“It is to keep away inflammation.”
“Oh! Can I go now?”
“Yes. But to-morrow return, and I will look at the arm.” He took the lamp away and replaced his red-buttoned cap with a black felt hat. Then he silently preceded her down the steps to the road. Only when the light of her home shone plainly ahead of them, did he leave her.
They had not spoken on the way. But as he bowed a good-night, she addressed him. “I thank you,” she said. “And may I ask your name?”
“Kwa”—he began, and stopped. Emotion for an instant softened his impassive countenance. He turned away. “Fong Wu,” he added, and was gone.
The following afternoon the crunch of cart wheels before the square-fronted house announced her coming. Fong Wu closed “The Book of Virtue,” and stepped out upon the porch.
A white man was seated beside her in the vehicle. As she sprang from it, light-footed and smiling, and mounted the steps, she indicated him politely to the Chinese.
“This is my husband,” she said. “I have told him how kind you were to me last night.”
Fong Wu nodded.
Barrett hastened to voice his gratitude. “I certainly am very much obliged to you,” he said. “My wife might have been bitten by the rattler, or she might have lain all night in pain if you hadn’t found her. And I want to say that your treatment was splendid. Why, her arm hasn’t swollen or hurt her. I’ll be hanged if I can see—you’re such a good doctor—why you stay in this——”