Mary's receiver clicked with no uncertain sound and a smile illumined her face.
One day when the snow was flying and the wind was blowing a gale the doctor came hurrying in. “Where is the soapstone?” he asked, with small amenity. His wife flew to get it and laid it on the hearth very close to the coals. “Oh dear! How terrible to go out in such a storm. Do you have to?” she asked.
“I certainly do. Do you think I'd choose a day like this for a pleasure trip?”
“Aren't you glad you got that galloway?” she asked, hurrying to bring the big, hairy garment from its hook in the closet. She helped her husband into it, turned the broad collar up—then, when the soapstone was hot, she wrapped it up and gave it to him. “This ought to keep your feet from freezing,” she said. The doctor took it, hurried out to the buggy, pulled the robes up around him and was gone.
“Eight miles in this blizzard!” thought Mary shivering, “and eight miles back—sixteen miles. It will take most of the day.”
Two hours after the doctor had gone the telephone rang.
“Is Dr. Blank there?”
“No, he is in the country, about eight miles southwest.”
“This is Drayton. We want him at John Small's as soon as possible. How soon do you think he will be back?”