Ross interrupted hotly, looking longingly at the letter. "I don’t owe him as much as I do you and Aunt Anne."
Dr. Grant made no reply, nor did he share the letter. Putting it into an inner pocket, he left the office, and presently Ross heard the sound of wheels on the drive. Dr. Grant was starting again on his interrupted round of calls.
The boy leaned back and drew a deep breath. His father was going to send for him, and would then tell him–what? That he could not enter a medical college? That he could not become a surgeon? That he must fit himself for a business career? His chin came up again. He looked around the office lingeringly. It had been the heart of his home for seven years. It represented to him all that he wished to become. His father was almost a stranger to him; his uncle had stood in the place of a father since he, a sickly boy of ten, had been sent from the city to gain health on the hills which girdle Wyoming Valley.
He had gained health. In so far he had fulfilled his father’s wishes. But, in addition, he had gained a knowledge and been settled in a desire extremely displeasing to Ross Grant, Senior, who expected to train his only son to continue his own business.
"Grant & Grant" was the father’s ambition; "Dr. Grant" the son’s.
Presently Dr. Grant’s wife appeared in the doorway of the office. She was a short, round woman, with a laughing face and a pretty, bustling air of authority. Stopping abruptly, she shook a chubby forefinger at Ross.
"All day to-day," she accused, "you have bent over that book."
Ross, his elbows planted on the table and his chin resting on his fists, shook his head. He did not look up.
"I’ve been studying Gray on Anatomy, Aunt Anne. Got to master him."
Aunt Anne bobbed energetically across the room, and slammed the volume shut. "There!" she cried triumphantly. "Get out and walk five miles, and strengthen your own anatomy!"