THE-HEART-OF-THE-DOCTOR 
 
 mm m
 
 MARGARET IN THE NORTH END (Page 250)
 
 THE HEART OF THE 
 DOCTOR 
 
 & torp of tf>e Italian Quarter 
 
 BY 
 
 MABEL G. FOSTER 
 
 BOSTON AND NEW YORK 
 HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY 
 
 bc ttincrsi&c press, Cambribjje 
 1902
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1902, BY MABEL G. FOSTER 
 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED 
 
 Published October, zgoz
 
 AD UN BUON AMICO 
 
 CHE 8UL VKCCHIO COLLE 
 
 COOPERO A FAR MEMORABHJ 
 
 QUEI OIOBNI FELICI E PAB8ATL
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 I. A WAIF AND AN IDLEK 1 
 
 EL. THE STOLEN PATIENTS 13 
 
 HE. A WRONG DIAGNOSIS 28 
 
 IV. A READING FROM BYRON .... 42 
 
 V. THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE .... 55 
 
 VL THE SPANISH DOCTOB 66 
 
 VII. RENUNCIATION 76 
 
 Vin. A WRECKED LIFE 93 
 
 IX. Guroo MASCARO'S MABIA 103 
 
 X. A HEART SPECIALIST 114 
 
 XL DR. RAYMOND'S MISTAKE 124 
 
 XII. BONDAGE 130 
 
 XHI. SCARABINI'S DEFEAT 138 
 
 XIV. THE NURSE OF DOMINIQUE .... 147 
 
 XV. A WORD OF WARNING , .... 161 
 
 XVI. CELESTIA'S ELOPEMENT 171 
 
 XV11. THE FEAST OF RECONCILIATION .... 176 
 
 XVIII. A MEETING OF THE LADY-BOARD . . . 188 
 
 XIX. THE DREAM OF A HOME 197 
 
 XX. THE PLOT IN THE ALLEY .... 211 
 
 XXI. AN EAVESDROPPER IN CHINATOWN . . . 222 
 
 XXII. GREATER LOVE HATH NO MAN . . . 230 
 
 XXm. THE CRY OF THE PEOPLE 240 
 
 XXIV. AT THE END OF THE PIEK 247
 
 THE HEART OF THE DOCTOR 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 A WAIF AND AN IDLER 
 
 SPRING HILL STREET begins at the square in 
 front of the church of Santa Maria, runs over the 
 crest of an ancient hill, and plunges down to the 
 noisy thoroughfare on the west. At the crown of 
 the hill is the burying-ground, with its trees, its 
 weather-worn stones, its matchless view of the busy 
 harbor. 
 
 Years ago this hill was the fashionable part of 
 town, and traces of former elegance may still be 
 seen in occasional colonial doorways and slant 
 roofs, while here and there, in the lanes and by- 
 ways, a lilac tree, the last of some patrician hedge- 
 row, tosses its languorous perfume in the smiling 
 face of each May sky. 
 
 But the grandeur of Spring Hill is gone, and if 
 the spirits of dead aristocrats have hovered above 
 the old graves, it has been their fate to see the
 
 2 THE HEART OF THE DOCTOR 
 
 passing of damask and brocade and the incoming 
 of new peoples from beyond the sea. The march 
 of the foreign invasion has been continuous, and 
 to-day may be seen in the winding streets and 
 shadowy alleys the picturesque life of a dozen 
 Italian provinces. 
 
 A man climbed the five stone steps which inter- 
 vene between the street and the burying-ground. 
 He was not old, yet he looked decrepit, and his 
 hair was gray. At the top of the steps he paused 
 and looked about him irresolutely. Brady, the 
 custodian of the yard, always on the lookout for 
 sight-seers, discovered the newcomer in an instant, 
 and leaving the group of loungers gathered near 
 the fountain, he came briskly forward. 
 
 " Like to see the stones, sir ? " he asked, in his 
 half respectful tone. 
 
 " No, no," said the stranger, nervously, " er . . . 
 that is ... no, no. I 'm not interested. I 'm 
 waiting for some one ... if there 's no objection." 
 
 " None in the world," replied Brady, in the tone 
 of patient tolerance cultivated by long contact 
 with an irresolute public. " Jest make yourself at 
 home. There 's benches 'n' plenty uv fresh water. 
 The oldest stone is down this path ; date 1645 
 David Perkins, and Patience, his wife."
 
 A WAIF AND AN IDLER 3 
 
 The man made a deprecatory gesture. 
 
 " I won't trouble you," he said. " I '11 sit down 
 over here, I think. Is it late ? And shall I have 
 to wait long? " 
 
 Brady scented some form of lunacy, and replied 
 in the most soothing tone which could be assumed 
 by a voice roughened by an out-door life of thirty 
 years. 
 
 " Oh, no, not very long, I should n't think. It 's 
 about three o'clock now." 
 
 " Is he usually very late ? " queried the man, 
 his gaze wandering vaguely toward the street. 
 
 " No, no," reassured Brady. " Who 'd you say 
 you were waiting for ? " 
 
 " The young man at the dispensary over there. 
 Is he often very late ? " 
 
 A light dawned upon Brady. Here was evi- 
 dently a case for Burroughs, the student interne 
 at St. Luke's Charitable Dispensary. He liked 
 Burroughs. It was scarcely a month since the 
 young man had brought him safely through a siege 
 of neuritis, and he was therefore glad to put an 
 interesting case in the student's way. 
 
 " You '11 find the doctor in his office at three- 
 thirty, sharp. He 's never late, V a better man 
 fer his years you never saw. Can cure anything 
 from corns to D. T.'s. You 'd better go early, fer
 
 4 THE HEART OF THE DOCTOR 
 
 crowds comes ev'ry afternoon, and it 's first come, 
 first served. He gives big cure fer small pay, 'n' 
 ev'rybody 's treated alike." 
 
 This somewhat astounding statement had no 
 effect upon the stranger. Brady was quick to 
 realize that his eloquence was wasted. 
 
 " Half past three," muttered the man, " half 
 past three . . . then I must . . . yes ; it 's high 
 time, for I must be at my best when he comes. . . . 
 See here," he added, buttonholing Brady and whis- 
 pering confidentially, "you go back and talk to 
 your friends. Don't let me keep you. I '11 sit 
 here till I see him coming ; then I '11 step over. . . . 
 I say ! do go. I 'm a bit nervous ; I don't like to 
 be talked to. I 'd rather be alone." 
 
 Brady yielded to the man's whim and rejoined 
 the group at the fountain. 
 
 " There 's a crank over there waitin' ter see 
 Burroughs. Guess I 'd better keep my eye on 
 him," he said to his companions. 
 
 The stranger sat down on a bench near the 
 gate. For a while he seemed oblivious to his sur- 
 roundings. The dirty-faced children, romping in 
 the shady paths, drew near for a critical inspec- 
 tion. They were used to strangers, for many 
 people found their way to this graveyard, swal- 
 lowed in the noise and grime of the city's slum.
 
 A WAIF AND AN IDLER 5 
 
 The children cried "Hello, Mister!" as they 
 cried it to all newcomers, but he paid no attention 
 to them, and soon they drifted away. At length 
 he shook himself together and looked cautiously 
 about him. Brady and his following had appar- 
 ently forgotten his existence; the children were 
 gone ; only a lean cat, intent upon a solitary Eng- 
 lish sparrow, crouched a few feet away. 
 
 Over on his left was a high, grass-grown mound 
 surrounded by a green picket fence. Any child in 
 the neighborhood would have told him in awe- 
 stricken whispers that a dead horse was buried 
 there. It was in fact the resting-place of unbap- 
 tized babes who had died more than a century ago. 
 The stranger approached this mound, fumbled in 
 his pocket, and took something out. He stood for 
 a moment looking down at his left wrist. Then 
 he turned and walked back to his bench. Ten 
 minutes later he rose, adjusted his hat, and 
 straightened his threadbare necktie. Then he 
 walked with a firm, brisk step to where Brady and 
 his companions were settling the affairs of church 
 and state. He joined the group with an air of 
 bon-camaraderie, exclaiming, 
 
 " A glorious day, gentlemen, and good company, 
 unless your faces deceive me. Let me introduce 
 myself: John Maxon, of nowhere in particular, 
 and at your service."
 
 6 THE HEART OF THE DOCTOR 
 
 The men eyed him suspiciously ; he took no 
 notice of that, but babbled on. 
 
 " I 've just come to town and made straight for 
 this delightful locality. Lots of people here, gen- 
 tlemen, lots of people ; but just one whom I have 
 come to see. That 's Burroughs, the doctor across 
 the way." 
 
 He looked slowly around the group, meeting the 
 gaze of each man in turn without flinching, and 
 yet afterward all spoke of the odd, blurred look in 
 his eyes, the look of an intoxicated person, yet 
 different, but in just what way not one of them 
 could tell. 
 
 " Do you all know Burroughs ? " he asked after 
 a pause, the hilarity quite gone from his face. 
 The men nodded. 
 
 "Tell me about him." 
 
 Brady acted as spokesman. 
 
 " Is n't much to tell. Came here in March, V 
 has worked hard ever since. Saved lots uv lives, 
 folks say. He 's in the Medical School up town, 
 'n' works here for his board 'n' lodging. He don't 
 put on no airs, 'n' the folks round here has got 
 ter setting great stock by him already. They 're 
 mostly Eye-talians. That 's about all there is ter 
 tell, I guess." 
 
 " I will tell you something more about him, gen-
 
 A WAIF AND AN IDLER 7 
 
 tlemen," said the stranger. His tone was perfectly 
 normal now. He rose to his feet and gazed to- 
 ward the harbor which met the little public park 
 on the slope of the hill below the graveyard. He 
 drew a deep breath, with a slight but sudden ges- 
 ture of the hands. 
 
 " Lord ! " he exclaimed, " what a spot this is." 
 
 It was mid-afternoon in May. Through the 
 arching tree-boughs the harbor, alive with steam- 
 ships, tugs, and schooners, lay smiling in the sun- 
 shine. There was a tang of salt in the air, and 
 the wheeling gulls flashed their white wings 
 against the blue above and the deeper blue below. 
 The prim little paths of the graveyard, flecked 
 with light and shade, echoed the rollicking voices 
 of children. Along the wall the Italian women in 
 their gay gowns and brilliant head scarfs, chattered 
 in animated fashion while their stiffly swaddled 
 bambini pulled at their full brown breasts. The 
 sunlight was streaming upon their heads, and the 
 trees and distant brick-red houses made a back- 
 ground Correggio might have loved to copy. 
 
 " Lord ! " repeated the man, " what a spot this 
 is!" 
 
 His enthusiasm awakened no response in his 
 hearers. They were so accustomed to the scene 
 that it had ceased long since to impress them.
 
 8 THE HEAKT OF THE DOCTOR 
 
 "Gentlemen," said the stranger, turning once 
 more to the group and speaking with a sad dignity, 
 " this beautiful scene moves me to speak of some- 
 thing which has been long hidden in my heart. 
 Years ago I loved a beautiful woman. When I 
 asked her father's permission to court her he told 
 me that she had been promised to another in her 
 childhood. A strange, old-fashioned arrangement, 
 surely. After a time she married. About a year 
 later she died. As I was an old friend, I went to 
 the funeral at her husband's magnificent country 
 estate many miles from here. It was spring. The 
 fruit trees and lilac bushes were in bloom. God ! 
 How the beauty of it all hurt me ! I saw her lying 
 in her casket as stately as a waxen queen with her 
 dead baby on her breast. At the grave, just before 
 the casket was lowered, her little brother broke 
 from his mother's side and cast himself sobbing 
 across the coffin. I had never taken much notice 
 of the child before, but as I saw his pale profile 
 against the black casket I saw her face in minia- 
 ture, and when they lifted him up, although he was 
 weeping, I saw that his eyes were like hers. 
 
 " That night I left America and began years of 
 wandering. I met adventures and I saw poverty. 
 But throughout all my experiences I was resolved 
 that some day I would return and bestow upon that
 
 A WAIF AND AN IDLER 9 
 
 boy the love I had borne his sister ; an idle fancy, 
 perhaps, but nevertheless I cherished it. A week 
 ago I drifted back to the old scenes only to learn 
 that the parents were dead, their fortune wrecked, 
 and that my love's brother was in this city strug- 
 gling to secure a medical education. The man I 
 am talking about is Burroughs." 
 
 The stranger paused while his hearers shifted 
 uneasily upon the benches and looked wonderingly 
 at each other and at him. After a moment he 
 continued : 
 
 " See, now, gentlemen, how the matter stands. 
 I have come back a poor man, without position or 
 friends, broken in health and dependent upon . . . 
 medicine . . . very dependent. Now when the 
 boy needs help, friends, everything, I can do no- 
 thing for him. To-day I have resolved to see him 
 and to tell him what I have told you. He will at 
 least accept my good intentions. More than that 
 I cannot offer. I am a feeble man, a wreck before 
 my time ... a wanderer, an outcast . . . Oh, 
 my God ! " 
 
 His voice had risen to a wail and he was trem- 
 bling. He sank upon a neighboring bench and his 
 head rested upon his breast. The men around the 
 fountain were very still. They had been strangely 
 moved by this man's story, a story so foreign in its
 
 10 THE HEART OF THE DOCTOR 
 
 delicacy and pathos to anything they had known 
 in their coarse lives. Yet they were nonplussed 
 by the frankness with which the confession had 
 been made and did not know what to say, until 
 O 'Connell, the one-legged man, searching for 
 something to say, exclaimed, 
 
 " See, sir, your wrist is bleeding." 
 
 The stranger pushed up the left sleeve of his 
 coat and looked at his arm. There was a small 
 white lump upon the inside of the wrist like that 
 caused by the sting of an insect. In the centre of 
 the spot was the mark of a tiny incision from which 
 a drop of blood was oozing. Other drops had evi- 
 dently preceded this one and the coat sleeve had 
 smeared them up and down the wrist. 
 
 " It is nothing," said the man, quickly, " no- 
 thing, I assure you, gentlemen. A pin prick ; no- 
 thing more. Pray do not be alarmed." 
 
 He rose unsteadily and held out his hand to 
 Brady. 
 
 " Good-by, good-by," he said, plaintively. " You 
 have been very kind. I will sit by the gate and 
 watch for my young friend. Half past three, you 
 said ? It must be nearly that time now. Good-by, 
 gentlemen, good-by." 
 
 He shambled down the path with hanging head, 
 and finding his seat near the entrance, peered
 
 A WAIF AND AN IDLER 11 
 
 through the iron fence of the yard at the dingy 
 brick front of St. Luke's Dispensary. 
 
 " Holy mother of Mary ! " cried Dolan, as soon 
 is the man was out of earshot, " what 's the matter 
 with him?" 
 
 " He 's got the D. T.'s, I believe," said McCar- 
 thy. His opinion had great weight, for he had ex- 
 perienced delirium tremens seven times and could 
 give the medical fraternity valuable points in 
 diagnosis. 
 
 " Maybe, maybe," said Brady, wagging his head 
 sagely, " but I think more likely he 's looney." 
 
 " Why the deuce did he tell us that yarn ? " 
 queried Smith. " We 're nothin' ter him, er he ter 
 us. That 's a queerer, ter start on." 
 
 " Oh, I tell yer, he 's looney," returned Brady, 
 conclusively. " See how scairt he wuz at first 'n' 
 then he spurted up 'n' acted like a gentleman 'n' 
 then slumped down agen. He 's plain off his head, 
 I say." 
 
 " Then you 'd orter call the cop," said Dolan. 
 " 'T ain't safe ter have him loose. Might up 'n' 
 shoot the doctor, fer all his talk about lovin' him." 
 
 " I won't do nothin' about gettin' him pulled in," 
 said Brady. " It 's not in my job. That was a 
 yarn he told, anyhow. He 's harmless. If I sent 
 fer the cop ev'ry time a crank come in this here
 
 12 THE HEART OF THE DOCTOR 
 
 yard, I 'd be runnin' my legs off from mornin' 'tel 
 night. There would n't be no sidewalk 'tween here 
 'n' Station Eight ; I 'd a-hoofed it off long ago, 'n' 
 none er you blokes would be at large, neither." 
 
 The men laughed, as Brady expected they would, 
 for he was an autocrat in a small way with his 
 modest following. 
 
 Just then the clock on the church of Santa 
 Maria chimed the half .hour, and O'Connell, look- 
 ing toward the street, exclaimed, 
 
 " There comes the doctor ! " 
 
 But the man at the gate was gone.
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 THE STOLEN PATIENTS 
 
 THE low-ceiled waiting room of St. Luke's was 
 crowded that afternoon. The breeze which blew 
 in at the open window was too languid to freshen 
 the vitiated atmosphere in which the patient herd 
 of Italian men, women, and children awaited their 
 interviews with the student interne. Sometimes a 
 swaddled bambino gave vent to his feelings in a 
 doleful wail. Now and then two women, with gold 
 earrings dangling nearly to their shoulders, ex- 
 changed a few words in a dialect almost unintelli- 
 gible to a high class Italian. For the most part, 
 however, the room was very quiet, for the dispen- 
 sary was an awesome place to these simple people, 
 and the doctor a sort of demigod whose practice of 
 medicine was a mystery unapproachable. 
 
 At length the silence was broken. The office 
 door was opened quickly, an Italian in corduroys, 
 his hand neatly bandaged, emerged and made his 
 way to the street. Then the interne appeared in 
 the low doorway and uttered his oft-repeated call, 
 " Next patient ! "
 
 14 THE HEART OF THE DOCTOR 
 
 A woman rose timidly and went into the office. 
 As the door closed upon her, a brisk little Italian, 
 well-shaven, well-dressed, and wearing a pince-nez 
 astride his aquiline nose, entered the waiting room. 
 Turning now and then to look at the office door, as 
 if to catch the first intimation that it was about to 
 be opened, he went quietly from group to group 
 talking earnestly and with forceful gestures. Some 
 of the people shook their heads, but nearly all to 
 whom he spoke listened with that look of eager 
 confidence which the lower class Italians fix upon 
 those whom they consider their superiors. It is 
 much the same look one sees in the eyes of a good- 
 natured dog when his master is talking to him. 
 As soon as the brisk Italian had gone the rounds 
 of the waiting room he went stealthily into the 
 street and was immediately followed by nearly all 
 the occupants of the room. A moment later the 
 student dismissed his patient and paused with the 
 well-known words of summons unspoken. 
 
 " Hello ! " he exclaimed instead, " where are my 
 patients ? " 
 
 A very small boy with very big black eyes rose 
 to explain that they had gone with an Italian S ig- 
 nore who knew a better doctor. 
 
 " H'm," said Burroughs to himself ; " the emis- 
 sary of that Spanish quack. Spanish ! From the
 
 THE STOLEN PATIENTS 15 
 
 west bank of the Jordan, I fancy. He 'd better 
 look out how he sends that whipper-snapper to 
 interfere with my practice. Next patient ! " 
 
 Those who were left rose in a body. There was 
 a man, a woman, and several children of various 
 sizes. These people usually go in family parties to 
 consult the physician, and the student, being used 
 to the phenomenon, asked at once, 
 
 " Which of you is sick ? " 
 
 With one accord they pointed to the child 
 which the woman carried in her arms. 
 
 " 'Er ver' seek-a. She leg-a 'urt-a. She back 
 'urt-a. Mia madre say you-a mek-a vell-a. Ve 
 come-a Italia seex mont'. I talk-a Inglese, see! 
 You-a tell-a me-a, I tell-a 'eem-a." 
 
 "The father and mother may come in," said the 
 student, decisively. "The interpreter is out, so 
 you may come, boy, to do the talking. The rest 
 stay here." 
 
 At a word from the boy the younger children 
 subsided sadly, and the others went into the office. 
 Burroughs made a long examination of the little 
 limbs and back ; then he consulted his books, as 
 student-doctors sometimes find it wise to do. After 
 a few moments' thought he looked gravely at the 
 big-eyed boy. 
 
 " Listen carefully, my lad," he said, " and tell
 
 16 THE HEART OF THE DOCTOR 
 
 your father just what I say. Your sister must go 
 to the hospital and have an operation performed 
 on her back. If she goes she can be made well. 
 Tell it straight ; be sure." 
 
 While he was speaking the parents' eyes had 
 been glued upon Burroughs's face. Now they 
 looked eagerly at their interpreter. The boy must 
 have repeated the message correctly, for at his 
 words the man and woman looked aghast, and they 
 gestured wildly as they told the boy what to reply. 
 At the mention of the hospital the little girl her- 
 self began to wail, and the children in the waiting- 
 room, hearing the cry, lifted up their voices. 
 
 "Mio padre say bambina no go-a 'ospit'l. 'E 
 say 'e teck-a care-a bambina. No go-a 'ospit'l. 
 Bad-a, bad-a, bad-a ! " 
 
 Burroughs argued long and earnestly, but the 
 Italians were unmoved. They had that inborn 
 fear of institutions which is peculiar to their class. 
 The mother soothed the little one's grief, and 
 replaced the untidy garments upon the wasted 
 body. The child had remarkably beautiful blue 
 eyes, inherited no one could tell whence, and per- 
 haps it was their look of unexpressed agony that 
 caused the student to make a last effort in her 
 behalf. It was time wasted. The Italians lapsed 
 into a stolid silence, paid the nominal fee of ten
 
 THE STOLEN PATIENTS 17 
 
 cents required by the directors of the dispensary, 
 and withdrew, taking their numerous progeny. 
 
 "A lamb sacrificed to stupidity," mused Bur- 
 roughs when they were gone. " But I 'm glad they 
 did n't fall into that Spaniard's trap. There 's no 
 knowing what tomfoolery he would have led them 
 into, or what he would have charged them." 
 
 The Italians with their retinue of little ones had 
 scarcely turned the corner of the street before the 
 dapper henchman of the Spanish doctor joined 
 them. He saw their excitement, and overheard 
 enough of their conversation to learn that the hos- 
 pital and an operation had been suggested. 
 
 "Why did you go to that dispensary?" he 
 asked, suavely, in Italian. " You have to wait a 
 long time for your turn, and that young fellow is 
 not a doctor. A poor nobody, he is, who is trying 
 to learn how to be a doctor. He comes here to 
 practice on the poor Italian people because he 
 thinks you will never know how many mistakes he 
 makes. He has told you to take the little child to 
 a hospital, it is probable. Yes ! That is because 
 he does not know what to do for her. An opera- 
 tion, you say ? It is absurd. The good doctor of 
 whom I told you will cure without an operation. 
 He will give a large bottlef ul of the finest of medi- 
 cine. And the little child will be well at once.
 
 18 THE HEART OF THE DOCTOR 
 
 No hospital, no operation. See, here is the place. 
 Come!" 
 
 He smiled as benignly as the wolf in the fable, 
 and led them up the steps of the Spanish doctor's 
 office. They followed him like a flock of silly 
 sheep with their one little lamb which was to be 
 sacrificed. 
 
 That evening Burroughs entertained company in 
 the office of the dispensary. Kaymond, his guest, 
 had been a junior in the medical school when 
 Burroughs was a freshman, and for some reason 
 the big, handsome upper classman had taken a 
 fancy to the new student whose shyness and 
 reserve prevented him from being one of the lead- 
 ers of his class. Burroughs was now completing 
 his junior year, and Raymond, who was well estab- 
 lished in an uptown practice, had proposed his 
 friend as interne at St. Luke's, and sometimes left 
 his snug office to lend a hand in the work at the 
 dispensary. 
 
 To-night his visit was purely a social one, and 
 he had brought his guitar. He sat with his feet a 
 trifle higher than was necessary and picked lazily 
 at his instrument. Raymond's well-shaped hands 
 showed to great advantage when fingering the 
 orange-fronted guitar, as no one knew better than 
 their owner. Burroughs, with his hands thrust in
 
 THE STOLEN PATIENTS 19 
 
 his pockets, sat tilted against the wall in an uncom- 
 promisingly stiff -backed chair, and he beamed upon 
 his friend with that look of hopeless admiration 
 which a quiet, plodding fellow feels toward a bril- 
 liant comrade. 
 
 The room was so small that it seemed quite full 
 of men. It was an odd, shabby place. The walls 
 were hung with dull green paper ; there was an 
 office desk with a double row of medical books 
 above it ; an operating-table, and an air-tight stove, 
 the latter always surmounted by a tea kettle. 
 Since La Signorina, the interpreter nurse, had per- 
 suaded Burroughs not to keep his blacking-brushes 
 on the mantel behind the stove, that useful place 
 was decorated with an austere row of medicine bot- 
 tles, and presented the appearance of a diminutive 
 pharmacy. 
 
 Over the mantel was a large picture. It repre- 
 sented a handsome Saint Bernard in the close 
 embrace of a little child. " Kid with a Dog," 
 Burroughs called it. On the corner of the frame 
 was a jointed mulatto doll holding a pink bonbon 
 in her hands. She was an old occupant of the 
 office, placed there for the entertainment of chil- 
 dren, but Burroughs said Kaymond was the only 
 child who ever played with her. 
 
 In this room, once a month, the board of lady-
 
 20 THE HEART OF THE DOCTOR 
 
 managers met and laid plans as to what they 
 would do when St. Luke's new building was con- 
 structed. In the mean time, Burroughs and La 
 Signorina, making the best of their limited facili- 
 ties, drew about them an ever-increasing clientele 
 of Italian people who believed in them for their 
 honest dealing and unfailing faithfulness. 
 
 The two men sat without conversation for a 
 time. Burroughs was not skillful at setting the 
 ball rolling, and Raymond was absorbed in his 
 efforts on the guitar. At length, resting his head 
 upon the comfortable high back of his rocker, he 
 thrummed a lively strain and began to sing unc- 
 tuously the ballad of "Sweet Rosy O'Grady." 
 Whereat Burroughs, who abhorred sentimentality, 
 tilted his face toward the ceiling and gave utter- 
 ance to a long, mournful howl, like the ki-yi of a 
 disappointed puppy. Raymond ceased singing at 
 once and put down his guitar. He always stopped 
 when Burroughs resorted to extreme measures. 
 
 " Well, what have you been doing lately, old 
 man ? " he asked. 
 
 " The usual things." 
 
 " Has anything funny happened ? " 
 
 " Yes ; more or less funny. Do you remember 
 Mrs. Langoni, the Irishwoman married to the 
 Italian over on Benediction Alley ? She 's up to
 
 THE STOLEN PATIENTS 21 
 
 her old antics again. In a dying condition, of 
 course. * I 've a pain in ivry pairt o' me body,' 
 was about all she would say when I called yester- 
 day, excepting that she stopped groaning long 
 enough to sit up and say, ' Me throat 's sore clare 
 down ter here.' And she ran her finger from her 
 pharynx to her diaphragm." 
 
 " She 's a sort of a giraffe, is n't she ? " laughed 
 Raymond. " It 's hysteria, I suppose." 
 
 " That is exactly what it is. I told La Signor- 
 ina that if she could manage to upset a pailful of 
 ice- water over her it would do her more good than 
 all the medicine in the world." 
 
