"Thank you, sah;" and Wilkins ducked his head and sprang upstairs.
"Why, Dick," said Mr. Clyde, as he entered the library hurriedly, "what's wrong?"
"The world in general, Johnny, and your world in particular, old fellow."
"Is Hazel worse?" The father's anxiety could be heard in the tone with which he put the question.
"I 'm not satisfied, John, and I 'm bothered."
When Doctor Heath called his friend "John," Mr. Clyde knew that the very soul of him was heavily burdened. The two had been chums at Yale: the one a rich man's son; the other a country doctor's one boy, to whom had been bequeathed only a name honored in every county of his native state, a good constitution, and an ambition to follow his father's profession. The boy had become one of the leading physicians of the great city in which he made his home; his friend one of the most sought-after men in the whirling gayeties of the great metropolis. As he stood on the hearth with his back to the mantel waiting for the physician's next word, he was typical of the best culture of the city, and the Doctor looked up into the fine face with a deep affection visible in his eyes.
"Going out, as usual, John?"
"Only to the Pearsells' reception. Don't keep me waiting, old fellow; speak up."
"How the deuce am I to make things plain to you, John? Here, draw up your chair a little nearer mine, as you used in college when you knew I had a four A.M. lecture awaiting you, after one of your larks."
The two men helped themselves to cigars; and the Doctor, resting his head on the back of the chair, slowly let forth the smoke in curling rings, and watched them dissolve and disperse.