calls on old Granny Brown. For miles
around, every road, lane, by-path, shortcut and trail, is a familiar way
to him. His practice, he declares, has well-nigh ruined him financially,
and totally wrecked his temper. He can curse a man and cry over a baby;
and he would go as far and work as hard for the illiterate and penniless
backwoodsman in his cabin home as for the president of the Bank of
Corinth or even Judge Strong himself.

No one ever thinks of the Doctor as loving anyone or anything, and that
is because he is so big and rough on the outside: but every one in
trouble goes to him, and that is because he is so big and kind on the