 " Who looks out for her ? " 
 
 " Poor little Mamie, as usual. Langoni is out 
 in Westerville working on the new aqueduct, and 
 Mamie, besides taking care of her mother, does 
 the cooking and the washing and ironing, carries 
 around the little baby, watches to see that the 
 middle-sized baby does n't swallow matches, and 
 that the big baby does n't fall out of the window. 
 It made me very cross to see her working so 
 hard." 
 
 " It is rather hard on the little girl," said Ray- 
 mond, picking up his guitar once more and thrum- 
 ming lightly. 
 
 " Well, I 've put a stop to it," went on Bur-
 
 22 THE HEART OF THE DOCTOR 
 
 roughs, vigorously. " I went and saw the truant- 
 officer, and to-morrow Miss Mamie will be whisked 
 off to school. Then her mother will have to stop 
 groaning and go to work." 
 
 " Good for you, Burroughs ! You are grasping 
 the situation down here excellently. What else 
 has happened ? " 
 
 " I christened a baby last night." 
 
 "Ye gods!" 
 
 " Yes ; Razzetti's wife begged me to when she 
 found her child could live but a few minutes 
 after its birth. The church allows any one to do it 
 if necessary. There was no time to send for the 
 priest, and so I did it." 
 
 " Well, what shall we hear next ! Burroughs, 
 you will get famous in this district if you keep on 
 as you have begun." 
 
 " I think not. And by the way, that Spanish 
 doctor drew off all my patients this afternoon. 
 Nobody stayed but a family with a sick baby that 
 needed to go to the hospital. I could not persuade 
 them to take her, I 'm sorry to say." 
 
 " These people are extremely afraid of hospitals. 
 You will meet that difficulty constantly in your 
 work here. And you will encounter that ' Span- 
 iard ' at every turn. All the men who have been 
 at St. Luke's since the dispensary was established
 
 THE STOLEN PATIENTS 23 
 
 have had to fight him, and they have usually been 
 beaten." 
 
 " Well, he shall not beat me," exclaimed Bur- 
 roughs, with spirit. " I am not down here to do 
 missionary work, or because I love the dear peo- 
 ple for I don't. I am here because I can get 
 my board and lodging, and some splendid practical 
 experience. But, by the Lord Harry ! I won't 
 sit still and see a lot of poor fools duped, even if 
 they do tell lies, and are horribly dirty." 
 
 " You will do well if you can beat that rascal," 
 Raymond said, earnestly. " But I warn you against 
 that Italian who works for him. It is said that 
 the fellow represents some powerful secret society, 
 and that the common people are afraid of him. I 
 beg of you, be on your guard, for I have no mind 
 to have you get a knife in your back, especially 
 since I advised you to come here." 
 
 " Don't worry about me. I shall not do enough 
 to get the secret societies down on me." 
 
 " I am not so sure of that. If you continue to 
 christen dying babies and spank living ones, you 
 will soon make considerable stir in the neighbor- 
 hood. Oh, yes," he continued, in answer to Bur- 
 roughs's look of inquiry, " La Signorina has told 
 me how you whip the babies when they scream and 
 claw at you. She says the mothers say to their
 
 24 THE HEART OF THE DOCTOR 
 
 children now, l Be good, or I '11 call the doctor to 
 lick you.' " 
 
 " I '11 get even with La Signorina for telling 
 tales on me," laughed Burroughs ; adding more 
 seriously, " What a jewel that girl is ! I could do 
 almost nothing without her." 
 
 " The men from the school who have been down 
 here have all fallen in love with her," said Ray- 
 mond. " It is perfectly safe, for she is easily 
 thirty years old and has a lover in Italy, it is said ; 
 a grande signore, who has sued long and vainly 
 for her hand. But she loves her poor people bet- 
 ter than a life of ease, and so she stays here." 
 
 " Long may she wave ! " exclaimed Burroughs, 
 fervently. 
 
 " That is what the board of managers say, only 
 in less picturesque language. And speaking of 
 them leads me to remark that I presume you have 
 already discovered that a different member of the 
 board is appointed as visitor each month. You 
 will find that each one of these estimable ladies 
 has a different theory which she expects you to put 
 into practice. You will soon learn that each sug- 
 gestion upsets those of the previous months. You 
 will need to be reasonably independent. They 
 will respect you more for it, as they know you can 
 be trusted."
 
 THE STOLEN PATIENTS 25 
 
 " Thanks for the suggestion. Now tell me about 
 yourself. Is your practice going well? Are the 
 fees coming in ? Is your stock paying dividends ? " 
 
 Raymond's personal affairs were always in good 
 condition. It seemed as if the young man had 
 been born under a particularly lucky star. He had 
 large means, and upon graduation had entered an 
 excellent practice under the patronage of an old 
 physician about to retire. In addition to his other 
 practice he had the charge of several well-paying, 
 although uninteresting chronic cases, and did sur- 
 gical work at the children's hospital. His home 
 was with his adoring mother in pleasant uptown 
 apartments. 
 
 His experiences were very different from those 
 of his friend, for he was a good deal of a society 
 man, and Burroughs always liked to hear about 
 the fashionable functions in which Raymond took 
 a prominent part, although he himself knew no- 
 thing of social gayety from personal experience. 
 
 " Our whist club is suspended for the summer," 
 Raymond said, among other things. " The Farns- 
 worth girls have gone to Boston to cultivate their 
 minds for a few weeks before going to Bar Harbor, 
 Jameson and Lamond are off on an automobile 
 trip, and Margaret Worthington starts for Italy 
 and Switzerland next week. It will be a little
 
 26 THE HEART OF THE DOCTOR 
 
 dull for a while. But we shall go away ourselves 
 the first of July." 
 
 He put his ear down to his guitar, twanged the 
 G string, and tightened it up. He could not see 
 the flush that spread over Burroughs's face. 
 
 "Margaret grows sweeter and daintier every 
 day," went on Raymond, satisfied with the tuning 
 of his string. " I tell you what, Burroughs, I 'm 
 half in love with that girl." 
 
 Burroughs's laugh was a little constrained. 
 
 " You are always in love with some one, Walter," 
 he said. There was a weary note in his voice 
 which Raymond did not detect. 
 
 " That 's so, Phil. It 's a chronic condition. I 
 suppose this is only a transient fancy, but the man 
 who wins Miss Worthington will get a jewel." 
 
 As he spoke, the dispensary bell jangled sud- 
 denly, and Burroughs went to the door. A little 
 girl with a snuff-colored shawl over her head and 
 her eyes big with excitement, exclaimed, 
 
 " Is you the doctor ? My mother says come 
 quick ! Our boarder 's awful sick." 
 
 Burroughs stepped back into the office. 
 
 " It 's too bad, but I 've a sudden call. Take 
 your time about going. That pamphlet you wanted 
 is on my trunk in the ' back alley.' Just help 
 yourself to it when you go, and put the lamp out."
 
 THE STOLEN PATIENTS 27 
 
 As he spoke, Burroughs put on his hat, caught 
 up his satchel, and joined the little girl at the 
 door. Kaymond placed his guitar leisurely in its 
 case, took the lamp, and made his way through 
 the waiting-room to what Burroughs had termed 
 the " back alley." It was, in fact, a narrow room 
 beyond the waiting-room, its floor two steps below 
 the level of the other apartments. A sink with 
 running water was here, a single window, and a 
 door which led into the tiny back yard. Who had 
 given the name to this room no one could tell. 
 The title had been handed down from one interne 
 to another like a college tradition. It was here 
 that Burroughs slept, and as Raymond looked 
 around the comfortless place, he exclaimed to him- 
 self, 
 
 " That fellow has pluck ! I don't believe I could 
 stand this for two weeks. And this is the least of 
 his troubles." 
 
 He found the pamphlet he was seeking, took the 
 lamp back to the office, and then started off briskly 
 for the regions of brownstone and American re- 
 spectability.
 
 CHAPTER III 
 A WRONG DIAGNOSIS 
 
 IN the mean time Burroughs and the little girl 
 had turned into the square. It was not more than 
 ten o'clock, and as the evening was a warm one the 
 place was alive with groups of chattering men and 
 women. Nearly all the shawls flung over the heads 
 of the women sheltered brown-eyed, wise-faced 
 babies. It was not difficult for Burroughs to 
 imagine where Raphael found the Holy Child, but 
 the Madonna type was not so easy to discover, for 
 the hard-worked Italian peasant girls look like old 
 women before they attain their majority, and 
 wrinkles destroy the beauty of many a pair of vel- 
 vety brown eyes. 
 
 It was too early in the season for the sherbet 
 peddler, but a push-cart of peanuts was the cen- 
 tre of a brisk trade and a hand-organ was ani- 
 mating the air with its sprightly trills and arpeg- 
 gios. All about it laughing children, two by two, 
 were waltzing and pirouetting in fascinating aban- 
 don. Other hand-organ players, tugging at the
 
 A WRONG DIAGNOSIS 29 
 
 handles of their instruments, waved good-natured 
 greetings to their confreres, as they hurried home- 
 ward from reaping rich harvests in the uptown 
 fields of financial plenty. Two women returning 
 from the remote suburbs sat in state upon the front 
 of their hand-organ and guided a meek pony which 
 drew the machine. Before the parochial house of 
 Santa Maria a woman with magenta headscarf, 
 white blouse, and grass-green petticoat dispensed 
 fortunes through the mediumship of two paroquets 
 and a white mouse. Burroughs had once purchased 
 one of these fortunes, but when La Signorina trans- 
 lated it and he found himself described as a married 
 man with a doting family he lost faith in green 
 birds and white mice. 
 
 The shops were open, their dingy windows mak- 
 ing the usual display; here, long-stemmed pipes 
 and packages of tobacco ; there, macaroni in a great 
 variety of forms and huge, ring-shaped loaves of 
 bread ; yonder, vegetables and condiments unfa- 
 miliar to American eyes. 
 
 Many of the shop-owners sat at ease upon step 
 or sidewalk, enjoying the evening with the serenity 
 of men at peace with themselves and their neigh- 
 bors. There was Guiseppe Terminello, the grocer, 
 with smiling face and ample paunch, dandling upon 
 one knee his youngest offspring, while upon the
 
 30 THE HEART OF THE DOCTOR 
 
 other was perched the babe of his eldest son. The 
 bambini, who were about the same age and appar- 
 ently greatly interested in one another, looked so 
 much alike that Burroughs wondered whether the 
 proud Guiseppe could really tell which was uncle 
 and which was nephew. 
 
 There, too, was Pastorelli with the brigand 
 mustache and nonchalant air, smoking his long 
 pipe at the door of his fruit store. Just within, 
 Burroughs could see his wife, a faded beauty, who 
 was making red and green paper roses with which 
 to decorate the shop. She conducted a little res- 
 taurant back of the fruit stands and sometimes 
 Burroughs went in for a dish of macaroni or a cup 
 of black coffee. Upon such occasions the wife of 
 Pastorelli was in an ecstasy; she would stop at 
 frequent intervals, while serving him, to pat him 
 upon the shoulder and croon a delightful mixture 
 of English and Italian in a remarkably sweet and 
 liquid voice. She had a yellow dog of which she 
 was very proud, which would insanely rush out of 
 the shop every time a wagon passed, and chase it 
 as far as the front of the church. Then he would 
 trot back with lopping tongue, and Burroughs 
 would squander five cents for peanuts to feed him, 
 while his delighted mistress stood by smiling and 
 exclaiming in her soft voice, " Yes-a, yes-a, nice-a
 
 A WRONG DIAGNOSIS 31 
 
 dorg-a ; eat-a peanut-a, nice-a Giorgio, yes-a, 
 yes-a." 
 
 The big church loomed above the square with 
 huge twin towers, cross-surmounted. Burroughs 
 had already come to like these towers. They dom- 
 inated the district, standing with enduring calm 
 above the picturesque sky line of tenements. 
 Whether seen at sunrise, rosy on their eastern 
 faces, blue on the west, at high noon in their glit- 
 tering whiteness, or purpling against the flame of 
 sunset sky, they were beautiful. To-night, as he 
 passed close beneath them, he did not look up, but 
 followed his guide down a narrow alley running at 
 right angles to the square. He did not speak to 
 the child, as he had nothing in particular to say, 
 nor did she venture a word, for she was too much 
 awed by her proximity to greatness to attempt con- 
 versation. 
 
 Halfway down the alley the child plunged in at 
 a dark doorway and the student followed her. She 
 took him by the coat sleeve and piloted him to 
 the stairway. He ascended, taking careful steps 
 in the darkness with his head well down. Just be- 
 fore he reached the first landing, something wet and 
 cold touched him suddenly upon the face. 
 
 " Goodness ! "What 's that ? " he exclaimed, try- 
 ing not to jump.
 
 32 THE HEART OF THE DOCTOR 
 
 " Oh, don't be scairt," said the child, reassur- 
 ingly ; " it 's only Carlotti's dog ; he allers waits 
 on the landin' till Carlotti comes home. Get out, 
 yer dirty sheeny ! " This last remark was ad- 
 dressed to the dog. 
 
 Burroughs stopped. 
 
 " See here," he said, " I 've a candle in my 
 pocket. Let 's have a light." 
 
 He struck a match, applied it to the candle- 
 wick, inspected the gaunt dog that had disconcerted 
 him, and then plodded on by the light of his small 
 torch. 
 
 " How many flights more? " he questioned, after 
 three were passed. 
 
 " Only two," said the girl, apologetically. " My 
 house is on the top floor. Are you tired so quick ? " 
 
 " Not a bit," rejoined Burroughs, thanking hea- 
 ven for his candle as he stepped around a wash 
 tub and a clothes wringer which some one had con- 
 siderately left on the stairway. 
 
 As a rule the progress of il dottore through a 
 tenement house in the Italian quarter is accom- 
 panied by the phenomenon of curious faces thrust 
 from every doorway along his route. Men and 
 women stand on tiptoe to catch a glimpse of the 
 great man ; open-mouthed children block his way 
 and stare without embarrassment. Burroughs
 
 A WRONG DIAGNOSIS 33 
 
 noticed that to-night the doors were all closed, the 
 hallways deserted. This was due in part to the 
 warmth of the evening, which invited sociability in 
 the square, and in part to a reason which the young 
 doctor learned later. 
 
 The kitchen on the sixth floor, into which Bur- 
 roughs was at length ushered, was quite deserted. 
 A smoky lamp gave a vague light revealing the 
 typical condition of a slum kitchen. There was a 
 clutter of dishes on the table ; there were chairs 
 without backs, and the shelf was loaded with pipes, 
 holy water vases and paper roses. A pitcher stood 
 in the middle of the floor and a gray cat drank 
 therefrom, her head thrust well into its interior. A 
 string, stretched diagonally across the room, sagged 
 under its burden of dilapidated garments and old 
 rags. Burroughs put down his head to pass be- 
 neath the clothes-line and followed his guide to the 
 bedroom. As he approached, men and women, 
 their eyes big with excitement, flocked from the 
 smaller room. Burroughs counted them hastily. 
 There were five men, seven women, and a baby in 
 arms. Then he understood why the halls below 
 were deserted. He heard a man's voice moaning, 
 " Oh, my God ! Let me die ! Oh, my God ! Oh, 
 my God!" 
 
 The bedroom was just long enough for the iron
 
 34 THE HEART OF THE DOCTOR 
 
 bedstead, beside which stood a little bureau, its 
 warped drawers bulging with more old clothes. 
 The remaining width of the room was taken up by 
 a couch. This, too, was the length of the room. 
 How twelve grown people had crowded in was a 
 mystery. They had probably sat upon the large 
 bed. 
 
 On the edge of the couch huddled a man. He 
 wore no coat nor collar, and the muscles of his 
 scrawny throat worked horribly as his shoulders 
 heaved up and down in the effort to get breath. 
 He repeated in gasps the words Burroughs had 
 heard upon entering: "Oh, my God! Let me die!" 
 
 He spoke English perfectly and was evidently 
 not an Italian. It flashed through Burroughs' s 
 mind that he might be a stranger in the city who 
 had fallen into bad hands. He looked up wistfully 
 into the interne's face. 
 
 " You are Doctor Burroughs ? " he gasped. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " Thanks for coming. My name is Maxon. I 
 am subject to these attacks. There 's only one 
 help. Hypodermic of morphine. Quick, for God's 
 sake, before I die ! " 
 
 This was said spasmodically and with great 
 effort. Burroughs was in a quandary. It was the 
 first case of the kind he had ever seen. The Ital-
 
 A WRONG DIAGNOSIS 36 
 
 ians, their eyes bulging, had crowded into the room 
 again. 
 
 " Get out of here ! " ordered Burroughs sharply, 
 but as none of them understood English, nobody 
 moved. 
 
 " Via ! " exclaimed the little girl, shaking her 
 fist, and they all dropped back into the kitchen. 
 
 Burroughs felt of the man's pulse. It was a 
 blur of motion. He could scarcely distinguish 
 the throbs. The sufferer's face was furrowed with 
 pain and overspread by a horrid grayness. Per- 
 spiration trickled from his forehead and dropped 
 upon the floor. 
 
 " Quick ! " he gasped. " Have you no pity ? 
 Quick ! " 
 
 Burroughs took a pastille from his satchel and 
 demanded a plate. The girl spoke to her mother, 
 who took a dirty one from the table, wiped it on 
 her apron and passed it into the room. Burroughs 
 lighted the pastille and held the plate close to the 
 man's face, watching as the fumes wreathed up- 
 ward. Again the terror-stricken eyes appeared in 
 the doorway, and there was a murmur of surprise 
 from the open mouths. 
 
 " Can't you keep those fools away ? " demanded 
 the student, angrily. 
 
 The child rattled off a string of Sicilian and
 
 36 THE HEART OF THE DOCTOR 
 
 shook her fist once more. The heads disappeared. 
 The gray-faced man gasped on. There was not 
 the slightest suggestion of relief. 
 
 " Why can't you do as I say ? " he moaned. 
 
 " Because," returned the interne, " if you send 
 for me you must take my treatment. If you're not 
 satisfied, you can send for another man." 
 
 He set down the plate with emphasis as he spoke 
 and picked up his hat. So far as he could judge 
 the man was suffering from an acute attack of 
 asthma, and morphine stood out at the very end of 
 a long line of alleviatives. It was a last resort and 
 Burroughs abhorred it. 
 
 " Don't go," gasped the man. " I was rude. 
 I sent for you because . . . because . . . Don't 
 leave me. I don't want another doctor. I will do 
 what you say, but I know ; I know. Two grains 
 will do at first. Don't let me die." 
 
 " Two grains ! Good God, man ! Do you want 
 me to kill you? " 
 
 The man did not answer at once. He was 
 caught by a sudden spasm of pain and clutched at 
 his heart. 
 
 " These pains in my heart will kill me," he 
 moaned. 
 
 The Italians in the next room were talking ex- 
 citedly and the girl was called out.
 
 A WRONG DIAGNOSIS 37 
 
 " My father says you make the man well quick 
 er he '11 fire yer both out," she announced upon her 
 return. 
 
 " You tell your father he is n't the size," replied 
 Burroughs, over his shoulder. 
 
 He broke a bead of amyl on a bit of cotton and 
 held it to the man's nose. The fumes brought a 
 flush to his own face, but they had no effect upon 
 his patient. Instead, the rapid breathing grad- 
 ually increased, the sunken eyes seemed starting 
 from their sockets and the ashy face turned a dull 
 purple. Burroughs was frightened, but he kept a 
 bold front. If worst came to worst he would send 
 for Doctor Lamberghini, on the Avenue. He de- 
 cided that it would do no harm to try morphine, as 
 the case looked extreme. 
 
 " I 'm awful sorry, but my father says he '11 fire 
 yer pretty quick," whispered the girl at his elbow. 
 
 " Bring me a glass of water and a spoon," Bur- 
 roughs said. 
 
 He dissolved a quarter-grain tablet of morphine 
 and prepared his needle. The man looked at him 
 gratefully and rolled up his shirt sleeve. The arm 
 was marked with numberless tiny spots. 
 
 " What 's this ? " asked Burroughs, pointing. 
 
 " Bites," gasped the sufferer ; " this place is 
 alive with vermin."
 
 38 THE HEART OF THE DOCTOR 
 
 " Hold the lamp close," said Burroughs to his 
 little attendant, " I 'm going to stick this needle in 
 his arm. Don't look at me unless you 're sure it 
 won't scare you." 
 
 " I ain't afraid." 
 
 "All right." 
 
 As Burroughs plunged the needle he beheld the 
 bulging eyes at the doorway and uttered an excla- 
 mation of wrath. 
 
 " It don't do no good ter send 'em off," said the 
 girl, setting down the lamp. " They 're crazy ter 
 see the queer man, V you 're the doctor, yer 
 know." 
 
 " How long has this man boarded with you ? " 
 asked Burroughs, wiping his needle. 
 
 " 'Bout a week. Paid down when he come, 
 too." 
 
 " Has he acted like this before ? " 
 
 " Nope." 
 
 " Where does he usually sleep ? " 
 
 " In this here bed." 
 
 " And the rest of you ? " 
 
 " In that there bed : my father, V my mother, 
 'n' me 'n' my baby. I sleeps 'cross the foot." 
 
 " Oh, I see." 
 
 " Our other boarders sleeps on the floor in the 
 kitchen when they's here, but the padrone got
 
 A WRONG DIAGNOSIS 39 
 
 'em a job on the ackerduck, so they's out there 
 now." 
 
 " Yes, I understand." 
 
 Burroughs watched his patient closely, waiting 
 for symptoms of relief. Thus he waited all night, 
 repeating the doses of morphine at frequent inter- 
 vals. The girl's father evidently thought better of 
 his plan to throw physician and patient into the 
 street, for shortly after midnight he entered the 
 room, inspected the sufferer with nods and grunts, 
 and throwing himself across the bed, fell into audi- 
 ble slumber. A little later the mother mixed some 
 whiskey, milk, and tea, poured them into a bottle, 
 waked up the baby, and gave it some supper. 
 "What was left she put in a cup and offered to 
 Burroughs with smiling hospitality. Burroughs 
 was neither hungry nor thirsty. 
 
 After four grains of morphine had been admin- 
 istered, the horrible gasping ceased, the patient's 
 eyes drooped, and his head fell back on the pillow. 
 Burroughs looked about him and found he was 
 the only person awake, as the watchful Italians, 
 who would not desert the scene of interest, lay 
 on the kitchen floor asleep. Why he had not killed 
 the man, Burroughs could not understand. He 
 waited long enough to assure himself that all was 
 going well, and then he awakened his little assist-
 
 40 THE HEART OF THE DOCTOR 
 
 ant, who was asleep in a crumpled heap at his 
 feet. 
 
 " I '11 come again in the afternoon," he said 
 kindly, when she had roused enough to understand 
 him. " You 'd better get into bed and have a long 
 sleep. Thank you for your help." 
 
 She smiled sleepily and dropped back on the 
 floor. Burroughs looked at her compassionately. 
 Then he picked her up very gently and laid her on 
 the bed beside her father, took off her dilapidated 
 shoes, and spread a quilt over her. 
 
 " Poor little thing ! " he thought, " what a life 
 she leads ! " 
 
 He tiptoed out between the recumbent Sicilians, 
 accidentally hitting the clothes-line and nearly 
 bringing it down on his head. Then he made his 
 way back to St. Luke's through the chilly, echoing 
 streets. 
 
 That morning at school he fell asleep during a 
 lecture, and went up afterwards to apologize to his 
 professor and to consult about the strange case he 
 had attended. When he had given the symptoms 
 and submitted his diagnosis, the physician began 
 to laugh. 
 
 " My dear fellow, you 're far out of the way on 
 that diagnosis. Quick pulse ; rapid breathing ; 
 neuralgic pains about the heart. It was n't asthma.
 
 A WRONG DIAGNOSIS 41 
 
 That man is a morphine fiend. His money was 
 probably exhausted and this acute attack followed 
 his inability to get the drug. You must grasp 
 situations and learn to recognize their bearing on 
 the case in hand. Did n't you think it was strange 
 for an American to be lodging in such a place ? " 
 
 " Humph ! " exclaimed Burroughs, in great dis- 
 gust, " I did think it was a queer combination, but 
 I never thought of the morphine habit. The gasp- 
 ing and particularly those pains around the heart 
 threw me off the track." 
 
 " Doctor," he added, after a moment's uncom- 
 plimentary introspection, " how long does it take 
 a man to learn what a fool he is ? " 
 
 " Well, I will tell you in confidence," was the 
 reply. " In our profession we find it out at least 
 once in twenty-four hours every week of our lives."
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 A READING FROM BYRON 
 
 THE grandfather of Luigi Monti hobbled up 
 Spring Hill Street in the sunshine. He was a very 
 old man who had fought in two wars for Italy's 
 freedom. Now in his extreme age he dwelt in 
 America with his grandchildren and lived daily 
 in the memory of the stirring past. With high, 
 quavering voice he was singing in his content; 
 singing a song of the Garibaldi days and the red 
 shirt of the patriots. 
 
 " Quanclo a Millazo 
 Passai sargente, 
 
 Camicia rossa, camicia ardente 
 La man mi strinse 
 Con forte scossa ; 
 Camicia cara, camicia rossa ! " 
 
 A little old woman with a white handkerchief 
 tied over her head peeped out of her window a few 
 feet above the sidewalk and looked quizzically at 
 the aged man with her shrewd and faded blue eyes. 
 
 " Hi, there ! " she cried in a piping voice. " Hi,
 
 A READING FROM BYRON 43 
 
 there, yer little old man ! D' yer want ter fight, 
 yer bold, brave sojer ? Ha ! ha ! ha ! " and she 
 shook her fist at him. 
 
 Old Monti stopped and made her an elaborate 
 bow. 
 
 " Com' e vussia ? " he asked politely in Neapoli- 
 tan dialect. 
 
 " I s'pose yer sayin' ' Howdy do.' I 'm feelin' 
 fine. How be you ? " 
 
 " Bunariddu stamatina," quavered the little old 
 man. 
 
 It was their daily form of greeting. Each un- 
 derstood the other imperfectly, but something drew 
 them together and made them excellent friends, in 
 spite of limitations. Perhaps it was the conscious- 
 ness that they were the oldest people on Spring 
 Hill Street. Burroughs came out of the dispensary 
 next door. 
 
 " Now, Miss Cutter," he said with mock severity, 
 " I 've caught you quarreling with Granddaddy 
 Monti again. Let up on the old man, can't you ? 
 You 're altogether too fond of a scrap." 
 
 " Wai," retorted the old woman, tossing her 
 head and taking the defensive at once, " is 't any 
 wonder I scraps ? Look heow them Eye-talians tor- 
 ments me all the time. 'T ain't no wonder I fights ; 
 hev ter, fer my rights."
 
 44 THE HEART OF THE DOCTOR 
 
 " Yes," laughed Burroughs, " but don't you re- 
 member what the Good Book says, ' If thine enemy 
 smite thee, turn to him the other cheek also.' " 
 
 Miss Cutter paused to consider for a single in- 
 stant. Then she thrust her head out of the window 
 and screamed to the retreating student. 
 
 " Wai, you 'd better look 'round in yer Bible 
 'tel yer find where it says, * When yer live in 
 Rome, yer sh'd dew as the Romans dew.' Ha ! 
 ha!" 
 
