“The man you told me of, who died at Montreal?”
“Yes.”
“You never mentioned his name.”
“His last wishes forbade me to mention it to any living creature. God knows there were pitiable, most pitiable, reasons for his dying unknown! The stone over his grave only bears his initials, and the date of his death. But,” said Ovid, kindling with enthusiasm, as he laid his hand on his manuscript, “the discoveries of this great physician shall benefit humanity! And my debt to him shall be acknowledged, with the admiration and the devotion that I truly feel!”
“In a book?” asked Mr. Gallilee.
“In a book that is now being printed. You will see it before the New Year.”
Finding nothing to amuse her in the sitting-room, Zo had tried the bedroom next. She now returned to Ovid, dragging after her a long white staff that looked like an Alpen-stock. “What’s this?” she asked. “A broomstick?”
“A specimen of rare Canadian wood, my dear. Would you like to have it?”
Zo took the offer quite seriously. She looked with longing eyes at the specimen, three times as tall as herself—and shook her head. “I’m not big enough for it, yet,” she said. “Look at it, papa! Benjulia’s stick is nothing to this.”
That name—on the child’s lips—had a sound revolting to Ovid. “Don’t speak of him!” he said irritably.