“That,” replied the Doctor, triumphantly, “disproves your own theory. If you are in earnest, begin on the morrow to instruct Mr. Irving.”
Margaret flushed, perceiving her own inconsistency.
“I could be of assistance, possibly,” he continued, “for in the difficult school of experience I have learned many things. I have often taken professional pride in closing an aperture in my clothing with neat stitches, and the knowledge thus gained has helped me in my surgery. All things in this world fit in together.”
“It is fortunate if they do,” she answered. “My own scheme of things has been very much disarranged.”
“Yet, as Fräulein Fredrika would say, ‘the dear God knows.’ Life is like one of those puzzles that come in a box. It is full of queer pieces which seemingly bear no relation to one another, and yet there is a way of putting it together into a perfect whole. Sometimes we make a mistake at the beginning and discard pieces for which we think there is no possible use. It is only at the end that we see we have made a mistake and put aside something of much importance, but it is always too late to go back—the pieces are gone.
“In my own life, I lost but one—still, it was the keystone of the whole. When I came from Germany, I should have brought letters from those in high places there to those in high places here. It could easily have been done. I should have had this behind me when I came to East Lancaster, and I should not have made the mistake of settling first on the hill. Then——” The Doctor ceased abruptly, and sighed.
“This country is supposed to be very democratic,” said Lynn, chiefly because he could think of nothing else to say.
“Yes,” replied the Doctor, “it is in your laws that all men are free and equal, but it is not so. The older civilisations have found there is class, and so you will find it here. At first, when everything is chaotic, all particles may seem alike, but in time there is an inevitable readjustment.”
“We are getting very serious,” said Margaret.