 Burroughs paused to hear the rest of the fun. 
 
 " Now, you doctor-feller," went on Miss Cutter, 
 flattered by the student's attention, " you jest re- 
 member I 've lived on this here hill nigh on fifty 
 years and o' late times I 've noticed folks doubles 
 up their fists V smites back when they 're hit. 
 While I live in Rome I '11 dew as the Romans dew, 
 I thank yer. Good-mornin', dar-tory, good-morn- 
 in'. Ha ! ha ! ha ! " and she slammed down her 
 window in triumph, leaving Burroughs laughing 
 and old Monti greatly bewildered. 
 
 She was one of the few Americans whose attach- 
 ment to Spring Hill had kept them in the district 
 in spite of foreign invasion. Though nearly ninety 
 years old she was still sprightly, with a sharp tongue, 
 which was her pride, and an undying hostility to 
 the majority of her neighbors. She owned the
 
 A READING FROM BYRON 45 
 
 two-story wooden house in which she lived, and her 
 daily round of duties consisted in carrying out the 
 details of her solitary housekeeping and in challeng- 
 ing all comers to wordy battles, from which she 
 usually emerged triumphant. 
 
 A favorite grievance was that St. Luke's was not 
 a charitable dispensary, but was carried on for the 
 financial benefit of the board of managers. She 
 had great faith in the interne and interpreter, how- 
 ever, probably due to the fact that the staff joked 
 with her instead of taking her innuendoes seriously. 
 
 When Burroughs had gone down the hill in one 
 direction and Grandfather Monti had started for 
 his home at the other end of the street Miss Cutter 
 opened her window once more, making considerable 
 show of shaking a rug, but in reality waiting for 
 the interpreter. She was soon rewarded. 
 
 " Hi, there, Lar Seenyer Keener ! " she cried, as 
 the nurse came from her lodgings ; " when 's that 
 there Lady-board goin' ter con-vene agen ? " 
 
 " I not know, Miss Cutt' ; not till goes the sum- 
 mer, I t'ink." 
 
 " And then they '11 be back here a-prancin' in 
 'n' out 'n' buildin' air castles. 'T 'ud be better, 
 thinks I, if they 'd take some er their onholy gains 
 'n' buy the dar-tory a new pair er boots. But its 
 air castles, air castles, air castles all the time."
 
 46 THE HEAKT OF THE DOCTOR 
 
 La Signorina laughed, but made no reply. She 
 was not fond of tilting with Miss Cutter, for the 
 old woman's provincial English puzzled her and 
 she knew the limits of her own vocabulary. At 
 length she said good-naturedly, 
 
 " I t'ink to go now, Miss Cutt'. I go to see poor 
 baby," adding with a sly twinkle, " you will go 
 with me?" 
 
 " Will I go with yer ? No, I thank yer. I have 
 other fish ter fry, Miss Lar Seenyer Keener. I '11 
 bid yer a perlite good-mornin'." 
 
 Then it was quiet for a time on the old street. 
 Brady and his henchmen lounged in the grave- 
 yard, Pastore's fat dog crossed the street and lay 
 down in the sunshine, and the wife of Ricci, the 
 mandolin teacher, thrust the ends of her Notting- 
 ham lace curtains out of her parlor windows pre- 
 paratory to the Friday sweeping. 
 
 A faded man walked slowly up from the square. 
 He started to enter the doorway of St. Luke's, but 
 Miss Cutter's detaining words prevented him. 
 
 " The doctor ain't in. 'T ain't no use ter ring 
 the bell. Want him fer anything special ? " 
 
 " No," said Maxon, tremulously, " I simply came 
 up to thank him for a favor he did me last night. 
 I was very sick and he sat up with me nearly all 
 night."
 
 A READING FROM BYRON 47 
 
 " 'S that so ? " said Miss Cutter, much interested. 
 " Wai, I declare. An' yer able ter be up this 
 mornin' ! Yer looks kinder peaked, though. Won't 
 yer come in V rest ? " 
 
 " No, I thank you ; I '11 come up again, I think. 
 I suppose Doctor Burroughs will be in for his 
 clinic this afternoon ? " 
 
 " Yes, same 's usual. But had n't yer better 
 come in 'n' rest a little while? Yer look real 
 used up." 
 
 Maxon yielded. He felt very weak, for he had 
 not breakfasted that morning, as he had no money, 
 and the smell of Italian cooking was intolerable to 
 him. Miss Cutter, moved more by curiosity than 
 by hospitality, opened the door and ushered him 
 into her little parlor. Then she trotted briskly to 
 her kitchen, took the teapot off the back of the 
 stove, and set it over the fire. As soon as the tea 
 was hot she brought it in, with cup and saucer, 
 sugar and milk. 
 
 " Now take a good drink. It '11 make yer feel 
 more alive. Hev sugar 'n' cream, both ? Be yer 
 an American ? I thought so. It 's good ter see 
 an American in this God-forsaken place. This 
 street used ter be most se-lect. But now it 's Eye- 
 talians, Eye-talians, Eye-talians ! ! It 's no place 
 fer Christians ter live."
 
 48 THE HEART OF THE DOCTOR 
 
 Maxon drained the cup gratefully, and Miss 
 Cutter refilled it, hoping every moment that her 
 seedy guest would begin to talk. 
 
 " So you live round here? " she asked, as he set 
 down his cup. 
 
 " Yes," said Maxon, hesitantly. " I am living 
 here for the present. I have n't been here very 
 long. I came here to be near Doctor Burroughs. 
 Sometime, when I am feeling like myself, I will tell 
 you why I am attached to Doctor Burroughs . . . 
 but I am not equal to the task to-day. This is 
 very good tea. May I trouble you for another 
 cup?" 
 
 Miss Cutter tilted the teapot. 
 
 " Are you fond of poetry ? " he asked, earnestly, 
 when he had finished the draught. 
 
 " Wai, I can't say that I be. I ain't much 
 given ter sent'ment 'n' such things." 
 
 " Do you know Byron ? " asked Maxon, eagerly, 
 pulling a dilapidated book from his pocket. 
 
 " No," replied Miss Cutter, primly, " I have n't 
 the pleasure of his acquaintance." 
 
 " Then I shall have the privilege of introducing 
 you to him," said Maxon, with wan gayety. " He 
 was the greatest poet England ever produced. 
 His works will live long after Tennyson and 
 Browning are forgotten."
 
 A READING FROM BYRON 49 
 
 " Indeed ! " exclaimed Miss Cutter, looking 
 sphinxlike. 
 
 " Listen ! " went on Maxon, running his finger 
 up and down the pages in search of some particu- 
 lar passage. " This is from Childe Harold, a mas- 
 terpiece," and he began to read with fervor. 
 
 At eleven o'clock he was reading still. At half- 
 past twelve Miss Cutter carried out the empty 
 teapot to replenish it, and when she returned she 
 brought a plate of bread and crullers and shared 
 her noonday meal with him. Then he picked up 
 his shabby book and went on reading. Miss 
 Cutter took up her knitting and worked industri- 
 ously, nodding sympathetically to all the annota- 
 tions. When Burroughs came home Maxon was 
 too absorbed in poetry to notice when he passed 
 the window. Miss Cutter saw him, however, and 
 made an excuse to slip out and waylay him at the 
 entrance of St. Luke's. 
 
 " Fer the love o' pity, come V see what I 've 
 got in my settin' room," she whispered, grasping 
 the interne's arm and standing on tiptoe in the 
 effort to reach his ear. " Here 's an American 
 that looks more dead th'n alive 's ben a-settin' in 
 my rocker sence nine forty-five this mornin'. 
 Doin', what d' yer s'pose ? A-readin' Cheeld Har- 
 old, if yer please, poetry stuff, ter me I "
 
 50 THE HEART OF THE DOCTOR 
 
 " What are you talking about ? " 
 
 " Talkin' about a poor feller that come ter see 
 you this mornin'. He looked kinder starved, 'n* 
 so I called him in fer a cup er tea. Could n't have 
 no American look that way in this region ; an' he 's 
 drunk three teapots full er tea an' eaten half a loaf 
 er bread V seven crullers, an' read his old Cheeld 
 Harold till I had a mind ter throw him out o' the 
 window." 
 
 By this time she was tugging at Burroughs's arm, 
 and he followed her to her door. When he entered 
 he saw the situation at a glance. At sight of the 
 student, Maxon cringed. 
 
 " What are you doing here ? " Burroughs asked, 
 sternly. 
 
 " I ... I ... Oh, I fear I have encroached 
 upon this lady's kindness. Is it really afternoon ? 
 I became so absorbed in this matchless poetry . . . 
 Are you fond of Byron, Doctor ? . . . Let me read 
 you ... or no ; I see I have worn out my wel- 
 come. Good-by, my dear madam; good-by, and 
 thanks for your hospitality." 
 
 He shook hands with a show of gallantry. 
 
 " Oh, it 's all right, mister," said Miss Cutter. 
 " I was willin' ter give yer the tea, only don't read 
 me no more o' that Cheeld Harold stuff." 
 
 Maxon took the rebuke with drooping head,
 
 A READING FROM BYRON 51 
 
 picked up his hat, and bowing to the interne, who, 
 in most disconcerting silence, stood aside to let him 
 pass, he sneaked out of the house. Burroughs fol- 
 lowed him closely. 
 
 " Come with me a minute," he directed. " I 
 have something to say to you." 
 
 Maxon meekly obeyed. Burroughs unlocked 
 the dispensary door with deliberation, and pointed 
 to the office without speaking. 
 
 " Sit down," he said, when both were within. 
 He placed a chair for himself directly in front of 
 the one Maxon had taken and looked sternly at 
 him. 
 
 " You are to understand that I will not have you 
 imposing on that old woman next door," he said. 
 " I do not doubt that you found her strong tea 
 excellent for the state of your nerves, but that 
 makes no difference. Beside that, you need not 
 think that you are imposing on me. I know 
 exactly what ailed you last night. I have small 
 respect for an opium fiend, but I might have more 
 for you if you had admitted frankly that you craved 
 morphine. As it is, I want you to understand that 
 you need never send for me again nor come here 
 for aid. There are places for men like you, but 
 this is not one of them. If you wish to have me, 
 I can get you committed to a retreat, but I have
 
 62 THE HEART OF THE DOCTOR 
 
 neither the time nor the inclination to furnish you 
 with free morphine. That is all." 
 
 Burroughs rose as he finished, and Maxon, who 
 had not taken his eyes from the young man's face, 
 rose also. His lip was trembling so that he could 
 hardly speak, but he managed to gasp, 
 
 " Don't send me off ; don't ! You are my only 
 hope. Listen to me. I have traveled thousands 
 of miles to tell you this. . . . There is a reason 
 why I sent for you last night ... a reason why I 
 stay in this vile place. You have a claim on me, 
 and I cannot pay my obligation. Look at me ! 
 Can you not remember having seen me before? 
 . . . long ago ? Is there nothing in my face that 
 is familiar ? " 
 
 "No," said Burroughs, quietly. He believed, 
 now, that the man was insane. 
 
 " It was twenty years ago . . . Oh, my God ! 
 How much time I have wasted. . . . Let me see ; I 
 went first to Paris and afterwards to Rome . . . 
 then to Algiers and Cairo. I was sick in Con- 
 stantinople, and it was there I began to take mor- 
 phine. ... It will be cocaine and whiskey soon." 
 
 He drew himself up with an effort, and broke off 
 abruptly. Then he bent a wild look on Burroughs 
 and spoke suddenly, his voice rising to a shriek. 
 
 "Philip Burroughs! Won't you save me?
 
 A READING FROM BYRON 53 
 
 Won't you pull me out of this hell ? If you knew ! 
 If you knew ! My God ! why can't I make you 
 understand ? " 
 
 "You must go now, Maxon," said Burroughs, 
 kindly. He pressed the man gently but forcibly 
 toward the door. " I can do nothing for you 
 excepting in the way I have already told you. If 
 you are out of money and are willing to work, 
 there are places where you can get food and lodg- 
 ing in exchange for service. You need good food 
 more than anything else, and work will give you 
 an appetite. If you keep on with morphine, there 
 is no hope for you." 
 
 Maxon had slunk into the craven once more. 
 
 " Good-by, doctor," he said, tremulously, 
 " good-by. You have been very kind. I will not 
 trouble you again, nor the old lady next door. 
 Good-by, doctor, good-by." 
 
 He crept out of the dispensary feebly and Bur- 
 roughs began making preparations for his patients. 
 
 Presently Brady came down the graveyard steps, 
 crossed the street, and tapped at the office window. 
 Burroughs threw up the sash. 
 
 " Say," said Brady, with an air of mystery, 
 " what d' yer make out o' that customer ? " 
 
 " I did not need to prescribe for him," replied 
 Burroughs, with professional reticence.
 
 54 THE HEART OF THE DOCTOR 
 
 " Off his head, I say," went on Brady. " He 
 was here day before yesterday, hangin' round ter 
 see you. Said he use ter be in love with your 
 sister and that she married somebody else and 
 then died and he fell in love with you at her 
 funeral. Then he went off travelin' fer years and 
 has just come back ter make love ter you, as fur 
 as we could make out. Any truth in the story ? " 
 
 Burroughs pondered for a moment. 
 
 " I never had a sister," he said at length. 
 
 Then he closed the window and went on with 
 his work.
 
 CHAPTER V 
 THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE 
 
 IT was a beautiful day in June. The first tints 
 of spring had ripened into the richer beauty of 
 early summer and the sky was blue with that pecu- 
 liar quality of warmth which comes in the year's 
 first halcyon days. There were fleecy clouds roll- 
 ing lazily across the blue; clouds that took odd 
 shapes of mountains, birds, and beasts, as the 
 clouds used to when we were children. Indeed, it 
 was so fair a day that childhood and joy and all 
 good things seemed very near and doubly real. 
 
 Young Salvatore Barone had a half holiday that 
 day and he had brought Celestia Carmanti out to 
 the great city park for a breath of fresh air and 
 for something else. He wanted to tell her some- 
 thing which he could not well say in the stuffy 
 parlor on Spring Hill Street, with her father and 
 mother sitting by, even though those worthy souls 
 understood scarcely a word of English. Barone 
 and Celestia had come to the United States in 
 childhood, had grown up in the public schools,
 
 56 THE HEART OF THE DOCTOR 
 
 were proud to be Americans, and looked with 
 patronizing pity on the old folks who knew no 
 English and must depend upon their children for 
 communication with the great Anglo-Saxon world. 
 
 " And you really love me ? " Barone asked, in 
 an ecstasy, when the fateful moment was trium- 
 phantly passed. 
 
 " Yes, I really love you." 
 
 " And have you loved me long, cara mia ? " 
 
 " Stop ! Do not talk Italian to me. I am an 
 American." 
 
 " Forgive me, then, but tell me, have you loved 
 me long ? " 
 
 "Do you suppose I am going to answer that 
 question ? " 
 
 " Why not ? " 
 
 "Why not? Because you would at once re- 
 member when you began to love me and if it should 
 happen that I loved you before you cared for me, 
 how ridiculous I should be in your eyes." 
 
 " Never, carissima, never. You could not pos- 
 sibly seem absurd." 
 
 " There you go with that silly talk ! I am not 
 my grandmother ; you do not need to talk Genoese 
 to me to make me understand." 
 
 They were sitting very close together, on the 
 hillside which overlooks the free, rolling fields of
 
 THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE 57 
 
 the park plaisance. The shepherd with his flock 
 and never-resting dog were off in the green middle 
 distance, but they might as well have been out of 
 the picture so far as making any impression upon 
 the lovers was concerned. 
 
 " Oh, you must not put your arm around me so 
 soon ! " exclaimed Celestia after a potent silence. 
 
 "Do you mind it, dearest?" asked Barone, 
 without removing the offending member. 
 
 " Yes, I mind it very much. I shall be quite 
 ashamed of myself when I get home and think it 
 over. So soon ! And we have been engaged 
 well, about fifteen minutes, I should think." 
 
 Salvatore placed his thumb and finger on her 
 chin and turned her face gently toward his own. 
 
 " Look in my eyes, little girl," he said softly, 
 " and tell me if you really mind it. Oh, you can- 
 not speak : you cannot even look me in the eyes ! " 
 
 Celestia gave a little sigh. It was not of resig- 
 nation, surely, but of satisfaction, and again they 
 sat silent, cheek to cheek, looking vaguely across 
 the sunny fields, seeing without realizing it the 
 graceful swing of the boughs of trees, hearing 
 without knowing it the babble of a little brook 
 near by, feeling upon their faces, though uncon- 
 sciously, the sweep of the summer breeze. 
 
 " You have given me eight kisses in such a short
 
 58 THE HEART OF THE DOCTOR 
 
 time," murmured Celestia, at length ; " my lips are 
 all red and sore, I know." 
 
 " Red, yes, always ; and if sore, here is the be- 
 ginning of the cure," and he kissed her again. 
 
 There was a speck of dust on Barone's coat and 
 Celestia flecked it off with the careful pride of new 
 possession. The wind blew his hair from his fore- 
 head and she stroked it into place, while Barone 
 submitted to her care with a look of fond ecstasy 
 which would have been ludicrous if it had not been 
 so vital. 
 
 " What little hands you have, dear," Barone 
 said. 
 
 Celestia laughed and tossed her head. 
 
 " Tell me how soft they are," she said ; " that 's 
 the thing to say." 
 
 " * The thing to say,' you little minx ! What do 
 you mean by that? " 
 
 Celestia laughed again. 
 
 " That 's the thing to say. Scarabini always 
 says that." 
 
 " Scarabini ! " muttered Barone, under his 
 breath. 
 
 " Yes, Scarabini ; but he will never say it to me 
 again, dearest, nor hold my hand. These are Sal- 
 vatore's hands now, and they are going to work for 
 him some day."
 
 THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE 59 
 
 Barone bowed his head above the little hands 
 and kissed the soft open palms she held out to 
 him. 
 
 " We will talk no more of Scarabini," went on 
 Celestia, softly. " I shall never love him. I fear 
 him too much. I do not like it because he works 
 for that Spanish doctor and I think he deceives 
 the poor people. I could not love a man who is 
 unkind to the poor." 
 
 She was like an April day ; laughing and saucy 
 at one moment, gentle and tender almost to tears 
 at the next. Did the Blessed Virgin ever bring 
 better fortune than his to a poor Italian lad, 
 Barone wondered. 
 
 As the afternoon waned, they drifted away from 
 the hillside, walking hand in hand like children, 
 through the sunlit fields and through groves of 
 hemlock, by the rocky gorge where the brook 
 danced in feathery cascades. And Barone, versed 
 in wood lore from his boyhood's " country week " 
 days, pointed out squirrel paths in the underbrush, 
 found likely spots for ground pine, which Celestia 
 plucked to take home to her mother, and pulled the 
 fragrant flag from the quiet pools below the gorge. 
 
 So they fared on until sunset warned them back 
 to the world of trolley cars and tenements, but 
 they felt like beings from another sphere, since
 
 60 THE HEART OF THE DOCTOR 
 
 love had given to them a new heaven and a new 
 earth. They walked together through the narrow 
 streets with the spell of love and summer strong 
 upon them. The father of Celestia was smoking 
 his pipe in front of the house and watching the 
 antics of certain dirty-faced children with the air of 
 patriarchal tolerance cultivated by long acquaint- 
 ance with the rising generation of the district. As 
 the young people approached, his sharp black eyes 
 embraced the situation at a glance, and he nodded 
 curtly to Salvatore, ordering Celestia to go into 
 the house. The girl cast a frightened glance to- 
 ward her lover and obeyed the wcfrd which had 
 been law to her through the eighteen years of her 
 simple life. When she had gone in, the old father 
 beckoned to Salvatore by a gesture of the head. 
 
 " Where took you my daughter ? " he asked, 
 sternly, in Genoese. 
 
 " To the park," said Salvatore. 
 
 "Ah! to the park. And made you love to 
 her?" 
 
 " Yes," replied the youth, meeting the old man's 
 gaze with a steady eye ; " yes, I made love to Ce- 
 lestia. She does me the great honor to love me. 
 I ask permission of the good father to marry Celes- 
 tia some time, when I have earned enough to make 
 her happy."
 
 THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE 61 
 
 The father uttered something between a growl 
 and an imprecation. 
 
 " You will pay no suit to my daughter. I make 
 great plans for Celestia. I spend much money to 
 have her fine voice made beautiful. She shall be 
 a great singer. Will I let a poor fellow like you 
 make her forget the great plans ? No. Will I 
 marry her to a penniless nobody like Salvatore 
 Barone? No. When the beautiful Celestia is 
 married, it will be to a rich and great gentleman 
 who can give her fine clothes, so that the people 
 will like to hear her sing. You will come here no 
 more. You will say no more the fine words ; you 
 will give no more the kiss. Go ! The old Pietro 
 is a man who keeps his word. If any more you 
 try to make love to my daughter, it is the good 
 Father Renaldo who will deal with the miserable 
 Barone. Go ! " 
 
 " But so much I love your daughter," pleaded 
 Salvatore. " And so hard I will work for her. I 
 go now to the night high school. Then I will go 
 to the university and learn to be a lawyer. Then 
 I will be a fine gentleman and will earn much 
 money for the beautiful Celestia." 
 
 " Pah ! " sneered the father, taking his pipe 
 from between his thin lips ; " you are but a boy. 
 I have spoken."
 
 62 THE HEART OF THE DOCTOK 
 
 Salvatore was Italian, and was therefore passion- 
 ately earnest in his love, but he was American 
 enough to realize the unwisdom of arousing an 
 imperishable antagonism in the mind of the old 
 Genoese. So it was policy rather than cowardice 
 which led him to say with an almost servile 
 politeness, 
 
 " Well, signore, since you are determined, I will 
 urge you no further. Believe me, I will no more 
 disturb the lovely Celestia. I will crush my love. 
 You are a kind father, and know best what is well 
 for the daughter. It is not for the humble Barone 
 to press his suit. I bid you farewell. Good- 
 night." 
 
 He doffed his hat politely, cast one glance at the 
 closed shutters of Celestia's room, and went down 
 the street. His step seemed to have lost its elas- 
 ticity ; the street was very long and dark. He was 
 conscious of a strange contraction in his throat, and 
 did not know that it was a sob. He crossed the 
 square in front of the church slowly, wondering 
 how he should face the long, stupid days at the 
 watchmaker's, and what he should do with the 
 Sunday afternoons he had planned to pass with 
 Celestia those cosy hours in the little parlor on 
 Spring Hill, and those jaunts to the great muse- 
 ums and libraries uptown. Barone was a progres-
 
 THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE 63 
 
 sive youth, thoroughly imbued with the American 
 spirit of culture, and eager to avail himself of 
 every opportunity which should lift him out of the 
 class from which he sprung. As he entered his 
 boarding-house the noisy bell was ringing for six 
 o'clock dinner. He followed the troup of good- 
 natured Italian men into the ill ventilated dining- 
 room, but for the first time in his life spaghetti 
 was repulsive to him. There were freshly pre- 
 pared peppers, too, spicily fragrant, but he could 
 not eat them. He drank a glass or two of home- 
 made wine and left the table, going at once to his 
 room. He rolled a cigarette, and smoked with his 
 chair tilted against the wall. There was an arc- 
 lamp near by which made his room light. How 
 dull and inconsequent everything seemed ! There 
 in the corner was the piece of coral he had bought 
 from a sailor-man down at the wharves ; yonder 
 on the wall was a half-tone print of the murdered 
 King Umberto, and beneath it the badge of mourn- 
 ing he had worn on the day when he marched with 
 the Sons of Italy in the memorial parade. It was 
 the glory of a bygone day. He cared no more for 
 kings or badges or parades. And yet, Celestia 
 had told him that she loved him. Could the cross 
 father prevent her from loving him? Yes. If 
 she heard no more from Barone, would not the old
 
 64 THE HEART OF THE DOCTOR 
 
 man persuade her that her lover had changed his 
 mind? Yes, surely. He must get word to her. 
 But how ? Who would be a trusty messenger, dis- 
 interested and silent ? Ah ! he had it La Sig- 
 norina at the dispensary on Spring Hill. She had 
 helped to bring him through typhoid fever the 
 winter before, doing much to cheer the long, color- 
 less days of his convalescence in the lonely board- 
 ing-house. Barone put on an old slouch hat, 
 turned up his coat collar, and took a circuitous 
 route to St. Luke's, approaching from the farther 
 end of the street in order to escape being seen by 
 old Pietro Carmanti. And all the way his spirits 
 were rising, for youth and love are invincible, and 
 he embodied both. 
 
 Nothing delighted La Signorina more than a 
 romance, and she was greatly pleased to be the 
 confidante of the unfortunate Barone. She would 
 not agree to be the bearer of messages between the 
 lovers, but she smiled and looked very wise, and 
 Barone felt sure he had won her for an ally. It 
 was through her aid that he subsequently secured 
 a good position in a city fifty miles distant, where 
 he secured larger wages than in his former work. 
 To be sure, he could not stand every night in the 
 shadow of the graveyard wall and gaze at the 
 unsympathetic brick front of his loved one's house,
 
 THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE 65 
 
 but he felt that in another way he was drawing 
 nearer to her than he had ever been before, since 
 his now steadily increasing bank account showed 
 him that, according to Pietro's standards, he was 
 rapidly becoming a gentleman.
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 THE SPANISH DOCTOR 
 
 THE summer was one of extreme heat. The 
 managers of St. Luke's allowed Burroughs two 
 weeks' vacation, which he spent at Mrs. Raymond's 
 summer home at the seaside. The first of August 
 found him back at Spring Hill busy with the many 
 cases which hot weather develops. He frequently 
 saw the father of the little child whom he had 
 wished to send to the hospital in the spring, but 
 the man seemed anxious to avoid him, and he 
 learned through another Italian that the little one 
 had been taken to the Spanish doctor and that she 
 was getting well. 
 
 Biaggio Carbone was working early and late, 
 for the Spanish doctor's medicine was very expen- 
 sive. Upon the initial visit the doctor had pro- 
 mised a complete cure, but he demanded fifty 
 dollars as his fee in advance. Biaggio and his 
 wife raised hands of dismay. Impossible ! They 
 had not so much money in the world, nor could 
 they borrow the sum. By gradually reducing the
 
 THE SPANISH DOCTOR 67 
 
 price, the doctor had at last agreed to take the 
 case upon the immediate payment of five dollars, 
 but since they could not give the full amount in 
 advance, the ultimate price of the cure would be 
 seventy-five dollars, to be paid before New Year's 
 day. 
 
 He then gave Carbone a pint bottle of dark 
 fluid, for which he demanded an extra dollar. The 
 medicine lasted exactly one week, and a dollar was 
 paid at each renewal of the prescription. 
 
