"We all wake to that knowledge," he said, a spasm of pain crossing his face. "You know how the lesson came to me, Conny."
"Yes, poor Ray! and I know that another suffers, even more than you, because of it."
"And the cause of it all is another mystery. But no more of this; unless something noteworthy occurs, you will not see me again for three days."
She gave him her hand, and a look of gratitude, and trust; and, in a few moments more, the red roan steed was speeding back townward.
Francis Lamotte had found the doctor dull company; and, as he scarcely ever remained in the office to read now-a-days, he had taken himself and his dissatisfaction elsewhere, long before Ray returned to the office ready to begin his new rôle.
He found the doctor sitting in a despondent attitude, almost where he had left him, holding in his hand a crumpled letter.
Without appearing to notice his abstraction, Ray came at once to the point at issue.
"Heath," he said, "your red roan is returned to you, and the loan of him encourages me to ask another favor."
"Well!" said the doctor, without looking up or changing his attitude.
"The fact is," said Ray, with splendid ingenuousness, "I am a sort of outcast. My quarters are undergoing that misery they call 'repairs,' and—the truth is, Heath, I want you to tender me your hospitality, for, say two or three days. I can't go to a public place; I don't feel like facing the music, for I am a little sore yet, and I find that I am still an object for commiseration, and I do get low spirited in spite of myself. It's cheeky, my asking it, I know, and you'll find my constant society a terrible bore; but my heart is set on quartering with you, so don't say no, Heath."