 That was why Carbone was up before dawn 
 those warm July mornings. In the dirty alley in 
 front of the tenement where he lived, amidst heaps 
 of ashes and decaying vegetables, he mixed and 
 froze watery ice-cream, which he afterwards ped- 
 dled through the streets of the Italian quarter. 
 He had borrowed the freezer from the rich and 
 kind Connetti, who let him have it without charge, 
 for old friendship's sake. From Brigandi, the 
 confectioner, he rented a small push-cart, painted 
 bright blue, and decorated with strange bird 
 forms, done in red. On this cart he daily loaded 
 his freezer, carefully wrapped in a bit of red table- 
 cloth. As he progressed through the streets, his 
 approach was heralded by the stroke of a huge 
 bell at the sound of which eager youngsters would 
 rush from the houses whither they had gone to
 
 68 THE HEART OF THE DOCTOR 
 
 importune for pennies, while grimy hands would 
 hold out coppers, and dirty faces were bland with 
 smiles. Biaggio would uncover the freezer, lift 
 the lid of a little partition at the back of the cart, 
 and take out a square of newspaper. With his 
 long iron spoon he would place a dab of ice cream 
 upon the improvised plate and hand it to the 
 waiting child, serving each in turn. This little 
 ceremony being concluded, the freezer would be 
 covered, and the monotonous note of the bell would 
 mark the progress toward another region of prob- 
 able buyers. What he did was done very earnestly, 
 for every penny which jingled into his box meant 
 new health for his " Pearl of Italy," his little 
 Eosa. 
 
 The family lived on very humble fare during 
 those anxious days. Even the supply of spaghetti 
 was limited and garlic became a luxury. The 
 home-made wine was fortunately not yet exhausted 
 and they managed to keep alive. For a time these 
 efforts and self - denials were rewarded. Rosa 
 seemed better ; she sat up in bed by the hour, 
 quite free from pain, and amused herself with a bit 
 of wire and three buttons, which were her only 
 toys. But as the summer waxed into the wasting 
 heat of dog-days, cries of baby anguish increased 
 the horror of the stifling nights, and the weary
 
 THE SPANISH DOCTOR 69 
 
 mornings would find Carbone and his wife, pale 
 and anxious, hurrying to the Spanish doctor with 
 their little moaning burden. 
 
 Then from necessity the food supply fell off still 
 more, and the older children whined and snarled 
 about the alley like hungry wild animals and ate 
 refuse from the barrels behind the corner market. 
 
 One morning Car bone's wife went to the City 
 Hall and secured a temporary license to finish 
 trousers, and day after day early risers would see 
 her returning from the Jewish quarter with a huge 
 armful of trousers bulging beneath her snuff-col- 
 ored shawl. It was slow work ; the facings must 
 be so carefully adjusted, there were so many but- 
 tons to sew on and each one with such precision 
 that it seemed to her as if she would never learn 
 to work swiftly. But love was back of her efforts, 
 and by industrious labor she was at length able to 
 finish eight pairs in a day. At eight cents a pair 
 she could save a good sum toward the payment of 
 the doctor's bill due at New Year's. 
 
 " Ah, my dearest ! " she would say a dozen times 
 a day, laying down her needle to kiss and clasp 
 the little body she was toiling so hard to save, 
 " thou art mother's little dove, her little pearl. 
 Sweet! I pray the blessed mother of God will 
 spare your life to me."
 
 70 THE HEART OF THE DOCTOR 
 
 Much more she would say, but why translate the 
 words ? Mother-talk is much alike in all languages 
 and in all dialects. 
 
 Just as the woman had become really skillful 
 with her work, the inspector came, and when he 
 found her sewing in a bedroom with a sick child 
 in the bed and other dirty youngsters playing near 
 her work, he took away her license. From the 
 view-point of the higher civilization, this was un- 
 questionably the right thing to do, but to the mother, 
 in her ignorance of law and cleanliness, and with 
 the great burden in her heart, it seemed cruelly 
 despotic. 
 
 One day, long to be remembered for its intol- 
 erable heat, Rosa went into convulsions. Car- 
 bone hurried to the doctor. The Spaniard was a 
 little, skinny man with sandy hair and a patch of 
 beard upon either cheek. His cunning, red-rimmed 
 eyes peered sharply through the spectacles which 
 bridged his hooked nose. His lean hands were 
 never quiet ; they seemed grasping, grasping. The 
 student had guessed his race correctly. 
 
 " Pring der childt to me," he said, and Scarabini 
 translated. Biaggio explained that he dared not 
 move Rosa from the bed. The Spanish doctor 
 shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 " Money," he said, laconically.
 
 THE SPANISH DOCTOR 71 
 
 Biaggio turned his pockets inside out. He had 
 only twenty-three cents. 
 
 " Get out ! " sneered the doctor. " Don'd dry 
 no dricks on me. You Dagoes all have money hid 
 in your sdockins or your coad-dails ! " 
 
 By way of translation, Scarabini pointed to the 
 door. This was language which Carbone under- 
 stood. Almost mad with grief, he fell at the doc- 
 tor's feet and begged in the name of all the saints 
 in the calendar that the good doctor would come to 
 his little Rosa. The assistant took him by the 
 collar and pushed him out of doors. When he 
 found himself thrust into the street he cast a look 
 of hatred at the office of the Spanish doctor. It 
 was the look that denotes a form of slow rage which 
 often leads to the quick plunge of a knife in an 
 unsuspecting back. Then the look of agony re- 
 turned as he thought of his " Pearl of Italy." In 
 an instant he remembered the doctor at St. Luke's. 
 Could he hope, with his poor English, to make il 
 signore dottore understand his great need? He 
 would try. Would he be forgiven for disregard- 
 ing instructions and going elsewhere for help? 
 He hoped so. The Americans are very merciful. 
 
 The house was a house of mourning. The alley 
 in front of it was crowded with wildly gesticulating
 
 72 THE HEART OF THE DOCTOR 
 
 Italians, the hallways were swarming with weeping 
 women and children. When trouble comes in Lit- 
 tle Italy, the neighborhood shares the excitement. 
 
 In the airless little room where Rosa lay, her 
 brothers and sisters were sobbing aloud and a 
 dozen neighbor women were wringing their hands. 
 Only the mother was silent ; she sat beside the 
 bed, blood trickled down her cheeks, and at every 
 convulsion of the sufferer, she rocked to and fro 
 and dug her finger-nails again and again into her 
 lacerated face. When Burroughs entered with 
 Carbone he was reminded of an oldtime story 
 learned in childhood, and he put the mourners out 
 of the room and shut the door upon them. Only 
 the parents saw the gentle, skillful touch with which 
 he worked over the dying child. Carbone was 
 very calm, but the mother still swayed to and fro 
 unmindful of her bleeding face, her eyes riveted 
 upon her darling. At length Burroughs motioned 
 the father to be seated, saying quietly, 
 
 " It will be over in a few moments." 
 
 Though he understood but little English, Car- 
 bone guessed the student's meaning, and, taking a 
 crucifix from the head of the bed, he laid it gently 
 on the baby's pillow and dropped upon his knees 
 by his wife's side. 
 
 Burroughs stood with his finger on the tiny wrist
 
 THE SPANISH DOCTOR 73 
 
 where the pulse fluttered faintly. He could feel 
 the hot steaming air, laden with the odors of a 
 dozen Italian dinners, wafted in at the window in 
 regular waves. The sleepy buzz of flies grated 
 upon his ears ; the sight of them as they settled 
 upon the white face sickened him, and with his free 
 hand he constantly drove them away. On the 
 wall opposite hung a deep, glass-inclosed frame 
 containing the plate and handles of a baby's cas- 
 ket. In a few days, he knew, little Rosa's would 
 hang beside them. 
 
 Little by little the paroxysms grew less frequent. 
 Little by little the rigid shadows settled upon the 
 drawn face. It was the moment of pause before 
 the final struggle. Burroughs stood alert, his 
 finger on the pulse. 
 
 Suddenly the door was opened with a bang, the 
 Italian interpreter entered, briskly professional, 
 while lurking in the shadow was the Spanish doc- 
 tor. The chattering group in the hall crowded 
 to the doorway, but fortunately, were awed into 
 silence. 
 
 " You here ! " sneered Scarabini, as he saw who 
 was standing beside the bed. 
 
 Burroughs's face flamed scarlet, but he did not 
 take his finger from the expiring pulse. With his 
 free hand he pointed to the child.
 
 74 THE HEART OF THE DOCTOR 
 
 " Keed dead? " asked the Spanish doctor in his 
 greasy voice. 
 
 " Not dead," replied Burroughs, striving to re- 
 strain himself, "but nearly so, thanks to you. 
 Have you decided to take the case again ? " 
 
 The Spanish doctor grinned. He slipped be- 
 hind his deputy, however, for he saw a dangerous 
 gleam in the eye of the young American before 
 him. 
 
 " I thoughd I vould come and take avay mein 
 medicine," he said, softly. 
 
 " Take it, and be hanged to you ! " exclaimed 
 Burroughs, wrathf ully ; " take it and go. But hear 
 what I say to you. As sure as there is a God, 
 you '11 hear from this. You shall not go around 
 defrauding these poor people out of their money 
 and their lives. If there is justice in this city for 
 such as you, I '11 raise heaven and earth to bring 
 you to it. Get out of here before I put you out ! 
 Go!" 
 
 Scarabini went over to the table and seized the 
 pint bottle from a heap of dirty dishes. The 
 Spanish doctor sidled toward the door. He was 
 smirking still. 
 
 " Prut-te-tut-tut," he said, with a taunting ges- 
 ture. " Vat vill you do, young man ? You are a 
 keed. You know noddings. I have license to
 
 THE SPANISH DOCTOR 75 
 
 bragdice ; you haf nod. My medicine is nod poi- 
 son. The law brodegs me. You can do noddings. 
 I vill pid you good-day." 
 
 He bowed mockingly and backed out of the 
 room, Scarabini following, while Burroughs stood 
 trembling with helpless rage. He knew that the 
 Spanish doctor had the advantage over him, and 
 that neither he nor Carbone could hope for re- 
 dress. 
 
 Then what they were waiting for came. The 
 baby voice rang in a sharp cry; the tiny hands 
 clutched and tore the black hair ; the little wasted 
 body heaved thrice in an awful convulsion. And 
 all the father's days of toil had gone for naught 
 and all the mother's prayers had been in vain. 
 For the spirit had torn itself free from its prison 
 forever. 
 
 Then the watchers in room and hall and street 
 heard a dreadful shriek, as the mother-heart broke 
 and an unconscious form fell across the little dead 
 body.
 
 CHAPTER VH 
 RENUNCIATION 
 
 THERE was very little that was consecutive 
 about life and work at St. Luke's. Each day 
 brought new episodes and when one was closed 
 another equally absorbing took its place and 
 crowded out what had gone before. Sometimes in 
 his rare moments of leisure, Burroughs, becoming 
 reminiscent, would recall this or that unique ex- 
 perience through which he had passed. Without 
 his realization these episodes were moulding them- 
 selves into the impetus which led him to take up 
 with a growing devotion the cause of the poor Ital- 
 ian people. That they were dirty, that many of 
 them were tricky almost beyond belief, Burroughs 
 knew well ; but as he studied the conditions of their 
 lives, he wondered that they were no more depraved 
 than he found them, while, on the other hand, their 
 appreciation of kindness and devotion to those who 
 befriended them, made much of Burroughs's work 
 a pleasure. 
 
 The episode of the Spanish doctor was kept
 
 RENUNCIATION 77 
 
 fresh in the interne's mind by frequent encounters 
 with Scarabini and the familiar sight of the 
 " Spaniard's " huge bottles of medicine in the 
 houses to which he was called. He never con- 
 sented to take a case unless assured that Scara- 
 bini's employer had abandoned it, and he realized 
 that no open attack upon the impostor would be 
 successful, nor would any underhanded methods of 
 defaming Scarabini be honorable. But the grad- 
 ual downfall of the Spanish doctor and his hench- 
 man came by most natural processes. Burroughs' s 
 kindness to Carbone's child and the rude words 
 and insulting manners of the other men had made 
 a deep and ineffaceable impression upon the awe- 
 stricken crowd that witnessed little Rosa's death. 
 
 The fame of the American doctor spread abroad 
 in the Spring Hill district, and before cold weather 
 began Bur roughs' s practice had nearly doubled and 
 the Spanish doctor felt a falling off in trade. 
 
 Biaggio Carbone came up to St. Luke's one 
 evening with a thank-offering for il dottore. Bur- 
 roughs admitted him, only to be astonished by the 
 sight of a plump rooster which Biaggio deposited 
 in the middle of the office floor, informing the in- 
 terne in broken English and with much pantomime 
 that the fowl was a gift. The rooster was much 
 more at ease than was Burroughs, and was soon
 
 78 THE HEART OF THE DOCTOR 
 
 strutting to and fro and uttering an occasional 
 " c-rr c-rr " of perfect satisfaction. Burroughs was 
 deeply touched by this token of regard, which must 
 have cost the poor Italian many hours of toil, but 
 he did not know what he should do with it. Later 
 he settled the matter by presenting the bird to his 
 boarding-house mistress, who fricasseed it for din- 
 ner the following Sunday. 
 
 Biaggio stood and looked wistfully into the 
 young man's face as if he longed to give some 
 better expression of the gratitude he felt for the 
 student's kindness to little Eosa. 
 
 " Much-a t'ank, much-a t'ank," he said again and 
 again, patting Burroughs softly upon the shoulder. 
 
 " How is your wife ? " Burroughs asked, but 
 Carbone could not understand. Burroughs learned 
 afterwards that she sat all day like one in a dream, 
 unmindful of what was going on around her. 
 
 Biaggio pointed once more to the rooster, who 
 was cocking his bright eyes at the lamp-light, re- 
 peated again the words " much-a t'ank," and went 
 out into the street, followed by Burroughs's hearty 
 " Good luck to you." 
 
 The bright fall days brought a pleasant change 
 to the old hill. There was a spirit of renewed 
 activity in the air ; men stepped briskly to their
 
 RENUNCIATION 79 
 
 work in the early frosty mornings ; women spent 
 less time gossiping on the curbstones and the chil- 
 dren, barefoot no longer, rushed off to school with 
 an energy born of clean faces and best clothes. 
 Window blinds were left open now, to admit the 
 sunshine, and bunches of red and green peppers 
 hung from the shutters, while pans of crushed 
 tomatoes on the window ledges added a touch of 
 color to the dingy neighborhood. The wind from 
 the bay blew salt and cool and an odor of grapes 
 was in the air, for it was wine-making time. Piles 
 of grape-seeds lying in the gutters awaited the 
 nightly round of the street cleaners, and showed 
 that in even the humblest homes the grape-treaders 
 had been at work. 
 
 The medical school opened the last week in 
 September and a few days later Margaret Worth- 
 ington returned from her European trip. No one 
 outside her immediate family circle knew of the 
 attachment between Miss Worthington and the 
 interne at St. Luke's. It had begun in a youthful 
 friendship of high school days when Margaret, the 
 most popular girl in her class, had befriended the 
 sensitive boy who helped the janitor out of school 
 hours. She had incidentally learned his story ; a 
 not uncommon one, but it had touched her young 
 imagination. Burroughs's father was a man of
 
 80 THE HEART OF THE DOCTOR 
 
 large property, whose sudden death had left an 
 invalid wife and a boy of ten years, at the mercy 
 of unscrupulous lawyers. In a few months, the 
 widow found herself in almost abject poverty and 
 the boy began to work before he was through the 
 grammar school. By the time the high school 
 course was finished, a firm friendship existed be- 
 tween Margaret and Burroughs. The young man's 
 mind was made up to a professional life and his 
 interests led him to the study of medicine. His 
 only source of revenue lay in himself and there 
 was no honest work to which he was unwilling to 
 turn his attention. The summers during his high 
 school course had been spent in serving as bell-boy 
 at a fashionable seashore hotel. During the vaca- 
 tion following his freshman year in the medical 
 school he had taken agencies for books and photo- 
 graphs, journeying through up-county districts with 
 great success. During the school year he waited 
 on tables in a restaurant in rush hours and tutored 
 the backward son of a rich man in Latin and 
 mathematics. Fortunately for him, in his junior 
 year he was assigned a scholarship, and through 
 Raymond's kindness was appointed interne at St. 
 Luke's. Thus for the first time since childhood, 
 he was comparatively free from financial anxiety. 
 As Margaret grew older and came in touch with
 
 RENUNCIATION 81 
 
 the young people of the fashionable circle in which 
 she moved, she found herself testing every man 
 she met by her quiet, self-effacing, earnest friend. 
 He was different from others, she discerned, and 
 before she realized it, he had become her ideal and 
 the standard which she set for young manhood. 
 On Burroughs's part, she grew more and more the 
 goal of his ambitions. To him there was always 
 peace where she was, and after the death of his 
 mother, she became his all. There was very little 
 love-making between the two. Their courtship was 
 not a transport of demonstrations, but rather a 
 steady growth of mutual confidence, a dream of 
 ultimate oneness. 
 
 The evening following Margaret's return from 
 Europe, Burroughs dressed himself with care and 
 went uptown to call upon her. He spent an hour 
 of delight looking at photographs and souvenirs, 
 listening to her voice and watching the light and 
 shadow play upon her hair as she sat in the lamp- 
 light. She had brought him a tinted photograph 
 of the Bay of Naples, daintily framed, having se- 
 lected it as particularly appropriate in view of 
 Burroughs's work among the Italians. He was 
 naturally delighted with it. The evening was one 
 of the happiest they had ever spent together, and 
 when they parted Burroughs held her in close em-
 
 82 THE HEART OF THE DOCTOR 
 
 brace and told her, as he had often told her before, 
 that he had no right to let her waste her youth 
 waiting for him, but that if she would be patient 
 he would surely win his way, through her inspira- 
 tion and for her sake. And she told him, as she 
 had done many times, that she loved him better 
 every day, and that the time she spent waiting 
 for him could not be wasted, though she waited a 
 thousand years. 
 
 The next day Burroughs was summoned to Mr. 
 Worthington's counting-room. His mind was surg- 
 ing with hopes and questions, but his face was very 
 calm when he was ushered into the private office. 
 
 " I have sent for you this afternoon, Mr. Bur- 
 roughs," the merchant said, in the rapid, incisive 
 tones of a busy man, " to speak to you about your 
 attentions to Miss Worthington." 
 
 Burroughs bowed. 
 
 "I do not wish to be misunderstood. I am 
 neither proud nor prejudiced. I honor the men 
 who fight for places in the world. " But " he 
 hesitated as if a little disconcerted by Burroughs's 
 level gaze " you cannot marry my daughter." 
 
 Burroughs did not speak. 
 
 " You are a perfectly respectable young man," 
 went on the father, " and Mrs. Worthington as- 
 sures me that your relations with our daughter
 
 RENUNCIATION 83 
 
 have been candid and beyond reproach. But you 
 are poor and are likely to be so for some time to 
 come. It is all very well to talk about waiting, 
 and love in a cottage ; but that is better in litera- 
 ture than in life. I did not realize how serious 
 matters had become until I had a talk with my 
 daughter last evening after your call. Then I saw 
 it was best to act at once. I will admit that it was 
 only after extreme protest that she relinquished the 
 keepsakes which you have given her at different 
 times. Here they are. Now if you will kindly 
 agree to return any trifles she may have given you 
 and will promise me to have nothing more to do with 
 her, I will not detain you longer." 
 
 As Mr. Worthington proceeded, Burroughs, who 
 had remained standing, grew very white. He 
 clutched the back of a chair to steady himself, and 
 as the older man paused, he tried to reply, but 
 something caught in his throat. In a moment, 
 however, he regained his poise sufficiently to say, 
 
 " Did Miss Worthington know that you were 
 going to say this to me ? " 
 
 " She did." 
 
 " Then she will not misunderstand my silence ? " 
 
 " She will not." 
 
 There was a pause. Burroughs's throat and 
 tongue were parched, his lips dry and bloodless.
 
 84 THE HEART OF THE DOCTOR 
 
 " Do you mean to say that my honest affection 
 for your daughter is to be set aside simply because 
 I am poor ? " 
 
 Mr. Worthington looked a bit uncomfortable. 
 
 " I mean to say," he replied, " that boy and girl 
 love is not necessarily eternal. Scatter the fire on 
 the hearth and it dies out." 
 
 " Is your decision final ? " asked the young man 
 after a pause. 
 
 " It is." 
 
 " Then I give you my word of honor that I will 
 follow your instructions implicitly." 
 
 " Thank you." 
 
 " But," added Burroughs, with spirit, " there is 
 no one in the world who can prevent me from car- 
 ing for your daughter. I have loved her too long 
 for that and I will love her to the end of my life." 
 
 " I will not detain you longer," said Mr. Worth- 
 ington, turning to his desk. 
 
 Burroughs stopped at the door. His voice was 
 broken, now. 
 
 " I will return her gifts by mail to-night," he said, 
 " excepting May I keep her photograph ? " 
 
 "You may not," replied Mr. Worthington, not 
 looking up. 
 
 " Good-day, sir." 
 
 " Good-day."
 
 RENUNCIATION 85 
 
 Burroughs wondered why he felt so calm as he 
 walked back to St. Luke's. Except for a kind of 
 light-headedness, he would never have known from 
 his feelings that anything had hurt him. He for- 
 got that the shock of the knife plunge temporarily 
 benumbs the flesh. Unfortunately for his mood, 
 he had invited Raymond to have a macaroni supper 
 with him that night at Pastorelli's. Burroughs 
 was a very frank fellow, not given to dissembling, 
 and the task of covering his feelings with a show 
 of gayety grew momentarily more formidable as the 
 dinner hour approached. 
 
 Of course Raymond was in a particularly sunny 
 frame of mind. Looking back upon the evening, 
 Burroughs viewed it as a dream in which he him- 
 self had taken a part of hysterical gayety. Pas- 
 torelli's wife sat behind the candy counter when 
 they entered, and one of the six scions of the house 
 presided over the fruit bench. Giorgio, the yellow 
 dog, hovered near the peanut roaster. The woman 
 came forward smiling, seized Burroughs's hand and 
 kissed it. Raymond was not prepared for this, 
 and had great difficulty in restraining his mirth. 
 The boy among the bananas grinned shyly. 
 
 u Hello ! " exclaimed Burroughs, " how is my 
 friend Pasquale this evening ? " The boy looked 
 sheepish and stuck his fingers into his mouth.
 
 86 THE HEART OF THE DOCTOR 
 
 " He is her favorite child and she 's always 
 pleased that I remember his name," Burroughs 
 explained. " She does not know that the only 
 reason I can distinguish him from his brothers is 
 because he is cross-eyed." 
 
 Burroughs led the way to one of the marble- 
 topped tables behind the screen that shut off the 
 fruit benches. Pastorelli's wife brought two bottles 
 of ginger ale from the small tank of ice water in 
 the corner, and with this innocent liquid the two 
 men refreshed themselves while the principal dish 
 of the repast was being prepared. Giorgio at- 
 tached himself to them early in the proceedings, 
 but finding that peanuts were not forthcoming, he 
 sought the street and his favorite sport of chasing 
 wagons across the square. 
 
 One corner of the shop was shut off by a flimsy 
 board partition, and here the wife of Pastorelli pre- 
 pared the viands which were cooked to order for 
 her patrons. There was a small aperture cut 
 through this partition, with a shelf adjusted beneath 
 it, the latter being neatly covered with a red oil- 
 cloth. It was through this opening that food was 
 supposed to be handed to the waiter, but as that 
 functionary did not exist, and as the black and 
 yellow cat usually sat on the shelf, the effect of 
 this modern convenience was somewhat destroyed.
 
 RENUNCIATION 87 
 
 In her small cook room, Pastorelli's wife rolled 
 out a lump of dough to a thin sheet, cut it into 
 long, narrow strips, and put it into the kettle of 
 boiling water which stood on her oil stove. Then 
 she brought a bottle of tomato sauce, and when 
 the macaroni was sufficiently boiled, she drained 
 off the water, added dried parsley leaves, and 
 poured the sauce over all. Then she heaped two 
 soup-plates and set them before Burroughs and his 
 guest with a smile of self-satisfaction, for she was 
 very proud of her home-made macaroni. Eaymond 
 had considerable difficulty in manipulating the 
 long pieces, which persistently slipped away before 
 he could convey his fork from plate to mouth. 
 Burroughs, who would not allow him to cut the 
 strips, amused himself by laughing at his friend's 
 efforts, while Pastorelli's wife sat afar off, smiling 
 and crooning, " Yes-a, yes-a, nice-a," till other cus- 
 tomers absorbed her attention. When the maca- 
 roni dishes were empty, a salad was served, with a 
 dressing of good olive oil and grape vinegar. This 
 was easier to eat, and conversation might have 
 flowed more freely but for the fact that both men 
 grew preoccupied as time went by. At length, 
 when conversation reached an absolute standstill, 
 Raymond exclaimed, 
 
 " How talkative we are ! "
 
 88 THE HEART OF THE DOCTOR 
 
 " I am tired to-night, Walter. You must for- 
 give me for keeping quiet. But why are you so 
 still ? You like to talk you know you do 
 and I like to hear you. So go on, I beg of you." 
 
 Raymond smiled with a far-away look in his 
 eyes. 
 
 " I may as well tell you, Phil, just what is the 
 matter with me. I 'm trying to screw up my cour- 
 age to propose to the prettiest, daintiest little girl 
 in the world." 
 
 " You do not need to do a great deal of ' screw- 
 ing ' for that, do you, Walter ? I 'm inclined to 
 think that almost any girl of your acquaintance 
 would be glad to marry you." 
 
 " Don't flatter me, Phil," answered Raymond, 
 earnestly. " I know just about what I 'm worth 
 and it 's very little. Perhaps time will develop the 
 original ; I certainly hope so. But, you see, the 
 trouble with me in the past has been that I have 
 not dared to get well enough acquainted with a girl 
 to decide whether or not I want her for keeps." 
 
 " That is a great excuse for you to make ! " 
 
 " Well, it is true, at any rate. I tell you what 
 it is, Phil, I 'm afraid of the young girls ; they are 
 always misunderstanding a fellow." 
 
 He shivered a little as if at an embarrassing re- 
 miniscence.
 
 RENUNCIATION 89 
 
 " For example : one time I begged a girl to sing 
 * O, Promise Me,' and the next thing I knew her 
 brother was trying to find out when I intended to 
 ask papa ! " 
 
 " It served you right. You had probably been 
 looking unutterable things at her with those fetch- 
 ing brown eyes of yours." 
 
 " No, indeed, I was just ordinarily civil. But 
 since then I 've been very shy. I don't hesitate to 
 make love to La Signorina and some of those older 
 girls they don't misunderstand; but when it 
 comes to my contemporaries, I have thought it 
 safer to be a gay butterfly, flitting from flower to 
 flower." 
 
 " Yes ; and breaking a heart at every flit ! I 
 know you." 
 
 " I do not believe that. There 's nothing heart- 
 breaking about me." 
 
 " Yes, there is." 
 
 " Well, never mind that part of the story ; let 
 me go on. At last I have settled upon some one. 
 Shall I tell you who it is ? Let me see ... no ; 
 I '11 wait and tell you later if my suit is successful. 
 She is a dear, sweet, womanly girl, and I know 
 you will be pleased at the match." 
 
 " I shall be very glad to see you happy, Walter," 
 Burroughs answered, bravely. He made a heroic
 
 90 THE HEART OF THE DOCTOR 
 
 mental attempt to be unselfishly pleased at his 
 friend's joy, but it was a desperate effort. He 
 fancied he knew the young woman a pretty 
 society girl of whom Raymond had talked a 
 good deal of late ; a girl largely endowed with 
 talents and with wealth. 
 
 " I will take it for granted that you will be suc- 
 cessful," he continued, " and will congratulate you 
 now from the depths of my heart. Here is my 
 hand on it." 
 
 As they clasped hands across Pastorelli's mar- 
 ble-topped table, they did not dream that there was 
 anything tragic in the act. Months afterward the 
 memory of that friendly grasp came back to Ray- 
 mond with startling force. 
 
 Burroughs settled the bill with Pastorelli's smil- 
 ing wife, and Raymond fed peanuts to the grateful 
 Giorgio. Then the two friends went out on the 
 square and parted at the corner. 
 
 Burroughs for the time abandoned himself to his 
 grief. The knowledge of Raymond's prospective 
 happiness accentuated his pain. He went to his 
 room and gathered together Margaret's little gifts, 
 pressing each one to his lips as if it were a holy 
 relic. Beads of perspiration stood on his forehead, 
 but his eyes were dry and his hand was steady. 
 But when he took her picture out of its case, his
 
 RENUNCIATION 91 
 
 fortitude gave way, he buried his face in his hands, 
 and sobbed as only a strong man can sob when 
 mastered by grief. 
 
 At about the same time, Raymond, entering his 
 office, opened a compartment in his desk and took 
 out a photograph. He laid it upon the desk and 
 bent over it, a smile of happiness breaking through 
 the earnest look on his face. 
 
 " Little girl," he said within himself, commun- 
 ing thus with the face in the frame, " little girl, 
 will you love me all the days of your life ? I am 
 saying good-night to you, dearest ; good-night, and 
 God bless you. Oh, if I were only worthy of 
 you!" 
 
 He lifted the picture and laid his cheek upon it 
 with the tender reverence with which he would 
 have folded its prototype to his heart. Then he 
 laid it back in its place, and " Margaret, darling ! " 
 he whispered, softly. 
 
 From that day forward Burroughs plunged into 
 his work with hysterical energy. The hope that 
 dies hard flickered in his breast, but the future was 
 a blank. His parents had named him Philip 
 Melancthon, and some of the sturdy reformer's 
 devotion to conviction seemed reincarnated in his 
 heart. But the path he walked with outward 
 calm was the Way of the Cross to him ; his step
 
 92 THE HEART OF THE DOCTOR 
 
 lost its buoyancy ; stern lines settled at the cor- 
 ners of his mouth, and the boy-look died out of his 
 eyes. 
 
 Yet sometimes as he bent over the beds of the 
 dying, he seemed to feel Margaret's breath upon 
 his cheek ; to hear her words in his ear, " My 
 love for you grows stronger every day. I will wait 
 for you, though I wait a thousand years."
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 A WRECKED LIFE 
 
 FROM the north transept of the church a broad 
 thoroughfare runs down to the water front, and 
 the inhabitants of this avenue and its adjacent 
 streets are of a different type from the dwellers on 
 Spring Hill. It is as if a ship's prow had run 
 inland, furrowing a triangular space with its apex 
 at Santa Maria and its base at the wharves. All 
 this imaginary track of a ship is tinged with the 
 sea. Chandlers' shops display ropes, anchors, and 
 tarpaulins ; sailors' boarding-houses, conducted by 
 rosy-cheeked Swedish women, contrast sharply 
 with sailors' dance-halls, kept by reprobate Ameri- 
 cans, and the rolling gait and sea songs of sailors 
 from many ports give a distinctive atmosphere to 
 the locality. It is this wedge-shaped section which 
 separates the Italian and the Jewish quarters. 
 
 Burroughs had seen nothing of John Maxon for 
 several weeks. He was told by Brady, that pur- 
 veyor of local news, that the unfortunate man was 
 still in the vicinity, and Burroughs often wondered
 
 94 THE HEART OF THE DOCTOR 
 
 if it was not his duty to have Maxon consigned to 
 a retreat. The student had learned, however, from 
 years of rubbing against life's sharp corners, that 
 it is seldom wise to interfere in matters outside 
 one's province. 
 
 On Saturday nights Pacific Avenue is full of 
 sailors, and venders of all sorts reap a rich harvest. 
 Here are sober-faced Jews with bearded chins, and 
 derby hats crowded down to the tops of their ears. 
 Wooden trays are hung from their necks, display- 
 ing a tempting collection of collar buttons, fringed 
 with shoestrings, suspenders, and handkerchiefs. 
 Here, too, is the ubiquitous Italian peanut vender 
 with upturned coat-collar and slouch hat, a wire 
 netting protecting his wares from the depredations 
 of small boys. A little further down the street, 
 another Italian is popping corn in a glass-pro- 
 tected hand-cart by the flames of an oil-lamp ; 
 yonder is a song-sheet seller, a fruit stand, and a 
 blind singer playing upon an accordion and sing- 
 ing sentimental ballads at the top of his voice. 
 The shops along the avenue are brilliantly lighted, 
 and down near the water front hand-organ players 
 grind out their lively tunes for a certain stipend 
 per hour in front of the bright saloons and within 
 the alluring dance-halls. 
 
 One Saturday evening, as Burroughs jostled his
 
 A WRECKED LIFE 95 
 
 way through the crowds on the avenue, he saw 
 some men gathered about a street vender, and 
 heard a voice announcing the merits of the goods 
 displayed. There was something familiar about 
 the voice, and Burroughs pushed his way into the 
 crowd until he could see the man in the centre. It 
 was Maxon. He had a small portable table cov- 
 ered with wire baskets, mats, and lamp-shades. 
 
 "See, gentlemen!" he was exclaiming as Bur- 
 roughs crowded in ; "I hold in my hand the great- 
 est wonder of the age. From these ingeniously 
 commingled rings I will produce a succession of 
 useful and indispensable articles. Watch me care- 
 fully. First we have a mat seven inches in diame- 
 ter. What kind of a mat is it, gentlemen? A 
 flimsy cotton mat ? No. A rough bamboo mat of 
 Japanese construction ? No. A mat embroidered 
 with dirt-catching butterflies and flowerets? No. 
 The mat which I hold in my hand is a firm, neatly 
 made mat. The best quality of wire has been 
 employed in its construction. It is clean, and will 
 not catch the dust. You could set Washington 
 monument on it and it would not break. You 
 could set Mount Vesuvius on it and the tablecloth 
 underneath would n't be so much as scorched. 
 What a boon to the housekeeper ! You married 
 men back there, keep your eye on this wonderful
 
 96 THE HEART OF THE DOCTOR 
 
 mat. Just the thing to set the teapot on. As the 
 poet says, ' What is home without a teapot.' Now, 
 gentlemen, watch me carefully." 
 
 He made a sort of pass over the wire mat, with 
 that appearance of deftness peculiar to the demon- 
 strators of certain lines of goods. In an instant he 
 held up a work-basket for the interested inspection 
 of his audience, and went on to describe its con- 
 venience in flowery language. Next it was a fruit 
 dish, then a skeleton lamp chimney, and last of all 
 the frame for a lamp-shade. 
 
 " Now, gentlemen, how many of these useful and 
 elegant articles will you have ? They are invalu- 
 able to any home, so simple in their construction 
 that a child can work them. Boys, think of your 
 dear old mothers ! How their eyes would be glad- 
 dened by the sight of one of these gems of useful- 
 ness. ' A boy's best friend is his mother,' as the 
 song says. Ah ! how true it is. Only ten cents 
 each, gentlemen. You will take one ? Thank you. 
 Yes, it is perfectly simple. Any child of ten can 
 work it. This way first ; then so ; and so. That 
 is it. You will have two ? Thanks. I knew by 
 your faces, gentlemen, that you know a good thing 
 when you see it. Thank you ; thank you." 
 
 " I will take one," said Burroughs, quietly, as he 
 pushed his way to the front and laid a dime on the
 
 A WRECKED LIFE 97 
 
 table. Maxon's jaw dropped, and the jauntiness 
 went out of his manner. 
 
 " Thank you, doctor, thank you. You are very 
 kind," he murmured, adding in a whisper, " but 
 don't feel obliged to take one. They are not of 
 the least use." 
 
 " I know that," replied Burroughs, " but I want 
 one for a souvenir." 
 
 Maxon took a fresh one from the dilapidated 
 satchel at his feet. Then he put up his samples 
 and folded his table. The group of men melted 
 away, leaving Burroughs and Maxon alone. 
 
 " I am glad you are at work," the interne said. 
 
 "Yes, I suppose it is a good thing," replied 
 Maxon, dejectedly. "It keeps me from lodging 
 at the police station or roosting among the rubbish 
 on the wharves. Last week I served beers at 
 Smith's dance hall, but it was too much. I am 
 pretty low down on the ladder, but there are 
 depths to which I have n't sunk yet. I could n't 
 be a party to Smith's business." 
 
 " Good for you ! " replied Burroughs, heartily. 
 
 "I am glad you were willing to speak to me, 
 doctor," Maxon went on, plaintively. " I have 
 thought of you very often. Sometimes at night 
 when I can't sleep in the lodging house, I walk up 
 to your place and think about you. I have n't told
 
 98 THE HEART OF THE DOCTOR 
 
 you yet why I am so attached to you. I will some 
 day. I know you loathe me ; I do not wonder at 
 it and I do not mind." 
 
 " I do not loathe you," said Burroughs, ear- 
 nestly ; " I only loathe a horrible habit. I wish 
 you could break away from it and be a man. I am 
 sure you were born to better things than this," 
 indicating the wire baskets and Pacific Avenue in 
 one sweeping gesture. 
 
 " You are very kind," repeated Maxon. " Yes, 
 it is true that I was born in a better grade of 
 society than this. But it is too late. I lost my 
 grip long ago. Good-by, good-by. I shall have 
 to move on now. We are allowed to remain only 
 twenty minutes in one place. Good-by, and don't 
 think too hard of me." 
 
 The next evening Burroughs went down to the 
 rescue mission on Pacific Avenue. He had a sick 
 patient who chanced to be a Protestant and wanted 
 to see a minister. The regular Sunday evening 
 service was in progress when he entered and the 
 room was well filled. The majority of the men 
 were obviously indifferent to the speaker, but here 
 and there one and another listened with eager 
 wistfulness. Three old topers who were converted 
 annually when cold weather set in were on the 
 front seat. Just back of them was a huge Irish
 
 A WRECKED LIFE 99 
 
 sailor comfortably drunk. He insisted upon inter- 
 rupting the missionary's remarks with excerpts 
 from comic songs. 
 
 " You must be quiet, my friend," said the 
 speaker, kindly. " If you are so noisy I shall have 
 to put you out." 
 
 The huge man's dull wits were slow in grasping 
 these words, but when at last they had penetrated 
 his muddled brain, he rose with tipsy dignity and 
 stepped into the aisle. 
 
 " You put me out ! " the giant sneered, as he 
 slowly surveyed the missionary's five feet six inches, 
 " you put me out ! I 'd like ter see yer try ! " 
 
 " But, my friend," urges the speaker, forgetting 
 how foolish it is to argue with an intoxicated man, 
 " you would not disturb this service, would you ? 
 When there are never-dying souls, sunk in wicked- 
 ness all about you, you would not do anything to 
 prevent them from being saved ? " 
 
 " Saved ! " leered the man. " You don't want 
 'em saved. Why! if us blokes was converted, 
 you 'd be out of yer job. You don't want ter save 
 us." 
 
 The missionary made no reply. The sailor 
 settled into his seat again and soon fell asleep. 
 A man on the other side of the room rose and be- 
 gan to speak. Burroughs was all attention in an
 
 100 THE HEART OF THE DOCTOR 
 
 instant. It was Maxon. He stood up to testify 
 to his conversion, he said, and he went on to tell 
 of the wonderful things Heaven had been doing 
 for him. The missionary was deeply moved and 
 invited him to sit with the other converts. Then 
 two or three wrecks of humanity shambled to the 
 front seat, and when it was time to close the meet- 
 ing the missionary, looking across the room at 
 Burroughs, asked if there was any brother present 
 who would volunteer to come forward and help 
 him talk with the penitents. Burroughs, who was 
 raging internally, said " I will," with startling em- 
 phasis and stalked up to the front seat and sat 
 down by the disconcerted Maxon. 
 
 " What are you here for ? " he asked, sternly. 
 
 " Doctor . . . oh, pray pardon me." 
 
 " Answer my question." 
 
 "I I they give a free supper to the con- 
 verts every night after service." 
 
 " Is that any excuse for your imposing upon a 
 good man like this minister ? " 
 
 " No, no ; I have done very wrong. But this is 
 the first time. You see, I have spent all my money 
 for lodging and " 
 
 " Morphine." 
 
 "Yes, I suppose so. And I heard about this 
 place and thought I would try it."
 
 A WRECKED LIFE 101 
 
 Burroughs sat in thought for a moment. 
 
 " If you have a spark of manhood left in you, 
 you will get out of here at once. Or else," he 
 added, after further thought, " you will tell this 
 minister the exact truth. Then I will see that you 
 have a good supper to-night, and to-morrow you 
 can start out with your wire baskets again." 
 
 " No, no ! " hastily exclaimed Maxon. " You 
 shall not do such a thing for me. I will not take 
 charity from you." 
 
 " Is n't it better to take honest charity honestly, 
 than to juggle with solemn things and fool a good 
 man as you have done to-night ? " 
 
 " Yes, yes, of course ; but not from you I 
 could n't take it from you. If only I could ex- 
 plain ! I would not take charity from you to save 
 my life. Let me go ! Let me go ! You have 
 been too kind to me already." 
 
 He rose and slunk out. Burroughs did not at- 
 tempt to detain him. When the missionary had 
 finished with his converts and had sent them up- 
 stairs for their supper, he turned to Burroughs in 
 surprise. 
 
 " Where 's that man you were talking to ? " he 
 asked. 
 
 Burroughs told him what he knew about Maxon 
 and the missionary listened intently. He had the
 
 102 THE HEART OF THE DOCTOR 
 
 earnest, anxious eyes common to men whose life 
 work is among the unfortunate and vicious. 
 When Burroughs had finished his story, the mis- 
 sionary sighed. 
 
 " It is a great trial to us to know that we are 
 imposed upon," he said ; adding with a sudden 
 glow of feeling, " Yet I would rather be fooled a 
 hundred times than to miss one genuine case." 
 
 Burroughs told the errand for which he had 
 come to the mission and then went out, glad to fill 
 his lungs with fresh air after breathing the vitiated 
 atmosphere of the mission hall. 
 
 Down in a dark alley off Pacific Avenue, Maxon, 
 with tremulous haste, was putting his last dose of 
 morphine into his needle-scarred arm.
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 GUIDO MASCARO'S MARIA 
 
 GUIDO MASCAEO kept a meat and vegetable 
 market in that part of the Italian quarter where 
 most of the Sicilians lived. His family consisted 
 of his young wife Maria, and his old mother, who 
 was the torment of his existence. Guido employed 
 two youths from his own village to peddle vege- 
 tables through the district on push-carts during the 
 summer, but the bulk of his business was done in 
 his shop. On the third floor above were the two 
 rooms which he called home, and here, one day, he 
 argued with his mother, who was preparing dinner, 
 while Maria tended the shop downstairs. 
 
 " Pah ! " Guido cried, " I will have no old wo- 
 man ! Look at the little Tommaso Vercelli, with 
 back so humped. See Bizzoni's wife, who no more 
 can walk alone. I will go to the American doctor 
 on the hill. My Maria shall have the best. I 
 care not for bandy-legged babies. So, for the love 
 of the Virgin, be still, mother. Keep to thy pots 
 and thy pans and now to thy soup, for my stomach
 
 104 THE HEART OF THE DOCTOR 
 
 is empty. Pah on thy old woman ! I will not 
 have her." 
 
 " Satan seat thee at his right hand, thou sneerer," 
 screamed old Bettina, waving her ladle. " Seventy 
 years I have lived and sixteen children I have 
 borne and no American lent a hand. Is thy Maria 
 so much better than thine own mother ? Thee will 
 see who will win, I who am very wise, or thee with 
 thy silly American doctor who as yet has not a 
 hair on his face." 
 
 " Thy old woman has many hairs on her face," 
 laughed Guido, snapping his fingers. " Take her 
 to the barber, mother, for I warn thee, if thou 
 dost bring her here I will singe the hair from her 
 face as Beppo, the butcher, singes pin-feathers 
 from a plucked goose ! " 
 
 Bettina grunted expressively and bent once more 
 above her soup kettle. She did not deign to follow 
 up her argument. She felt secure in the belief 
 that her own shrewd wit and the interposition of 
 the blessed saints would frustrate the unhallowed 
 schemes of the impertinent Guido. It was not the 
 first time that the two had quarreled on this sub- 
 ject, nor was it to be the last, and each new alter- 
 cation only left the mother and son more deter- 
 mined to succeed in their conflicting plans. And 
 through it all, Maria, the object of the strife, would
 
 GUIDO MASCARO'S MARIA 105 
 
 sit by the window, the sunlight picking out threads 
 of gold in her red-brown hair, as she crooned some 
 Borghese melody, so happy that no thought of 
 coming peril could disturb her spirits. 
 
 Guido went up to the clinic at St. Luke's one 
 afternoon and told Burroughs and La Signorina 
 all about it. The old mother had faith in a certain 
 ancient crone who was supposed to be the espe- 
 cial favorite of the saints. Guido, who had come 
 to America in a formative period, was skeptical. 
 He believed in the American doctor. Burroughs 
 agreed to take Maria's case, and made out a patient's 
 card in her favor, which Guido bore back to his 
 tenement in triumph and shook under his mother's 
 sharp nose with many a sneer and gibe. Bettina 
 viewed the bit of green pasteboard with suspicion. 
 She believed that it was a sort of diabolic charm. 
 One night she arose from her corner by the stove 
 and stealthily crept into the tiny bedroom where 
 Guido, sprawling on the high, bunchy bed, lay 
 sleeping in his clothes, as was his custom. She had 
 scarcely begun to search through his pockets when 
 he awoke and drove her from the room with much 
 muscular expedition and language which left no 
 doubt in Bettina's mind that her son would not be 
 interfered with. After that, she did not refer to 
 the green card and a sort of armed peace ensued.
 
 106 THE HEART OF THE DOCTOR 
 
 Burroughs was long-suffering and it was fortu- 
 nate, for Guido had a way of coming up the hill of 
 an evening and interrupting the student at his 
 books to tell him stories about Maria, made pic- 
 turesque by broken English and gestures more 
 eloquent than words. He told how he had first 
 met Maria when she was a little girl and he a 
 strapping fellow of twenty-two. He had seen her 
 dancing amid the vines on the hillside above their 
 village, with the sunshine flecking her tawny hair 
 Guido was very proud of that hair, " like-a zee 
 gold-a," and he had fallen in love with her at once. 
 She was shy ; her father was the proud possessor of 
 a tiny vineyard and three solid silver spoons. So 
 Guido had come to America to better his fortunes. 
 
 " Ah, mia Maria ! " he would interpolate, with a 
 gusty sigh at the memory of those months of wait- 
 ing, " I deed love-a 'er-a ! " 
 
 In the land of promise he had worked and starved 
 until a year before, he had gone back to Italy, 
 matched the old man spoon by spoon with good 
 gold pieces, and had brought the daughter back in 
 triumph. But his old mother had insisted upon 
 coming, too ! Well, the blessed saints will teach a 
 man to be patient if he pray much to them. We 
 cannot always choose. At the end of his recitals 
 he would lapse into silence, his chin resting upon
 
 GUIDO MASCARO'S MARIA 107 
 
 his breast, till Burroughs, anxious for the morrow's 
 recitations, would say kindly, " Well, Guido ! " and 
 then the simple soul would look up with that ex- 
 pression of absolute trust common to his class and 
 say with conviction, 
 
 " I t'ink-a Americano dottore be-a good-a to 
 mia Maria." 
 
 Then he would throw his battered cap on his 
 curly head, say " Good-by," and disappear into the 
 night. La Signorina went to see Maria and re- 
 turned to St. Luke with a look of quiet determina- 
 tion in her eyes. 
 
 " What we will do? " she asked ; " Bettina will 
 have that old woman first at the house before us. 
 She live near. And so prett' is Maria! I not 
 like that old woman come to her." 
 
 " By the Lord Harry ! " exclaimed Burroughs, 
 using his favorite oath, " she shall not get ahead 
 of us. I '11 warn Guido to come here at the first 
 sign. Day or night if I 'm not at school I '11 
 be ready for that case." 
 
 " I will be so, too," said La Signorina, quietly. 
 
 Then came the days when Burroughs left an itin- 
 erary of his visits upon the office desk, so that he 
 might be quickly located in case of a sudden call. 
 Then came the nights when he like Guido 
 slept in his clothes, ready to answer the office bell
 
 108 THE HEART OF THE DOCTOR 
 
 on an instant. Other calls came and were faith- 
 fully attended to, but about Maria's case there 
 hung an especial interest which lifted it out of the 
 humdrum of similar cases. It took the shape in 
 Burroughs's mind of a contest between superstition 
 and truth ; the nineteenth century and the dark 
 ages. 
 
 One evening he was sleeping out two nights' 
 weariness in one, for the night before he had sat 
 up till nearly dawn attending to some extra school 
 work. He was just in the depths of his first sound 
 sleep, when the tinkle of the little bell awoke him 
 and sent him hastening to the door. Guide's voice 
 soon told the story. Burroughs thrust his feet 
 into his shoes, threw on topcoat and cap, seized his 
 satchel and rushed out of doors. In front of the 
 dispensary stood La Signorina. Burroughs uttered 
 an exclamation of surprise. He had expected to 
 go to her boarding place to call her. 
 
 " You think I not watch too, dottore," she said, 
 noting his surprise. " I see Guido come, and I am 
 ready." 
 
 Burroughs gave her his arm that they might 
 walk together swiftly, and ordered Guido, who had 
 fallen two paces behind, to lead the way. 
 
 "Is the mother with Maria?" the student 
 asked, as they hurried along.
 
 GUIDO MASCARO'S MARIA 109 
 
 " Nobawdy veeth-a Maria," panted Guido, over 
 his shoulder. "Madre go-a get-a old vooman. 
 Guido go-a get-a dottore." 
 
 " Heavens and earth ! " ejaculated Burroughs. 
 
 La Signorina dropped his arm. 
 
 " Go," she exclaimed, with determination, " go ; 
 I not walk so fast. I come with Guido. He is 
 good man." 
 
 It was against Burroughs's code of chivalry to 
 leave a woman alone in the slum district at dead 
 of night with an irresponsible Sicilian, but Maria's 
 claim was strong, and he started off on a run. 
 
 As he went along he could not help wondering 
 if it were really worth his while to be routed out 
 of bed for a simple case that any experienced per- 
 son could attend to as well as he. Then he thought 
 of Guide's trustful assertion, " I t'ink-a dottore 
 be-a good-a to mia Maria," and all doubts on that 
 point vanished from his mind. But supposing he 
 should be too late, and the old woman should 
 reach the tenement before him ? He quickened 
 his steps still more. Supposing there were compli- 
 cations with which he had never met ? He was 
 only a student, and medical students are painfully 
 aware of their limitations despite what they may 
 often assume. He could only do his best. 
 
 There was something which Burroughs did not
 
 110 THE HEART OF THE DOCTOR 
 
 know. It was the fact that La Levatrice, unfor- 
 tunately for herself and her patients, had acquired 
 a fondness for bad American whiskey. When 
 Bettina, at the first signal of distress, had hobbled 
 off to the neighboring street, and had climbed four 
 flights of stairs, she found her old woman just 
 recovering from a long bout with the whiskey flask. 
 Bettina, who had learned many of the dark ways 
 of American civilization, plied the sulky Levatrice 
 with whiskey till her inertia was overcome, and she 
 pronounced herself ready to go downstairs. Bet- 
 tina had much trouble in guiding the unsteady 
 mountain of flesh down the slippery staircases, but 
 the street was at length reached. Here La Le- 
 vatrice's mood changed ; she seated herself upon 
 the door-sill, and refused to proceed. Bettina, wild 
 at the prospect of defeat, lashed her with sharp 
 tongue and voice that quickly ran up the scale and 
 ended in a shriek. Unkempt heads were thrust 
 from windows. Voices uttered curses and maledic- 
 tions ; at length some one suggested the approach 
 of the police officer. Thereupon La Levatrice rose 
 with tipsy dignity and followed her guide. Two 
 or three denizens of the neighborhood, who had 
 rushed out of doors at the sound of strife, joined 
 Bettina, and thus escorted, the old crone led her 
 unsteady companion toward the scene of action.
 
 GUIDO MASCARO'S MARIA 111 
 
 She did not realize how much time had been 
 consumed in persuasion, and as she came to the 
 end of her own street, her sharp eyes detected the 
 form of the hated American as he passed under 
 the gas-lamp at the upper end of the street. She 
 did not know it, but Burroughs had seen her. 
 
 " It 's nip and tuck," he said to himself, " and 
 tuck shan't get it ! " 
 
 Bettina dragged her old woman onward by main 
 force. Burroughs was rushing along at the top of 
 his speed. He had a greater distance to go. 
 
 " Mother of God ! " shrieked Bettina, " he will 
 pass us on the steps, on the stairway, on the very 
 door-sill itself. Quick! Thou beloved of the 
 saints ! Let not the devilish American boy defeat 
 thee! Quick! Quick!" 
 
 The house was reached ; she dragged her charge 
 inside, shutting the door with a bang, and pushing 
 La Levatrice toward the stairway. The hag had 
 sense enough to slowly ascend while Bettina 
 shrieked through the darkness, urging haste. 
 Then her voice snapped off with a jerk as Bur- 
 roughs flung the door open and stumbled in. It 
 was so dark he could not see, but he heard Bettina 
 whining beside him, and caught the heavy breath- 
 ing of La Levatrice in front. Thus guided, he 
 sprang up the staircase. But the old woman's
 
 112 THE HEART OF THE DOCTOR 
 
 strength had failed, and she had sunk in a panting, 
 greasy heap on the stairs. Burroughs stumbled 
 over her, and fell. Bettina, close behind, clutched 
 at his calves, and he felt her long, sharp nails dig 
 the flesh, while La Levatrice buried her fat hands 
 in his hair. He was excited enough to have 
 laughed in spite of his discomfort, had it not been 
 that he heard above stairs that sound of moaning 
 which tells its own story. Voices he heard, too, 
 for all the women in the house had rushed to 
 Maria's aid. To them he cried for a light, and it 
 was they who brought a lamp and extricated him 
 from the clutches of the two old women. 
 
 There followed in Guide's little tenement the 
 hardest battle Burroughs had ever fought, and 
 heaven only knows what would have been the out- 
 come if La Levatrice had been in command. She 
 huddled inertly in one corner of the kitchen, while 
 Bettina sat beside her rocking to and fro in abject 
 grief. La Signorina, who arrived in good time 
 with Guido, went out and scolded them both 
 roundly. 
 
 It was nearly sunrise when the struggle was 
 over, and it seemed to Burroughs that he had 
 never seen motherhood so beautiful as that which 
 lay enshrined in the little bedroom of Guido Mas- 
 caro's tenement. He and La Signorina walked
 
 GUIDO MASCARO'S MARIA 113 
 
 home very quietly. It had been a hard night for 
 both of them, and they had little to say. When 
 they reached the crown of the hill, they paused a 
 moment in silence. The sky arched vast and blue 
 above them, with the tree-boughs of the burying- 
 ground penciled in feathery gray against it. The 
 great gold crosses on the towers of Santa Maria 
 caught the first flush of dawn. The harbor was 
 like liquid opal. As they paused, a bugle's silvery 
 note sounded reveille from the fort at the har- 
 bor's mouth, and the city's day had begun. 
 
 Burroughs drew a deep, full breath. " Signor- 
 ina," he said softly, " this has been worth while." 
 
 " I not know what you mean ' worth while,' " 
 she said, earnestly, " but I did hear the great 
 thanks of Guido; I did see the happy eyes of 
 Maria. That is enough, dottore ; that is enough."
 
 CHAPTER X 
 A HEART SPECIALIST 
 
 BURROUGHS knew Celestia Carmanti in the gen- 
 eral, impersonal way in which he was acquainted 
 with all his neighbors on Spring Hill Street, and 
 La Signorina had told him about Barone's hopeless 
 quest. He thought very little about the matter, 
 however, as he was absorbed in his own affairs. 
 How Celestia was bearing her separation from her 
 lover had not concerned him until one Saturday 
 morning when La Signorina entered the office with 
 the greeting, 
 
 " Take care you not fall in love." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 " Oh, so much of trouble it will make for you. 
 If the young lady loves you, good ; but see what 
 time you will be writing letters and making calls, 
 and thinking of her. And if she not love you 
 ah, povero dottore 1 You would not sleep, not 
 eat, not care if live or die ! " 
 
 Burroughs laughed, and inquired if she supposed 
 that he would be as sentimental as that.
 
 A HEART SPECIALIST 115 
 
 " I not know what you mean, * sent'mental,' but 
 I do see so many poor girls and boys that so much 
 do love, and poverini, poverini ! See now Celes- 
 tia. All the time she do lie in bed, all the time 
 cry ; not like to eat, not sing, not care to talk " 
 
 " Well, well, she must be pretty far gone." 
 
 La Signorina paid no attention to the interrup- 
 tion, but went on to explain that the old father had 
 sent for Doctor Burroughs to come and prescribe 
 for his daughter. The nurse had agreed that it 
 would be well to call a physician, although she 
 believed that love for Barone was the only thing 
 which weighed upon the girl's spirits. 
 
 " So go, now, dottore. You have med'cine for 
 the heart ? " she asked. 
 
 " No, I have not," said Burroughs, emphatically. 
 " What could I do for a lovesick girl? " 
 
 " Oh, you will give something to make sleep, and 
 then you will say to the father, ' Your daughter 
 will die, if she not marry Barone.' ' 
 
 " Girls don't die from love affairs," said Bur- 
 roughs. 
 
 " Not Americans, no ; but Italian girls, yes. 
 If you can fright'n the old father he will be 
 good, and let marry his daughter the good Barone. 
 Such nice boy is Barone, and he is very cross man, 
 the old father."
 
 116 THE HEART OF THE DOCTOR 
 
 " Well, I won't go," replied Burroughs, putting 
 on his topcoat. "I have enough to do without 
 making matches." 
 
 " ' Make match,' " pondered the nurse, after 
 Burroughs had gone out. " I not want him to 
 make match . . . how he can make match ? " She 
 looked earnestly at two burnt matches in the coal- 
 hod, behind the stove. "I not understand Eng- 
 lish. It is queer language." 
 
 Saturday is ashman's day on Spring Hill, and a 
 long line of barrels decorated the curbings. As 
 Burroughs went out he heard Miss Cutter's 
 strident tones, and saw her in her doorway with 
 upraised fist. An ashman stood beside his cart, 
 grinning. 
 
 " You 're a pretty feller ! " the old woman cried. 
 " You 're not much like that ashman what died. 
 He was always ready ter do a favor. 'N' where 's 
 he now? He 's a-walkin' the golden streets er 
 Paradise, and a-feelin' ser kinder nice thinkin' how 
 he was good ter a poor old woman like me. Lucky 
 't ain't you that 's dead ! Yer 'd be a-hollerin' f er a 
 drop er water ter cool th' end of yer tongue." 
 
 The ashman grinned more expansively, and 
 winked at his companion on the wagon. 
 
 " I ain't no cooper," he said. " It ain't my 
 business ter mend ash barrels."
 
 A HEART SPECIALIST 117 
 
 " No more 't warn't his," piped Miss Cutter. 
 " But he was a Christian, 'n' if a hoop sprung on 
 my barr'l, he 'd take my hammer 'n' fix it up. 
 How d' ye do, Doctor Burroughs," she added, in a 
 softer tone, and with an elaborate bow. " I 'm 
 in trouble as usu'l, all on account o' this pesky 
 ashman." 
 
 "Oh, don't be hard on the ashman, Miss 
 Cutter," said the interne ; " he 's a busy man. 
 I '11 mend your barrel for you after luncheon." 
 
 " Yer will, will yer ? " piped Miss Cutter. " No, 
 yer won't, neither. D' yer think I 'd let a nice, 
 clean little man like you touch my ash barr'l? 
 No, I thank yer ; I hope I hev some sense er com- 
 passion left, if I do live in this heathenish place." 
 
 " All right, Miss Cutter," laughed the student ; 
 " it 's your barrel ; suit yourself." 
 
 " Thank yer, dar-tory," said the old dame, bend- 
 ing nearly double in a bow of mock humility. 
 " Thank yer, kindly. I think it is, 'n' I think I 
 will." 
 
 Burroughs went off chuckling to himself. Miss 
 Cutter was a never-failing source of amusement to 
 him. He went to Pietro Carmanti's house to see 
 Celestia, as La Signorina knew he would in spite 
 of his seeming indifference. He was greeted with 
 great ceremony and ushered into the front room,
 
 118 THE HEART OF THE DOCTOR 
 
 which the devoted parents had fitted up for their 
 daughter's sleeping apartment. Burroughs was 
 impressed by the daintiness of the room, although 
 he could not have described afterwards the brass 
 bedstead with its valance of hand-made lace, the 
 pretty rug upon the floor, the comfortable chairs, 
 and the prie-dieu in the corner, with its crucifix, 
 rosary, and tiny red lamp burning before the pic- 
 ture of Our Lady of Perpetual Help. 
 
 Celestia had risen that morning in anticipation 
 of the doctor's call, and she reclined gracefully in 
 a Morris chair, the dark green cushions displaying 
 her negligee gown of pale pink silk to great 
 advantage. As Burroughs entered, she began to 
 moan and wring her hands. 
 
 " All-a time-a so," her mother said, anxiously ; 
 while Pietro exclaimed, " Make-a well-a the girl, I 
 geev-a dottore much-a mon'. Pietro rich-a ; much 
 rich-a." 
 
 Celestia opened her eyes. 
 
 " Good-morning," she said, in a weak, patient 
 voice. 
 
 " Good-morning," replied Burroughs, primly. 
 
 He approached and gingerly put his fingers on 
 her wrist. 
 
 " Are you in pain ? " he asked after a moment's 
 consideration of her perfectly normal pulse.
 
 A HEART SPECIALIST 119 
 
 " N-no, not much, I think," murmured Celestia, 
 " but I feel so droopy all the time and so sad. I 
 am sure I shall die." 
 
 Burroughs knit his brows and looked profound. 
 The parents watched him eagerly, sure that a won- 
 derful cure was about to be performed. 
 
 "Let me see your tongue," commanded the 
 student. 
 
 Celestia permitted the tip of her tongue to pro- 
 trude, Burroughs inspected it with all the profes- 
 sional dignity he could command. Then he sud- 
 denly asked the disconcerting question. 
 
 " Why does your father object to Somebody ? " 
 
 Celestia gave a little gasp and drew in her 
 tongue. 
 
 " Because he is poor," she answered, not looking 
 up. " He is poor, but he works very hard and is 
 good and smart. Some day I know he will make 
 money. I love him and I will not give him up. 
 Oh, Doctor Burroughs ! If you only knew what I 
 suffer ! I can't sleep at night and I can't eat. I 
 know my heart will break. Do help me ; please 
 do!" 
 
 She seized Burroughs's hand impulsively and 
 began to cry. The student disengaged himself as 
 quickly as possible. He was a little shy of demon- 
 strative women patients.
 
 120 THE HEART OF THE DOCTOR 
 
 " I cannot do anything to help you," he said, 
 quietly. " We have no medicine for lovers. You 
 must cure yourself." 
 
 " But I don't want to get well," wailed Celestia. 
 " I have nothing to live for. I can never be happy 
 again. I shall go down on the pier and jump off. 
 I know I shall." 
 
 " I am not sure but what that would be a good 
 plan," replied Burroughs, meditatively ; " but," 
 he added with conviction, " I can tell you, Miss 
 Carmanti, the corpses they take out of that harbor 
 are dreadful looking things." 
 
 Celestia sniffed and looked sidelong at her ad- 
 viser. Somehow her plan for figuring as a lovely 
 suicide lost its charm at his words. 
 
 " But what shall I do ? " she moaned. 
 
 " Go to work with your music and stop fussing 
 with your father." 
 
 " I can't sing. You 're very heartless, doc- 
 tor." 
 
 " You must sing," replied Burroughs, with a 
 coldness which set Celestia sobbing once more. 
 " And more than that, you are not going to die. 
 You would n't jump off that pier for anything. 
 You are not doing the right thing by Somebody 
 when he is working so hard to be the fine gentle- 
 man your father expects you to marry. It would
 
 A HEART SPECIALIST 121 
 
 serve you right if he gave you up. He has no 
 wish for a pale-faced, crying wife, I am sure." 
 
 Celestia was by this time a convulsive mass of 
 fluffy pink, her sobs growing more and more 
 audible. The mother with anxious eye bent above 
 her caressingly and murmured, " Poverina, JPover- 
 ina ! " The father glowered at the student as if 
 not knowing whether to turn him out or let him 
 go on with the cure. Burroughs, as remorseless as 
 the Council of Ten, continued his inquisition. He 
 knew perfectly well the best mode of treatment for 
 his patient. 
 
 " Now, if you do not stop this crying, I shall 
 have to tell your father what is the matter with 
 you." 
 
 " How can you be so heartless," came from the 
 depths of the cushions. " I don't believe you were 
 ever in love or you would know how I suffer." 
 
 A flush crept across Burroughs's face and the 
 lines around his mouth hardened. He did not 
 speak for a time and then he said more kindly, 
 
 " Miss Carmanti, Some one hears from you every 
 week through the nurse. Do you suppose he en- 
 joys thinking that while he is working hard for 
 your sake, you are moping around the house, losing 
 the power of that beautiful voice he is so proud 
 of? He doesn't like it, you may be sure. No
 
 122 THE HEART OF THE DOCTOR 
 
 man would. Now try to be brave. I'll leave 
 something to quiet your nerves. Rest to-day and 
 to-morrow and keep thinking of pleasant things. 
 Monday, dress up in your best clothes and go up 
 town for a lesson, if you can arrange for it." 
 
 Celestia came out of the cushions. 
 
 " I '11 try," she said. " I had never thought it 
 might make a difference to him. Do you suppose 
 I shall get well?" 
 
 " You certainly will. I have great confidence in 
 you and I know that you will be a brave girl." 
 Then he added, with a gallantry worthy of Ray- 
 mond himself, " You must not spoil those eyes and 
 that face by crying and under-eating." 
 
 The last shot told. Celestia sat up, tossed back 
 her hair, and wiped her eyes. 
 
 " I '11 try," she said, with a smile that would 
 have thrown Barone into a rapture, but which was 
 quite lost on the unsusceptible Burroughs, who 
 forthwith opened the ever-present satchel and 
 counted some pellets into a bottle. 
 
 " One of these each hour," he said. " They are 
 easy to take. Follow my advice and I 'm sure you 
 will be better at once." 
 
 He shook hands with her and followed her par- 
 ents out of the room. Pietro was delighted with 
 the sudden improvement of his darling. He in-
 
 A HEART SPECIALIST 123 
 
 sisted upon offering money for the cure, and it was 
 only with difficulty that Burroughs made him 
 understand that the services at St. Luke's were 
 free beyond the stipulated ten cents. Then the 
 mother flew to the pantry and brought out a jar of 
 preserved peppers, and the father rushed down 
 cellar, returning with two bottles of home-made 
 wine, which he forced into the student's hands. 
 Burroughs departed well laden, after assuring the 
 parents that Celestia would be quite well in a day 
 or two, and he carried the spoils of office back to 
 his room. There was an odd smile on his face as 
 he went, and he said to himself, as he slipped the 
 bottles into the pockets of his top coat, 
 
 " * P. M. Burroughs, Heart Specialist.' 
 Would n't Raymond shout ! "
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 DR. RAYMOND'S MISTAKE 
 
 TIME went on and still Raymond had not 
 plucked up sufficient courage to ask Margaret 
 Worthington to be his wife. That she would re- 
 fuse his offer did not really occur to him. He did 
 not know what failure meant, for his sunny nature 
 had met with few disappointments and no vicissi- 
 tudes. He had always been good, had always 
 loved everybody, and everybody had always loved 
 him. He was very kind-hearted, and the continued 
 petting of mother, grandmothers, and aunts had 
 left him unselfish to a surprising degree. He was 
 wealthy ; he was handsome ; he was clean-minded, 
 clear-headed, honest. That everything had gone 
 his way was not to be wondered at. Yet he 
 dreaded to commit himself to a promise of life-long 
 importance, not fearing that he would weary of 
 Margaret, but because he knew how well he en- 
 joyed his independence. 
 
 Sometimes as he drove through the quiet up- 
 town streets on his round of professional visits, he
 
 DR. RAYMOND'S MISTAKE 125 
 
 felt very sure of himself, and inwardly vowed that 
 he would settle the matter that very evening. But 
 by the time that dinner was over, he would dis- 
 cover that he had changed his mind and was less 
 confident. Upon such occasions he would shut 
 himself up in his office with his guitar and sing 
 " Faint Heart ne'er won Fair Lady " and other 
 salutary ballads until it was too late to make calls. 
 Then he would emerge for a glance at the evening 
 paper or a game of cribbage with his mother. He 
 usually consulted his mother about his various 
 plans, for the two enjoyed a most delightful com- 
 radeship, but the fear that she would dread the 
 prospect of sharing her son with another deterred 
 him from telling her of his attachment to Mar- 
 garet. It was only when Burroughs asked him 
 why he was content to postpone so much probable 
 happiness that he finally brought himself to the 
 point of a proposal. Burroughs' s way of putting 
 it was both forceful and sensible. Raymond won- 
 dered why he himself had not realized that he was 
 wasting time. So one evening he went to Mar- 
 garet's. 
 
 She greeted him cordially and was evidently glad 
 to see him. He was enraptured, wondering within 
 himself why he had delayed so long. She wore a 
 pretty blue bodice and had a ribbon of the same
 
 126 THE HEART OF THE DOCTOR 
 
 tint in her hair. Raymond was glad the color was 
 so becoming to her, for it was his favorite. As they 
 talked together he thought that her kind eyes had 
 never looked so serenely beautiful ; that her lips 
 were very red ; that her cheek looked as soft as 
 velvet. He was glad he had made up his mind at 
 last ; and what a lucky fellow he was, to be sure ! 
 
 When Raymond was announced and Margaret 
 left her father and mother in the library, Mr. 
 Worthington looked up from his reading and 
 asked, 
 
 "Who is it?" 
 
 " Doctor Raymond," answered his wife, glancing 
 at the card the maid had brought in. 
 
 Mr. Worthington laid down his book. 
 
 " Now there is a man ! " he said. " I should be 
 proud " 
 
 " So should I." 
 
 " When his father died the property was esti- 
 mated at nearly a million and it has not depreciated 
 in value," said the father. 
 
 " And he is his mother's only heir," went on 
 Mrs. Worthington. " She was a Levering, you 
 remember, and inherited a third of the old estate. 
 But we must not talk like match-makers." 
 
 " That is true. It is bad enough to be match- 
 breakers."
 
 DR. RAYMOND'S MISTAKE 127 
 
 "You are not sorry you broke up that affair 
 with young Burroughs ? " 
 
 " Not in the least. I only hope that Margaret 
 will be given an opportunity to console herself with 
 the doctor. I don't like that hungry look in her 
 eyes." 
 
 " You imagine that. She was never in better 
 spirits in her life." 
 
 " I am glad to hear you say so. She pleaded so 
 earnestly for her impecunious lover that I have 
 been afraid that she was eating her heart out over 
 the loss of him." 
 
 " She is too sensible a girl for that. She knows 
 that we have planned to have her occupy a promi- 
 nent position in society. She will submit to our 
 wish, I know, and will fill her place with credit." 
 
 " She would not be her mother's daughter if she 
 did not," replied Mr. Worthington, gallantly. 
 
 If Eaymond had known what was being said in 
 the library, the eyes of his mental vision would 
 have opened very wide. That he had a distinct 
 money value was the least of his considerations. 
 He accepted his money as a necessary adjunct of 
 life, not as a thing to be pijoud of, and certainly 
 not as something which made him a more eligible 
 parti. Finances were very far from his thought 
 at the moment. He had asked Margaret to play
 
 128 THE HEART OF THE DOCTOR 
 
 for him and she seated herself at the piano, bidding 
 him choose the selections which he wished to hear. 
 
 He rummaged through the music cabinet pick- 
 ing out his favorites, choosing those which were 
 filled with a subtile quality that Raymond's music- 
 loving heart told him might prepare them both for 
 the all-important moment. 
 
 " You must sing for me," she said, at length. 
 " It is not fair that I should do all the work." 
 
 She rose and Raymond seated himself at the 
 piano. 
 
 " What shall I sing for you ? " he asked, dream- 
 
 a y . 
 
 " You may choose for yourself," she replied. " I 
 shall be perfectly satisfied with your selection." 
 
 He sang a bit by Nevin, then one of Clayton 
 Johns's dainty ballads. Then he sang the song 
 which he had often sung to himself as he looked at 
 her photograph. 
 
 " There is no pain too heavy for the bearing, 
 I dread not loss nor sorrow's thorny smart ; 
 There is no hurt I 'd ask thee to be sparing 
 
 Crush me ! 
 If thou wilt deign to crush me on thy heart ! " 
 
 The opening notes moved like a chorale, a prayer 
 of consecration set to music. Then a strenuousness 
 carried the theme to its climax and the ending was
 
 DR. RAYMOND'S MISTAKE 129 
 
 a paean of triumph. When the brief song was done 
 Raymond turned to Margaret. There were tears 
 in her eyes. She had forgotten his presence and 
 was thinking only of that last, sweet hour with 
 Philip Burroughs and of his close embrace. 
 
 " Margaret, my darling," Raymond said, " I was 
 singing to you." . . . 
 
 A few moments later he passed out of her pre- 
 sence and the servant opened the street door for 
 him. His mind was in a chaos. Margaret had 
 rejected him. She loved some one else. He had 
 not thought of that possibility and his surprise was 
 complete. He felt deeply disappointed and a 
 little hurt. He had thought Margaret was very 
 fond of him. He made his way sorrowfully to 
 York Chambers, where his mother sat in the library 
 awaiting his return. She had a cup of hot choco- 
 late for him, but somehow he did not care to drink 
 it. He felt very forlorn. When he rose to go to 
 his room he paused in the doorway and said with 
 almost childish wistf ulness, 
 
 " I 'm very tired to-night, Mother. Don't you 
 want to pretend that I am a boy again and come 
 by and by to tuck me in and kiss me good-night ? "
 
 CHAPTER XH 
 BONDAGE 
 
 THERE came a day near the middle of February 
 which, in after times, Burroughs could not recall 
 without a feeling of horror. He was busy with his 
 mid-year examinations and studied every night until 
 one or two o'clock, taking tests on alternate days. 
 He had no hope of ranking high in his class. He 
 could not do so, while devoting so much time to out- 
 side work. But the practical knowledge gained 
 from service at St. Luke's stood him in good stead 
 in the more theoretical work of the medical school. 
 
 Upon this tragic day Capotosti's Gracia was sit- 
 ting on the curbstone in the street where she lived 
 and striking two broken saucepans together. The 
 Amadeo of Tony Reggerio heard the noise and 
 leaned out of a third story window to see what 
 was going on. He was all alone in the tenement, 
 as his mother had gone to bring some firewood 
 from the avenue, where a building was being torn 
 down. Amadeo could not see the sidewalk easily, 
 for he was not very tall ; so he climbed up on the
 
 BONDAGE 131 
 
 window sill. The wife of Capotosti, whose tenement 
 was on the ground floor, heard an unusual sound, 
 a sort of dull thud. What she found on the side- 
 walk she lifted with tearful tenderness and carried 
 to St. Luke's. 
 
 There was no examination at school that day 
 and Burroughs had not yet left the office. He 
 worked all day over the unconscious child, summon- 
 ing to his assistance the physician under whose 
 supervision he was practicing. About an hour 
 after dark little Amadeo died in his mother's arms 
 and Capotosti's wife carried the body home. 
 
 Burroughs went out for his supper, but was too 
 tired to eat heartily. He soon returned to the 
 office and took up his books. The hardest exam- 
 ination of the series was before him on the following 
 day, but he had scarcely settled himself for an 
 evening of work when La Signorina unlocked the 
 street door and entered the office carrying the child 
 of the woman with whom she lodged. The little 
 one was unconscious and a single glance showed 
 the cause. A deep gash ran across the palm of 
 her left hand and the fingers hung loose and lifeless, 
 the white tendons gleaming against the red wound. 
 She had fallen and cut herself with a broken tum- 
 bler. They laid her upon the operating table. 
 Burroughs' s hands trembled as he selected the
 
 132 THE HEART OF THE DOCTOR 
 
 instruments for La Signorina to sterilize, but when 
 he began his work, his grasp was firm and his 
 touch steady. The tendons had contracted. It 
 was a delicate task to make the necessary incisions 
 and draw them down. La Signorina, always equal 
 to an emergency, worked tirelessly, comforting the 
 mother, whose face was dripping with the perspi- 
 ration of anxiety, and speaking reassuringly to the 
 older sister of the child, who crouched in the back- 
 ground, sobbing. After three hours' work the ten- 
 dons were united, the arm was dressed, and the 
 child was taken home to be cared for during the 
 night by the faithful nurse. 
 
 The air in the office was heavy with the com- 
 bined odors of kerosene and iodof orm. Burroughs 
 opened the window and paced up and down the 
 room to keep from being chilled. It had begun to 
 snow in the early afternoon and the wind had risen 
 steadily until now strong gusts from the sea drove 
 the sleety snow in at the window. As Burroughs 
 paused in front of the casement he could hear what 
 he had never heard before on Spring Hill Street ; 
 the sound of waves breaking on the beach beyond 
 the park. It must be a terrible storm at sea to 
 thus affect the waters of the harbor. He thought 
 with a shudder of the wrecks that would strew the 
 coast next day and of the fate of many a sailor.
 
 BONDAGE 133 
 
 When he was settled at his desk once more he 
 found it almost impossible to apply himself to his 
 books. The day had been one long nerve strain, 
 and the mournful howl of the gale and the rattling 
 of the shutters added to his feeling of nervous 
 apprehension. Suddenly the street bell tinkled. 
 Burroughs sprang up and went to the door, carry- 
 ing his lamp. A blast of wind nearly extinguished 
 the light as he opened the door, but he could see 
 the white face of Maxon, who leaned against the 
 frame, breathing heavily. 
 
 " Forgive me," he moaned, as Burroughs dragged 
 him in and closed the door. " I tried to do with- 
 out it. Won't you help me ? I did it for you." 
 
 He staggered into the office and sank upon a 
 chair, exhausted with his battle with the storm and 
 the violent struggle for breath. 
 
 " You 've stopped taking it for my sake ? " said 
 Burroughs, incredulously. " How am I to know 
 that you are not fooling me as you did that worker 
 at the mission ? " 
 
 Maxon turned his bloodshot eyes towards Bur- 
 roughs with an expression of misery, which haunted 
 the student for many days. 
 
 " See ! " he said, putting a shaking hand into the 
 recesses of his old coat and producing some money ; 
 " I 've spent nothing for morphine for three days."
 
 134 THE HEART OF THE DOCTOR 
 
 Burroughs went out to the store closet and 
 brought some beef extract in a cup. He added 
 hot water from the tea kettle on the top of the 
 stove, and held the cup to Maxon's lips. 
 
 " Drink this," he said, kindly. 
 
 Maxon drank as well as he could between his 
 gasps, choking a little, but not relinquishing the 
 cup until it was empty. Burroughs drew the 
 rocking-chair near the stove, and motioned him to 
 sit therein. Then he stooped down and removed 
 the wet, ragged shoes. Maxon wore no stockings, 
 and his feet were red and chilblained. He held 
 them away from the fire while Burroughs produced 
 a pair of his own socks and put them on his 
 patient. 
 
 " You are very kind," Maxon gasped. " I am 
 ashamed to trouble you again when you told me 
 not to come here. I stayed at the lodging house 
 till I knew I could not resist any longer. You 
 will stand by me, won't you? Don't send me 
 away. Don't! Don't!" 
 
 " I 'm not going to send you away," exclaimed 
 Burroughs, with a sudden rush of feeling. " We 
 will fight this out together." 
 
 The student knew that if Maxon could hold out 
 until the crisis of his attack was past, his sufferings 
 would decrease, and subsequent spasms would be
 
 BONDAGE 135 
 
 less and less violent. When the worst of the 
 Struggle was over, it would be well to give a small 
 quantity of morphine, that he might regain his 
 strength in sleep. Burroughs watched his patient 
 carefully as the long hours wore away. They were 
 the most lonely hours Burroughs had ever spent, 
 for to his overwrought nerves the companionship 
 of this victim of opium made a loneliness more 
 terrible than solitude. Sometimes Maxon seized 
 Burroughs's hands and well-nigh crushed them in 
 his frenzy. Sometimes the student put his arms 
 around the exhausted man and held him by main 
 force to keep him from falling on the floor when 
 the paroxysms grew more violent and his weakness 
 caused his body to bend almost double. Some- 
 times the sufferer cried out for death. Sometimes 
 he demanded relief through the hypodermic nee- 
 dle ; sometimes he threatened to kill Burroughs ; 
 sometimes he cursed ; sometimes he prayed. Some- 
 times within the office all was still save for the 
 gasp, gasp, gasp, of the enslaved man. And 
 through it all, with every sweep of the gale, Bur- 
 roughs's ear, quickened by excitement, caught the 
 hollow note of the waves as they broke in the 
 darkness upon the deserted beach. 
 
 When the wan daylight crept in through the 
 shutters, the storm had ceased, and Maxon lay
 
 136 THE HEART OF THE DOCTOR 
 
 asleep on Burroughs's couch. The exhausted stu- 
 dent stood and looked down with a thrill of com- 
 passion upon this wreck who had turned to him in 
 the time of moral and physical weakness. There 
 was a mystery about this man. Brady had hinted 
 at it; Maxon himself, with his ruined will, had 
 hinted at it. What the secret was, Burroughs 
 thought he should never know, but this craven 
 creature's affection for him had made a great 
 impression. This cry for help from the hell of a 
 relentless habit had touched a deep and vibrant 
 chord in his nature. 
 
 " Poor soul ! " he murmured. " I will stand by 
 you. We will fight it out together." 
 
 He left a message for the nurse concerning his 
 patient, and went uptown for his breakfast and 
 the examination which awaited him. He had no 
 subsequent remembrance of his work, but it must 
 have been creditable, for he afterward found his 
 name on the list of those who had passed the test 
 successfully. When he reached St. Luke's that 
 afternoon he went directly to the back room. The 
 cot bed was empty. The socks which he had put 
 on Maxon's feet lay on the coverlet, neatly folded. 
 La Signorina told Burroughs that Maxon had 
 slept all the morning, waking once and drinking 
 the broth she had made for him. A little while
 
 BONDAGE 137 
 
 before Burroughs came in she had gone out on an 
 errand. On her return she found that Maxon had 
 disappeared. On the desk in the office Burroughs 
 found a note addressed to him. 
 
 " It is of no use," the letter read, " the 
 habit is too strong. You have been more kind to 
 me than any one else in the world would have 
 been, and I thank you from the bottom of my 
 heart. I wanted to do something for you, but I 
 have only been a burden. I will never trouble you 
 again. I shall not come back unless by some 
 heavenly providence I may repay you for your 
 goodness. I leave you a book of which I am very 
 fond. Pray keep it as a remembrance of me. It 
 is all that I can give you. My kind and faithful 
 friend, good-by." 
 
 On the desk lay a small volume with calf-skin 
 binding scratched and broken. Burroughs took it 
 up and turned its worn, soiled pages sorrowfully. 
 It was the precious copy of " Childe Harold."
 
 CHAPTEE XIII 
 SCARABINTS DEFEAT 
 
 IN the vacation that followed the mid-year exam- 
 inations Burroughs tried to rest, and prepare for 
 the work of the next semester. He thought many 
 times of Maxon, but the mystery which surrounded 
 the strange man remained unsolved, and he never 
 came to St. Luke's again. His disappearance had 
 almost a tragic aspect, for he was lost as completely 
 as if the earth had opened and swallowed him up, 
 and what his pitiful history was, Burroughs would 
 never know in full. La Signorina believed that 
 there was some interesting love affair in the man's 
 lost past ; but La Signorina was romantic, and 
 Burroughs laughed at her for her notion. Miss 
 Cutter congratulated him from having escaped 
 alive from his association with so strange a speci- 
 men of humanity, but Burroughs, remembering 
 that night of struggle, could think of Maxon only 
 with feelings of particular tenderness. If Miss 
 Cutter had been afraid of Scarabini her fears 
 would have been better grounded.
 
 SCARABINI'S DEFEAT 139 
 
 The Spanish doctor's office was on the avenue, 
 and therefore convenient to both the Italian and 
 the Jewish quarters. He found that his practice 
 among the poor Italians was steadily falling off, 
 and one day, as he and his interpreter threaded a 
 narrow street, he heard well-defined hisses as he 
 passed a group of women. A little later an old wo- 
 man, shuffling along the narrow sidewalk, pushed 
 him off into the gutter, muttering " Accidente 
 voi / " as she scowled her evident disapproval of 
 him. He made no comment upon these pheno- 
 mena, but maintained a crafty silence. He had his 
 theories about the cause of this disaffection. He 
 did not believe that Burroughs or any other Amer- 
 ican was clever enough to outdo him. Any one 
 who spoke English he did not fear. It was only 
 when an unknown tongue became the medium of 
 intercourse that he felt himself in the quicksand. 
 His suspicions of Scarabini had been increasing 
 for some time. The Italian was moody, oftentimes 
 morose, and not infrequently he treated the doctor 
 with a rudeness which showed unmistakably that 
 he despised his employer. When the two returned 
 to the office that morning the Spanish doctor began 
 to observe Scarabini closely. Had the young man 
 realized it he would have been startled, for that 
 careful watching was a signal of coming trouble.
 
 140 THE HEART OF THE DOCTOR 
 
 " Sgarabini," said the doctor at length, in his 
 smooth, conciliatory voice, " we haf put poor piz- 
 ness mit der Dagoes. Vhy ? " 
 
 " How do I know ? " returned the Italian, 
 sulkily. 
 
 " I nod care ter make much talk mit you, Sgara- 
 bini, bud if there be not many Italians at der 
 glinic to-morrer, you vill lose your job. I can vind 
 many fellers bedder than you." 
 
 Scarabini shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 " Do as you like," he replied. " It is not my 
 fault that your clinics fall off. It is that cursed 
 American who does it." 
 
 The doctor began to chuckle in his crafty way. 
 In spite of his bravado, Scarabini shivered as he 
 heard the hollow, heartless laugh. 
 
 " Gome here, Sgarabini," exclaimed the doctor. 
 
 Scarabini left the medicine bottles he was filling 
 from a two gallon crock in the corner of the office 
 and went over to the desk. He bent his hard, 
 black eyes upon the doctor, but could not catch the 
 shifty glance of the older man. 
 
 " Liz'en to me, Sgarabini," said the " Spaniard." 
 " You vill haf much drouble finding an American 
 vot vill do me. I understand them. I haf no fear 
 of that keed. Vot he can do ? But I know veil 
 who has made me der drouble. Eet is you, Sgara-
 
 SCARABINI'S DEFEAT 141 
 
 bini. Now, you vill pring me good glinic to-morrer 
 er out you goes." 
 
 Scarabini shrugged his shoulders with a fine 
 show of nonchalance. At heart he had small wish 
 to lose his position, for it gave him peculiar facili- 
 ties for promulgating a certain work among the 
 Italians which was very vital to him. As long as 
 he was connected with so great a mystery as medi- 
 cine, he was a power in the community. To be 
 sure, Burroughs was quietly but steadily breaking 
 down that influence, but there were means if 
 worst came to worst by which Burroughs could 
 be effectually silenced. 
 
 There was a large chromo-lithograph hanging on 
 the office wall just above the doctor's desk. It was 
 entitled " II Buono Samaritano," and was the one 
 concession of the Semitic mind bent upon building 
 up a Christian clientele. Scarabini's gaze rested 
 half unconsciously on this picture. The unlucky 
 traveler was represented as reclining upon the arm 
 of the good Samaritan, his wounds gaping in most 
 frightful fashion. There was one livid gash near 
 the heart. 
 
 " It is not high enough up," mused Scarabini ; 
 " and it is better to strike from behind." 
 
 Then he collected his thoughts and looked at the 
 doctor.
 
 142 THE HEART OF THE DOCTOR 
 
 " You may curse me for a dog if I do not bring 
 you a roomful of Dagoes to-morrow," he said, with 
 sudden energy. " I will get the better of that 
 American if " he stopped and looked up at the 
 wounds in the picture. 
 
 On the morning following, Burroughs set out to 
 make a round of visits. The long storms and ex- 
 treme cold had dealt very badly with the poor 
 people, and there was much sickness and distress. 
 As he passed the alley where Biaggio Carbone 
 lived, he saw a woman coming towards him. She 
 was bowed as if by age, yet she was not old. Her 
 eyes had a vacant look and she muttered to herself 
 as she approached. When she reached Burroughs 
 she stepped up to him, threw open her shawl, and 
 held up a bundle of rags. 
 
 " Eosa mia, Eosa mia piccola ! " she murmured. 
 
 Burroughs recognized her. She was the insane 
 wife of Carbone. 
 
 " Yes, yes," he said, gently, pulling the shawl 
 about her shoulders, for the wind was very pier- 
 cing. "Yes; Eosa." 
 
 She looked at him intently for a moment, the 
 pupils of her eyes dilating. Then she uttered a 
 wild shriek and cast herself down at his feet. 
 Burroughs raised and steadied her as best he could. 
 At her .cry, windows were opened and heads were
 
 SCAEABINI'S DEFEAT 143 
 
 thrust out. Two or three women rushed out of 
 doors, talking excitedly. The big-eyed boy, Car- 
 bone's oldest child, ran up the alley and took hold 
 of his mother, trying to soothe her apparent grief. 
 
 " She-a know-a youse," he panted, turning to 
 Burroughs. " She-a not know-a an'body till youse. 
 She-a say-a ' Dottore ! Dottore ! ' Youse 'ear-a 
 'er-a?" 
 
 Burroughs heard her with swelling heart. He 
 picked up the bundle of rags which the mother had 
 dropped and placed it in her arms. She turned a 
 wistful, half -intelligent gaze upon him and put out 
 a toil-scarred hand to pat his shoulder, murmuring 
 again and again with touching intonation, 
 
 " Rosa mia, Rosa mia. Dottore, il dottore ; si, 
 si." 
 
 The women and children who had crowded 
 around them talked incessantly. 
 
 " Poor theeng ! " said one, " she know-a 'eem. 
 'E eez good dottore ; 'e teck-a care Rosa." 
 
 " See ! " said another, " she kiss-a zee hand-a." 
 
 " I t'ink-a veel cry, zee dottore," said a third, 
 " see-a zee eye." 
 
 At that moment Scarabini emerged from a 
 neighboring tenement whither he had gone in a 
 vain search of patients for his employer. He stood 
 on the upper step of the house and looked down
 
 144 THE HEART OF THE DOCTOR 
 
 upon Burroughs and the crazed mother with a 
 sneer. Burroughs saw him and the cruel look in 
 his eyes. The student's wrath blazed up. 
 
 " See ! " he cried out in his rage. " This is your 
 work. Are n't you proud of it ? " 
 
 The moment he spoke he knew that he had 
 made a mistake, but his sympathies were strongly 
 stirred, and Scarabini's appearance was intoler- 
 able. 
 
 " Pah, you pig ! " exclaimed Scarabini, with an 
 ill-mannered gesture ; " what do I care for you ! 
 What about your own work ? How well you fool 
 the people ! They think you only are their friend. 
 It is easy enough to fool them. Sit up a few 
 nights, pat this child, kiss that baby, chuck that 
 pretty girl under the chin and the mischief is done, 
 curse you ! " 
 
 The people looked at Burroughs to see what he 
 would do, but he had reached his second thought, 
 and did not reply. Instead, he took the arm of 
 Carbone's wife as the boy guided her down the 
 alley to her tenement. And so kind was his man- 
 ner that when Scarabini cried, " See the coward ! 
 He dares not fight ! " a low hiss of scorn ran 
 around the group of spectators, and one woman, 
 bolder than the rest, stepped forward and shook 
 her fist at him, exclaiming,
 
 SCARABINI'S DEFEAT 145 
 
 " Ha ! Signore Scarabini, look well to yourself. 
 You will fool us no more. We have now a good 
 friend." 
 
 Burroughs learned from Carbone's boy that the 
 mother was as he had seen her at first that 
 she would sit all day playing like a child with the 
 bundle of rags she called Rosa. Sometimes, he 
 said, she would wander out on the street, but they 
 had no fear for her, since she always returned 
 safely. The father did not want her sent away, 
 and as she was harmless, the police let her stay 
 with the family, and a woman from the charities 
 came each week to care for her. The boy begged 
 Burroughs to come often, as he was the first per- 
 son she had recognized since Rosa's death. This 
 the student agreed to do, and left the poor creature 
 crooning in apparent happiness over her pitiful 
 bundle of rags. 
 
 Burroughs did not see Scarabini for several 
 weeks, but from time to time he was warned by 
 the Italians to beware of the defeated interpreter. 
 At all these warnings Burroughs only laughed. 
 He did not believe that he was of enough impor- 
 tance to excite continued hostility. He did not 
 know that the Spanish doctor had dismissed his 
 interpreter, and had taken down the picture of 
 " II Buono Sainaritano," since his business among
 
 146 THE HEART OF THE DOCTOR 
 
 the Italians had grown so small that he no longer 
 catered to their New Testament prejudices. From 
 that time on, he ceased to be an influence in the 
 Spring Hill region, and Scarabini, going into the 
 crayon portrait business with but small success, 
 became a fast-diminishing speck on Burroughs's 
 horizon.
 
 CHAPTEE XIV 
 THE NURSE OF DOMINIQUE 
 
 GAETANO KIZZA brought his little Dominique to 
 St. Luke's one day in March when a noted eye 
 specialist had a morning clinic. Burroughs stayed 
 away from school that day to attend the operations 
 and study the great doctor's methods. When 
 Dominique's turn came, his father brought him into 
 the office and began to talk at once. Rizza was a 
 grande signore who dressed well, wore a gold 
 watch and chain, and had a good business on the 
 avenue. 
 
 " See ! " he said, " I am not poor man. I pay 
 you well. I not take my boy to 'ospit'l, for there 
 they show all people to visitors. I not like all 
 folks look, look at my boy. My wife dead, but in 
 my house there is kind woman who will take good 
 care my boy when is fixed the eye. How much I 
 will pay ? " 
 
 Burroughs explained that the fee was alike for 
 all treatment and that St. Luke's was not a money- 
 making institution.
 
 148 THE HEART OF THE DOCTOR 
 
 "Yes, yes," replied Rizza, smiling, "then a 
 present. I will make to doctors a small present ; 
 yes." 
 
 The specialist examined Dominique's eye. 
 
 " You must take this child to the hospital," he 
 said. " He will need great care after the operation. 
 I cannot trust the neighbor woman. But," he 
 added to Burroughs, " it will be a fine operation. 
 You must tiy to see it. The progress of recovery 
 will be interesting, too. The whole thing would 
 be invaluable to you." 
 
 " Do it here," said Burroughs. " I will keep the 
 child. He can sleep in my bed and the nurse and 
 I will manage to take care of him in some way." 
 
 " Very well. I will proceed," said the specialist, 
 who was a man of quick thought and prompt 
 action. " Get your ether." 
 
 Rizza kissed his child and they laid the little 
 fellow on the operating table. The father sat 
 down by the window, pulled out a newspaper, and 
 pretended to read. The specialist worked quietly 
 and deftly. Burroughs did not lose a single point. 
 When the operation was finished, they carried the 
 child into the back room and put him to bed. 
 Burroughs and Rizza stayed until he came out 
 from the ether and then they left him in charge of 
 La Signorina. It was expected that after the
 
 THE NURSE OF DOMINIQUE 149 
 
 second night the child could go home to the care of 
 the neighbor. La Signorina was delighted with 
 the arrangement. She prepared broths and gruels 
 on top of the office stove, and turned the "back 
 alley " into a very interesting hospital ward. 
 Rizza was in and out of the dispensary all the 
 morning, meeting all expenses and expressing 
 great satisfaction with his boy's condition. 
 
 Early on the afternoon of the next day a young 
 woman, whose face and gown showed she was not 
 of the Spring Hill district, came up the street 
 toward St. Luke's. It was Margaret Worthington, 
 and she looked with dismayed interest at the dirty- 
 faced boys playing " Peggy " in the street, held 
 her skirts up carefully to avoid the dirt and turned 
 her face with real embarrassment from the frank 
 looks of interest bent upon her by the women in 
 the windows. La Signorina opened the door in 
 answer to the tinkle of the bell. 
 
 " Is this the nurse ? " asked the visitor, " and is 
 Mr. Burroughs in his office ? " 
 
 " I am nurse, but Dr. Burr's is not yet come 
 from school. He will come at half-past three. 
 You will wait for him ? " 
 
 " I will come in," said Margaret ; " but I will 
 not wait to see Mr. Burroughs, as my errand is 
 with you."
 
 150 THE HEART OF THE DOCTOR 
 
 The nurse led the way into the office and Mar- 
 garet's quick eye took in the details of the room. 
 She saw the " kid with a dog," she saw the mulatto 
 doll, she even noticed the lead pencils on the desk, 
 sharpened as Burroughs used to sharpen hers in 
 the high school with long, cleanly shaven points. 
 The tears sprang to her eyes in spite of her deter- 
 mination to be very calm. " This is where he 
 lives and works," she thought, and for a moment 
 she could not speak. Then she said, 
 
 " I have heard a great deal about the work that 
 you are doing here, and I have come to see if there 
 is anything I can do to help you. I am not very 
 experienced, but I am deeply interested, and per- 
 haps that will aid me in becoming useful. Will 
 you not let me do some little thing ? " 
 
 She did not realize the strength of appeal in her 
 voice, but La Signorina did. 
 
 " I am so glad you did come," the nurse an- 
 swered, after a moment's thought. " So much you 
 may help us. We have in other room a poor baby 
 who yesterday did have op'ration on the eye. At 
 home there is no mother, and Doctor Burr's not 
 like to send the poor baby to such home all alone. 
 If you will come for few days and sit by the 
 baby when is gone Doctor Burr's and I need make 
 the calls, so much good you may do."
 
 THE NURSE OF DOMINIQUE 151 
 
 " Is he very dirty ? " asked Margaret, feeling a 
 natural shrinking from possible unknown horrors. 
 La Signorina laughed. 
 
 " No, he is not dirt','' she said. " He is clean 
 when he do come and I have given good bath, too. 
 You need not be 'fraid." 
 
 She led the way through the waiting room and 
 raised the hasp on the door leading to the " back 
 alley." When Margaret saw the bandaged head 
 on the pillow of Burroughs's narrow bed in the 
 corner of the room, she quickly descended the 
 steps and bent over the little one. For a moment 
 she was silent, for her heart was beating very 
 swiftly. 
 
 " So good has Doctor Burr's been to poor little 
 boy ! " went on La Signorina, in her quiet voice. 
 " When the great doctor did make op'ration on the 
 eye, Doctor Burr's did say ' Let him stay here to- 
 night. I will take care.' When I go to my room 
 I say, ' Ah ! Dottore, how you will sleep to-night ? ' 
 And he say, ' I not care for to sleep, to-night, Sig- 
 norina, I have much to study and I sit up for that. 
 It is just 's well the boy do stay.' And then the 
 poor baby do cry much and say, ' Tata mio, tata 
 mio, baciami ! ' ' What he say, Signorina ? ' says 
 Doctor Burr's. I tell him poor baby want his papa 
 kiss him good-night. And then Doctor Burr's did
 
 152 THE HEART OF THE DOCTOR 
 
 put the arms close round the baby and kiss him so 
 gentl' and so kind and poor baby cannot see and 
 he think his papa has kissed him and so still he 
 lie in arms ,of Doctor Burr's and say so happy, 
 ' Tata mio, tata mio bello,' till he go sleep." 
 
 Margaret did not know why she trembled so, 
 but she laid the little bandaged head against her 
 breast and kissed the full red lips of the tiny 
 patient. 
 
 " I will stay gladly, Signorina," she said. 
 
 To come in touch with her lover's work and life 
 had been a growing desire of Margaret Worthing- 
 ton's heart. She was far from being the happy 
 girl her mother believed her to be, and the know- 
 ledge of Doctor Raymond's love for her had but 
 increased the sorrow in her heart. As the wish to 
 do something at St. Luke's increased, she laughed 
 at herself for entertaining such a thought. It was 
 only story book girls and lovelorn damsels upon 
 the stage who did such things, and she had always 
 believed that they were very silly and improbable 
 creatures. Yet finding a response to their sensa- 
 tions in her own breast, she began to believe that 
 life is as strange as literature and that the stress 
 of circumstance may develop unsuspected qualities. 
 It was through a member of the board of managers 
 that she learned that there were sometimes oppor-
 
 THE NURSE OF DOMINIQUE 153 
 
 tunities for helping at St. Luke's, and knowing that 
 Burroughs was absent from the dispensary several 
 hours each day, she had at length put her wishes 
 into action. She felt a little frightened now that 
 she had carried out her plan and she wondered how 
 the experiment would result. The nurse busied 
 herself with some sterilizing and Margaret sat by 
 the couch holding the boy's hand in hers. He was 
 half asleep and quite free from pain. Margaret 
 noted every detail of the room ; the odd jumble of 
 furniture, the fragments of carpet on the uneven 
 floor, the crowded but orderly corner where Bur- 
 roughs's trunk stood. And this was his home ! 
 
 " You will not need stay after quart' past three," 
 said La Signorina. " Doctor Burr's do come at 
 half past and soon I am through with the calls. 
 You will give med'cine at half-past two and little 
 drink of broth at three. Then, if you like, you 
 go; or if you like, you stay see Doctor Burr's. 
 You know him? He is nice young man." 
 
 " I have met him," said Margaret, quietly. 
 
 " Then you will like see him." 
 
 " No, not to-day," replied Margaret. 
 
 " Well, I go now," said La Signorina, whose 
 romance-loving heart had already begun to conjec- 
 ture about her guest. Then she put on her wraps, 
 kissed Dominique, and departed.
 
 154 THE HEART OF THE DOCTOR 
 
 Margaret dropped upon her knees and fell into 
 the absorption of prayer. How close she had come 
 to the heart she loved ! Her mind was in a chaos, 
 save for the one thought that she had drawn near 
 to Philip Burroughs. 
 
 La Signorina thought about her guest a good 
 deal that afternoon. The more she considered the 
 matter, the more certain she became that the 
 strange young woman had not come to St. Luke's 
 simply out of a love for the work. For what then ? 
 There could be but one possible reason. And she 
 had not told her name. She probably wished to 
 keep her identity hidden. Very well ! La Signor- 
 ina would be the last one to reveal the particulars 
 of her visit. If the visitor was the sweetheart 
 of Doctor Burroughs, La Signorina would not 
 give the young man the satisfaction of knowing 
 that his fiancee had been to the dispensary. If the 
 girl loved Burroughs in secret, surely La Signor- 
 ina would not betray her. She would have to tell 
 the interne that she had some one to care for 
 Dominique, but not one word describing the new 
 helper should pass her lips ; and as for names, she 
 could not reveal them, for she did not know them 
 herself. 
 
 " You need not send home Dominique this day," 
 she said the next morning, as she worked in the
 
 THE NURSE OF DOMINIQUE 155 
 
 store closet. " There is come a young lady who 
 will sit in afternoon with him." 
 
 " A young lady ! " exclaimed Burroughs, inter- 
 ested at once. " Who is she, and how did she 
 happen to come here ? " 
 
 "How I can tell? She did hear somewhere of 
 our work, and did come," replied the crafty nurse, 
 smiling to herself. " It is enough to know that 
 she do take good care of Dominique, and that he 
 do like her." 
 
 " Well, now, see here," said Burroughs, ap- 
 proaching the closet, " you need n't think you 're 
 going to have any attractive young ladies down 
 here without my seeing them. I shall come home 
 early to-day on purpose to see her. What 's her 
 name ? " 
 
 " Oh, what boy ! " cried the nurse, professing 
 great impatience. " If I should tell name, what 
 you would know ? Must you know everything ? 
 No, you shall not. I will not tell you when so 
 anxious you are. Go from here presto ! presto ! " 
 
 Burroughs laughed, and went into the office for 
 his hat. 
 
 " You remember what I say," he called back. 
 " I get out of school early to-day, and I shall come 
 down right away and see your pretty girl for 
 myself."
 
 156 THE HEART OF THE DOCTOR 
 
 "La, la, la!" laughed the nurse. "What I 
 care ? You go now to school ; not stop for talk. 
 Cattivo ragazzo ! " 
 
 Burroughs chuckled to himself, and went out. 
 
 That afternoon Margaret appeared at her post 
 promptly, and La Signorina lingered for a chat. 
 She allowed the conversation to drift around to 
 Burroughs, and she told the things she felt that her 
 visitor would like to hear ; stories of his kindness 
 to the poor, of his increasing earnestness in his 
 work, of the risk of contagion which he often ran, 
 and of how his patients were coming to love him. 
 
 " Doctor Burr's was poor boy," she said, " and 
 so he is sympathetic with these poor people. Other 
 doctors there have been here who were kind, but 
 they had not the same spir't as Doctor Burr's. 
 The rich can give money to the poor people, and 
 be good to them in one way, but it is only those 
 who know well how hard is it to be poor who can 
 give them the heart as Doctor Burr's gives. ' Ah, 
 Signorina,' will say Doctor Burr's when I tell him 
 too hard he do work, ' I am poor man. Must not 
 I be good to these poor men ? Why should I hold 
 myself too high to work for them ? Who will be 
 friends, if not you and I ? Will Spanish doctor ? 
 Will Scarabin' ? ' So good has Doctor Burr's 
 been to my poor people ; you cannot know."
 
 THE NURSE OF DOMINIQUE 157 
 
 "What a splendid man he must be for the 
 place ! " murmured Margaret. 
 
 "And so good he has been to me," continued 
 La Signorina, musing. " Sometimes so tired I am, 
 and much troubled with some things in Italy. 
 Then I tell all to Doctor Burr's, and he do give so 
 good advice, and say how sorry is he for me, and 
 then he laugh and say, ' Cheer up, Signorina, cheer 
 up ! The worst is yet to come.' And we both do 
 laugh, and I do feel better." 
 
 " Poor Phil," thought Margaret. " How often 
 I have heard him say that ! And something worse 
 has been before him a great many times. If 
 only his fortune would turn ! " 
 
 As they talked, little Dominique sat up in bed 
 holding the mulatto doll in close embrace, and 
 singing in his baby voice, 
 
 "'Oh, Maria! Oh, Maria ! 
 Quanta bella fa amore co tia ! 
 Oh, Maria ! Oh, Maria ! ' " 
 
 He knew only the opening lines of the frivolous 
 love-song, and he sang them over and over again. 
 
 "What is he singing, Signorina?" questioned 
 Margaret. 
 
 " Oh, it is silly song," said the nurse, shrugging 
 her shoulders. " It say, ' Oh, Maria ! Oh, Maria ! 
 How beautiful to make love to thee ! ' But you
 
 158 THE HEART OF THE DOCTOR 
 
 must not learn it, for it is not Italian it is 
 dialect." 
 
 Margaret did not learn it, but many times after- 
 ward the dull little air came back to her, and she 
 would seem to see the " back alley," and to hear 
 those words of La Signorina's which had been like 
 food to her hungry heart. 
 
 Soon afterward La Signorina went away, leav- 
 ing Margaret alone with the boy. She had 
 brought a bunch of violets with her that day, and 
 Dominique was delighted when she allowed him to 
 hold the bouquet in his hands. When he had 
 buried his nose in the blossoms as long as Mar- 
 garet thought was good for them, she put them in 
 a glass of water and set them upon the window 
 sill. Her mood was one of sadness. Rizza was to 
 take his son away the next day, and her experi- 
 ment would be over. She must not come again to 
 the dreary bit of a room which she had hallowed 
 with so many prayers. How empty her days 
 would be without this little mission. All had gone 
 well this time, but the risk of discovery was too 
 great, and she was too frank a girl continually to 
 deceive her father. The boy was growing restless, 
 and tugging at his bandages. Margaret lifted him 
 out of bed, and rocked him to and fro in her arms 
 as she sang a lullaby she had learned somewhere.
 
 THE NURSE OF DOMINIQUE 159 
 
 " The blue haze hangs o'er the far-off town, 
 
 Sleep, bambino, sleep, 
 And the little white ships rock up and down, 
 
 Sleep, bambino, sleep. 
 Mother will sing till her work is done 
 Midst the rollicking vines in the hillside sun, 
 Blue, and purple, and green they run 
 Sleep, bambino, sleep. 
 
 " Mouth for a grape and lips to kiss, 
 Sleep, bambino, sleep " 
 
 True to his word, Burroughs came home early, 
 and stood stock still in the centre of the waiting- 
 room, listening to the Voice. The door was closed ; 
 he could not see her. He took a step forward and 
 then stopped. He had remembered his promise. 
 He felt a bit dizzy, and put his hand to his head, 
 then stretched out his arms toward the door which 
 his sense of honor forbade him to open. She was 
 so near, and yet he must not see her ; so near, yet 
 he must hide himself from her sight. With a 
 moan of grief he crossed the entry into the office, 
 and shut the door. He sank into the chair before 
 the desk, and buried his face in his hands. He 
 sat thus, like one in a dream, until he heard her 
 step in the hall, and heard the street door close 
 behind her. His impulse was to look after her, 
 but the rigid Puritan conscience forbade him. 
 Instead, he went out into the back room, catching
 
 160 THE HEART OF THE DOCTOR 
 
 the fragrance of her violets, and seeing the chair 
 where she had sat drawn up beside the cot. He 
 seated himself mechanically in the place she had 
 just vacated, and there La Signorina found him 
 when she entered a little later. 
 
 It was like an open book to her. She saw the 
 flowers, and the man by the bedside. She placed 
 the violets in his hand, and looked into his eyes 
 with a sympathy which he could not mistake. 
 Neither spoke, yet from that instant each under- 
 stood the other perfectly.
 
 CHAPTER XV 
 A WORD OF WARNING 
 
 SPRING came to the old hill as well as to the 
 more favored neighborhoods. First the sky grew 
 very tender and the cold, steel-blue tones went out 
 of the waters of the harbor. Then, as the sun 
 mounted higher, and the days grew long and mild, 
 the grass in the burial ground awoke and the tree 
 tops turned a tender green. Soft airs drifted 
 across the city like the breath of a new hope, and 
 early one morning the liquid notes of a robin 
 sounded from the green arches of the graveyard 
 elms. Burroughs, listening, wondered what had 
 inspired this little wayfarer on chartless skies to 
 pause and sing above those ancient graves his song 
 of nature and eternal springtime. 
 
 Burroughs found himself encouraged as he 
 listened, for it is hard to be down-hearted when 
 every breeze whispers " Arise ! Rejoice ! " and the 
 world-old miracle of nature's triumph over death 
 is being performed before one's very eyes. Bur- 
 roughs took heart. Perhaps matters would im-
 
 162 THE HEART OP THE DOCTOR 
 
 prove. Certainly great changes lay before him, 
 for he was entering the last month of his medical 
 course and the future, although unknown, held 
 possibilities of vital import. He was already look- 
 ing about him for a professional opening. 
 
 One evening as he was listening to one of Miss 
 Cutter's tirades he saw Raymond coming up the 
 hill. 
 
 44 It 's a long time since you 've scraped on the 
 blinds, Walter," Burroughs said in greeting. 
 
 Raymond drew his walking stick down the 
 shutters of the office window. It was an old 
 signal between the friends. 
 
 44 Yes," he replied, " and to-night it is of no use 
 to do it, for the shutters are not drawn and you 
 are not in the office. Phil, old boy ! It 's good to 
 see you. I 've been a perfect heathen to neglect 
 you so." 
 
 Then catching sight of Miss Cutter in her door- 
 way, he added, " Hello ! There 's that funny old 
 woman. Do you suppose she would let me snap 
 my camera at her sometime ? " 
 
 44 1 '11 ask her," said Burroughs. 
 
 44 My fortygraf ! " exclaimed Miss Cutter. 
 44 Wai, mebbe I might ef you '11 stand up 'longside 
 er me, dar-tory ; this way. There ! how 'd that 
 do?" she added, addressing Raymond.
 
 A WORD OF WARNING 163 
 
 " Finely. I wish I had my camera here now." 
 
 Miss Cutter slipped her arm through Burroughs's 
 and executed a few sprightly steps. 
 
 " There ! " she exclaimed, tossing her head, 
 "Look at us now. Arm in arm, arm in arm! 
 Ain't we a fine lookin' couple ? " 
 
 Raymond was very sure that they were, and 
 disentangling themselves from Miss Cutter's society 
 as soon as they could, the two went off for a sher- 
 bet at Pastorelli's and a stroll through the streets, 
 boisterous with light-hearted mirth and overflowing 
 with picturesque life. When Burroughs had been 
 kissed by Pastorelli's wife and Raymond had fed 
 peanuts to Giorgio, they sat down at the little 
 marble-topped table behind the screen. Pastorelli's 
 wife brought the sherbet from the refrigerator, 
 patted them upon their shoulders and murmured, 
 "Nice-a, nice-a," with her usual eloquence of smile 
 and gesture. But instead of leaving them to 
 themselves, she stopped hesitantly and looked at 
 Burroughs as if wishing to say something, yet not 
 knowing how to begin. 
 
 " What is it? " asked the interne. 
 
 " Know-a Scarabin' ? Yes-a ? " she whispered. 
 
 " Yes," Burroughs replied. 
 
 "Tek-a much-a care-a, dottore," she went on, 
 whispering still.
 
 164 THE HEART OF THE DOCTOR 
 
 " Why ? " queried Burroughs. 
 
 " 'Sh ! 'sh ! " she continued, holding up a warn- 
 ing hand. "Scarabin' no like-a dottore. 'Sh! 
 'sh! " 
 
 " I 'm not afraid of Scarabini," laughed Bur- 
 roughs. 
 
 But Pastorelli's wife continued to utter occa- 
 sional notes of warning as the two men ate their 
 sherbet, and when they went out of the shop Ray- 
 mond said, 
 
 " I warned you long ago against Scarabini. He 
 is certainly dangerous." 
 
 " I 'm not afraid of him. He is a bully, and 
 bullies are always cowards." 
 
 "Not always." 
 
 " Ugh ! " exclaimed Burroughs, " one would 
 think we were living in the dark ages. That 
 sherbet must have gone to your head, Raymond. 
 It is perfectly safe down here for an American. 
 It is only the Dagoes who go out on the streets by 
 night and settle their differences with the sti- 
 letto." 
 
 " But that woman seemed to have a pretty defi- 
 nite idea in her mind," persisted Raymond. 
 
 " Oh, she 's a susceptible creature. Her notions 
 have no value." 
 
 Raymond let the subject drop, and the two men
 
 A WORD OF WARNING 165 
 
 wandered along the streets peeping in the shop 
 windows, pricing the squids and eels exposed for 
 sale on handcarts, and pausing now and then to 
 talk with some smiling retainer of the dispensary. 
 Burroughs was especially anxious that Raymond 
 should see Mikey. Mikey was his prize baby, for 
 he had pulled him through many trying experiences. 
 It had been the unfortunate baby's lot to suffer 
 many things during his brief sojourn in this vale 
 of tears. One time, as Burroughs explained to 
 Eaymond, the parents of Mikey had brought him 
 to St. Luke's in an unconscious condition. Bur- 
 roughs would not have known how to prescribe 
 had it not been for La Signorina, who was well 
 versed in the mysteries of Sicilian child-culture. 
 She had at once charged the parents with having 
 drugged their baby. No ; no ! Heaven itself 
 should hear them declare their innocence. But 
 she had persisted and they at length confessed that 
 they had fed Mikey with whiskey to make him 
 sleep so that they could attend a funeral and ride 
 in the procession. 
 
 The young men found Mikey playing in the 
 gutter in front of his humble home. He was about 
 two years old and had a small, shrunken body and 
 a heavy head covered with tangled, curly hair. He 
 wore a single short garment and his rickety little
 
 166 THE HEART OF THE DOCTOR 
 
 legs were black with the mud of the street. When 
 an older brother saw the men gazing at Mikey, he 
 rushed out and carried the top-heavy baby into the 
 house, scowling savagely at the inquisitive Ameri- 
 cans. The mother, looking out of the window, saw 
 this incident and hurried downstairs. She met 
 the boy with his burden half way up and took 
 Mikey in her arms, administering a slap to the 
 older child which was distinctly audible on the 
 sidewalk. Then she came out to greet il dottore, 
 smiling and bowing, with Mikey on her arm. 
 
 Burroughs's knowledge of Italian was restricted 
 to a few phrases of dialect, which greatly distressed 
 La Signorina. He called all babies " bambino " 
 regardless of sex, and he knew the words for spoon, 
 glass of water and a few other objects frequently 
 employed in his professional duties. He considered 
 Mikey 's mother a good subject for practice, and so 
 he repeated all the phrases he knew, to her great 
 interest but small enlightenment. So pleased was 
 she by his attentions that when Burroughs turned 
 to go, she bade Mikey "Shek a day-day to dot- 
 tore," adding, with sweet persuasiveness, " Kees-a 
 dottore," a suggestion which Mikey was so quick 
 to act upon that, before Burroughs realized what 
 was going to happen, Mikey had stuck out his 
 tongue and lapped the student's face. Mikey's
 
 A WORD OF WARNING 167 
 
 mouth was full of molasses taffy. Burroughs 
 jumped back when it was too late and the mother 
 held up her darling to Raymond. 
 
 " Kees-a, kees-a," she said, sweetly. 
 
 " Don't disturb the little one, madam," Raymond 
 exclaimed, as he dodged and both men beat a hasty 
 retreat. 
 
 When Burroughs had wiped the molasses from 
 his face and Raymond had stopped laughing at 
 him, the latter said, 
 
 " No more Mikeys to-night, if you please. Let 's 
 go down on the terraces." 
 
 As they walked thither a young man beckoned 
 Burroughs aside and held him in conversation for 
 a few moments. When the student rejoined his 
 friend he said, 
 
 " Do you remember that * heart ' case I had in 
 the winter? That fellow who spoke to me just 
 now is a cousin of Barone, the lover. He says 
 Barone is coming to town next Thursday to hear 
 his sweetheart, Celestia Carmanti, sing at the 
 opera house." 
 
 " Oh, I know about her I heard her sing at 
 Mrs. Stebbins's tea in January. She 's a pretty 
 girl and she has a superb voice. I did n't realize 
 that she was the lovelorn damsel you told me 
 about. It's a shame," he went on, after a mo-
 
 168 THE HEART OF THE DOCTOR 
 
 ment's thought, " that a pretty girl like her can't 
 marry the man she wants to. Such cases are 
 always sad." 
 
 Some children on the terraces were playing 
 " London Bridge," under an electric light, and 
 Burroughs and Raymond seated themselves on a 
 neighboring settee to watch the game. They were 
 amused to find that the old rhyme had been revised 
 and that instead of being ordered off to prison it 
 was 
 
 " Down to the Island you most go, 
 My fair lady, oh ! " 
 
 Thus were the children's games tinged by their 
 surroundings. When the game was over and the 
 children were picking up the moths that had met 
 death in the enticing glare of the arc-lamp, Ray- 
 mond said, 
 
 " I can't keep that pretty little Italian girl out 
 of my mind. I wish I could do something for 
 her." 
 
 " The best thing you could do for Celestia would 
 be to interest some rich woman in her ; some one 
 who would send her to Europe for a year's study." 
 
 " Would such a glittering prospect soften the 
 heart of Carmanti padre ? " 
 
 " So that he would ' let marry Celestia the good 
 Barone,' as La Signorina says ? No, I do not
 
 A WORD OF WARNING 169 
 
 think so. I am inclined to believe that the Angel 
 Gabriel himself would not be good enough for 
 Celestia if she were patronized by the uptown 
 people." 
 
 " But I want to help her marry Barone," urged 
 Eaymond. " I believe I will elope with her 
 acting as Barone's deputy, of course." 
 
 " You 'd better not," laughed Burroughs. " You 
 would get into trouble." * 
 
 " I 'm not so sure of that. Now, if I came like 
 a serenader under her window some night, don't 
 you suppose that she would jump out and run away 
 with me ? to Barone, you understand ? " 
 
 " That sounds like What 's-his-name in the Mer- 
 chant of Venice." 
 
 " It does a little, and the setting is quite Italian, 
 although the canals and gondoliers are lacking. 
 Jove ! What a lark it would be! I'd like to do 
 it." 
 
 " You take care. Don't get mixed up in any 
 Italian scrapes. But of course you are joking." 
 
 " Certainly," laughed Raymond, lightly, as he 
 rose. " Well, I must get me up into the land of 
 conventionalities. I believe there 's twice as much 
 fun to be had down here as there is among us who 
 are trussed up with a hundred rules of etiquette." 
 
 "Perhaps so," returned Burroughs. "I don't
 
 170 THE HEART OF THE DOCTOR 
 
 quite see the funny side. You are in a better posi- 
 tion to judge about the matter than I." 
 
 As they went toward the Avenue, Burroughs 
 pointed to a certain tenement house. 
 
 " There 's where Barone will stop when he comes 
 to town, Thursday. It 's where he used to board, 
 and his cousin lives there." 
 
 " Does he ? " returned Raymond, showing little 
 interest, and Burroughs did not see the suggestion 
 of a smile that flitted over his friend's face as he 
 looked at the building.
 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 CELESTIA'S ELOPEMENT 
 
 CELESTIA'S recital took place at the opera house 
 the following Thursday afternoon. 
 
 That evening at eleven o'clock Burroughs 
 yawned over his books, stacked them above his 
 desk, and blew out his lamp. Then he pushed up 
 the window shade, threw up the sash, and put his 
 head out. It was a mild night in May, and the 
 moon was full. The towers of Santa Maria, as 
 elfin as battlements of fairy land, raised crosses of 
 silver upon its neighboring pinnacles. The crude 
 bulk of tenements to right and left was blurred and 
 softened like castles on the hills of sleep. The 
 street lay half in shadow, half in moonlight. 
 
 There was a suggestion of far-off music the 
 tinkle of mandolins, the soft cadenza of guitars. 
 Then a group of serenaders turned the corner and 
 came up the street. They paused before old 
 Pietro's house and stood in the shadow. The 
 velvet pleading of the guitars swelled and died 
 away ; the mandolins quivered like a lover's voice,
 
 172 THE HEART OF THE DOCTOR 
 
 tremulous with emotion. Burroughs listened in a 
 sort of ecstasy. The hour, the moonlight, the in- 
 effable charm of the music, swept every workaday 
 impulse from his mind. He, the prosaic and un- 
 sentimental, fell under the thrall of the music and 
 listened as in a dream. It seemed to him that 
 there were roses roses and moonlight. . . . Ah ! 
 what moonlight ! . . . and he was at absolute 
 peace ; so happy ; so undisturbed. . . . How the 
 music swayed and swooned ! . . . Was it music or 
 was it moonlight ? . . . And were there roses . . . 
 or were they poppies ... or was it the perfume 
 of Her breath upon his cheek ? 
 
 The serenaders played the allegretto movement 
 from the " Poet and Peasant " overture. A late 
 straggler wandered homeward, dragging heavy feet 
 over the pavement ; there was the clang of the 
 ferry bell, the rumbling of a cart on the neighbor- 
 ing thoroughfare. Burroughs was conscious of 
 these sounds from the every-day world, but they 
 did not break the spell, they simply intensified 
 it. Then a man 's singing voice drifted in on his 
 dream and he was vaguely conscious of the words : 
 
 " Where were there ever lips so soft and sweet as thine ? 
 Two red lips so full and warm, lips as red as wine ! 
 Heaven and earth are moonlight when the day is done ; 
 Give me thy lips, Love, and let us breathe as one !
 
 CELESTIA'S ELOPEMENT 173 
 
 For hark, i mandolin! ! Hark, the fairy strain ! 
 While the mellow moonlight falls like summer rain. 
 All the world is music, all my heart is thine ; 
 Folded in mine arms, Love, drink my soul as wine ! 
 For hark, i mandolin! ! Hark, the fairy strain ! 
 While the misty moonlight falls like summer rain ! " 
 
 There was something very familiar in the rap- 
 turous tenor voice that floated so pleadingly on 
 the spring air. Burroughs collected himself and be- 
 gan to think. It was certainly Raymond's voice. 
 Some one had once said that Raymond was a per- 
 fect moonlight tenor and Burroughs knew it now. 
 Then what his friend had said flashed through his 
 mind. 
 
 " I 'd like to know," he thought, " if Walter is 
 carrying out that Lorenzo and Jessica plan. I 
 fancy it 's a good time for me to be out of sight, 
 for if he is going to run away with Celestia, it will 
 be a bit more comfortable not to have seen him 
 do it." 
 
 Burroughs leaned out to draw his shutters. 
 Raymond had ceased singing and the mandolins 
 were tinkling persuasively. Burroughs did not 
 know it, but the air they played was the prelude 
 to the song by which Celestia had won a triumph 
 that afternoon. The interne paused a moment to 
 listen, and he heard the young cantatrice take up 
 the opening notes,
 
 174 THE HEART OF THE DOCTOR 
 
 " Ogni sera di sotto al mio balcone 
 Sento cantare una canson d' amore. 
 Piu volte la ripete un bel garzone 
 E batter mi sento forte, il cuore." 
 
 There was a splendid restraint of rapture in the 
 passionate young voice ; the art was almost fault- 
 less. The mandolins tinkled vibrantly, a quiver- 
 ing background to the splendid notes, 
 
 " O ! com' e bella quella melodia ? 
 O ! quant' e dolce e quanta m' e gradita ? " 
 
 The voice rose higher and higher ; it was like 
 the soul of a woman melted into music ; the moon- 
 flooded night seemed to pause breathless, for the 
 glorious climax. 
 
 When it was over, Burroughs drew in his head 
 with a sigh of complete satisfaction. It was the 
 most wonderfully beautiful experience of his life. 
 He stumbled in the darkness through the waiting 
 room to the " back alley," lit his lamp, and made 
 preparations to retire. The room was horribly 
 dingy ; the lamp smoked ; it needed a new wick. 
 Burroughs felt that his whole life had been prose 
 and spluttering lamps. After he had darkened 
 the room and crawled into bed, he heard the sound 
 of approaching mandolins. He -heard subdued 
 voices and footsteps passing the office window. 
 Then the familiar sound of scraping on the shutter
 
 CELESTIA'S ELOPEMENT 175 
 
 assured him that his friend was passing. He 
 sprang out of bed, but the footsteps did not pause 
 and he crept back again. With many conflicting 
 emotions, he lay listening as the sound of music 
 died away in the distance. 
 
 " How happy and care free that fellow is ! " he 
 thought. " The whole world is an open door to 
 him. Was Celestia with him, I wonder ? If so, I 
 suppose Barone has his wish. I shall know whom 
 to employ when I elope. How happy Barone will 
 be ! The old man will forgive them, of course. 
 God ! If there was only such luck in store for me ! 
 But it's 'Grin and bear it,' I suppose." Then, 
 "You fool! brace up." And last of all, as he 
 drifted into sleep, that cry of longing which never 
 slept within his breast, " Margaret Margaret 
 Margaret ! "
 
 CHAPTER XVII 
 THE FEAST OF RECONCILIATION 
 
 THE next morning old Pietro Carmanti awoke 
 feeling perfectly satisfied with himself, Celestia, 
 and the world at large. He was even well pleased 
 with Barone, for, chancing to be in the city the 
 night before, the young man had called to pay his 
 respects to the family, and had shown by every 
 look and gesture that his love of Celestia was a 
 thing of the past. More than that, when a party 
 of serenaders had honored the daughter by play- 
 ing beneath her windows, and Celestia had gone 
 into the front room to sing for them, Barone had 
 confessed to Pietro that he recognized his former 
 folly, knowing now, as he himself expressed it, 
 that he had been as presumptuous as a moth look- 
 ing at a star. 
 
 Pietro lay in bed, mentally counting the money 
 which he knew bulged from a certain old leather 
 pocketbook hidden between the mattresses. On 
 his return from the opera house the previous after- 
 noon, when flushed by pride and the excitement of
 
 THE FEAST OF RECONCILIATION 177 
 
 the hour, he had bidden all his friends to a feast 
 and dance on the following Sunday afternoon and 
 evening in honor of his daughter. He could well 
 afford to do it. Celestia would wear her beautiful 
 new gown, there would be plenty of good wine, 
 and the ice cream should be ordered from an up- 
 town caterer. Pietro was not a poor man. He 
 could do a good thing for his daughter if he chose. 
 Yes! 
 
 When the mother awoke she rose and made the 
 kitchen fire. It did not take long to get breakfast 
 for the two, as they ate bread and cheese, and 
 drank tea. But when Celestia, who would sleep 
 late that morning, was ready for her breakfast, she 
 must have a chop, a soft boiled egg, and plenty of 
 fresh milk. There was time enough to prepare 
 that when she woke. The concert had been the 
 greatest event of their lives, and the father and 
 mother could talk of nothing but the beautiful 
 costumes of the ladies, the splendors of the opera 
 house, and the heavenly manner in which their 
 darling had sung. As time went by, Celestia's 
 mother began to grow restless. 
 
 " I wish that my sweet pet would wake," she 
 said. " There are so many things to ask. How 
 think you all those player-men knew so well the 
 difficult songs ? "
 
 178 THE HEART OF THE DOCTOR 
 
 " Celestia did tell them, I think," said Pietro. 
 " I saw her look at the head man when first she 
 came out." 
 
 " Was it not most wonderful ! She looked at 
 him as if she were a countess, and he was to take 
 her commands. And he such a fiue gentleman ! 
 Ah, it is a great lady our Celestia will be some 
 day." 
 
 " Yes. When I did see her so beautiful and so 
 smiling, and all the gentlemen so carefully playing 
 for her, * Ah ! ' I thought, ' it is to one of those 
 player-men I would like to marry Celestia ! ' ' 
 
 " Which one did you like best ? " asked the 
 mother, eagerly, her face suffused with a look of 
 maternal pride. 
 
 " I know not surely, but I think the one with 
 the great brass horn that went over the head and 
 had so large a mouth." 
 
 " Ah ! But I liked better the man at the end 
 who played many things the drums, the bells, 
 and I know not what else." 
 
 "Yes, perhaps," the father assented, thought- 
 fully, " but we need not decide in haste. Still, I 
 like best the great brass horn." 
 
 The mother grew impatient. She tiptoed to the 
 door of her daughter's room and opened it care- 
 fully.
 
 THE FEAST OF RECONCILIATION 179 
 
 " One peep I must have," she whispered, " to 
 see if my darling sleeps well." 
 
 She put her head in at the door and looked 
 toward the bed. There was no one in it. Seized 
 by a sudden trembling she stepped into the room. 
 It was in its usual order. The shutters were 
 closed ; the shades were drawn. In the half light 
 she could see Celestia's white gown spread upon 
 the chairs where she had left it the night before, 
 and the little satin shoes were on the dressing 
 case. Nothing seemed changed excepting that the 
 lamp in front of the Virgin's picture had gone 
 out, and that the rosary was missing from the 
 prie-dieu. 
 
 The mother's cry brought Pietro to the spot. 
 He saw the untouched bed, and groaned. A door 
 led from the room to the public hall of the house. 
 This door was kept carefully bolted. Pietro 
 examined it and found that the bolt was drawn. 
 Celestia was gone ; whether of her own accord or 
 on compulsion he could not be sure. There was 
 no sign of a struggle, and it seemed probable that 
 she had left the house voluntarily. But with 
 whom had she gone ? Pietro thought of Barone 
 at once. It could not be he, for he had taken 
 Pietro out for a sherbet at the end of his call. 
 When did she go? She was in the house at
 
 180 THE HEART OF THE DOCTOR 
 
 eleven o'clock, for it was after that hour when she 
 sang for the serenaders. Mystery of mysteries! 
 Pietro ran to the tenements upstairs, calling out 
 in his frenzy to know if she were there. The 
 women above stairs caught up their babies and 
 hurried down to the sidewalk, where Pietro's wife 
 was spreading the dreadful news at the top of her 
 voice. Every one talked at once ; every one had 
 a different theory ; every one offered an impracti- 
 cable suggestion. To cap the climax, Pastore's 
 old dog contributed his mite to the general hubbub 
 by lifting up his voice in a series of prolonged, 
 though wind-broken howls. 
 
 At that moment a woman in an upper window 
 of a neighboring house cried, " See ! " and pointed 
 down the street. Every one looked, and what ap- 
 peared to their astonished gaze but the figures of 
 Celestia and Barone, advancing arm in arm with 
 an air of serenity which was the complete antithe- 
 sis of the excitement on the hill. When the 
 mother saw them she uttered a cry of delight, ran 
 down the street, and caught her daughter in her 
 arms. Barone smiled indulgently at the demon- 
 stration, and laughing and crying by turns, Pietro's 
 wife led them up the hill. The people advanced 
 to meet them. Barone carried his head very high, 
 but Celestia smiled shyly, and looked down as her
 
 THE FEAST OF RECONCILIATION 181 
 
 mother pushed aside the curious neighbors, an- 
 nouncing the while that the two were married, and 
 that she for one was perfectly satisfied. 
 
 Pietro had hung back. He could not decide 
 what role to assume. If Celestia were truly mar- 
 ried, perhaps it would be better to accept the fact 
 gracefully than to let the crowd know that he, 
 the astute, had been checkmated. He could not 
 imagine how Barone had fooled him, but time 
 would reveal that. Seeing that he made no ad- 
 vances, Celestia went to him and held up her lips. 
 There was a hint of tears in her eyes. 
 
 " My good daddy will forgive his little girl, and 
 kiss her on her wedding morning?" she mur- 
 mured. 
 
 What could old Pietro do? 
 
 The four went into the house, closing the door 
 upon their clamorous neighbors. Then Barone 
 told his story. The plan had been made by a 
 friend of his there was no need to tell the name. 
 Barone had simply followed directions. It had 
 been his part to engage the father's attention while 
 his friend and a party of students had serenaded 
 Celestia under her windows. Why had he been 
 chosen to detain Pietro ? How could he tell ? He 
 had not planned it. It gave an added spice of 
 excitement to the elopement, he supposed. When
 
 182 THE HEART OF THE DOCTOR 
 
 Celestia's song was ended she had wrapped herself 
 in a shawl, slipped quietly from her room, and 
 gone with the serenaders. Whither? To the 
 house of a sympathetic aunt four blocks distant. 
 Then, lest .Pietro should wonder that Celestia did 
 not return to the kitchen to say good-night before 
 retiring, Barone had taken him out for a sherbet. 
 The mother was already in bed ; she thought no- 
 thing. Then Barone had gone to his lodging 
 place for the night, and that morning he had 
 called for Celestia and taken her to the City Hall, 
 where they had been married. See ! Here was 
 the certificate. And would the good father for- 
 give Barone ? The good father was not quite sure 
 whether he would or not. It was very hard for 
 him to swallow his pride ; to own himself and his 
 fine plans defeated. As he hesitated Celestia put 
 her arm around his neck. 
 
 " See, Daddy," she said, persuasively, " this is 
 the present which my sweet Salvatore has given 
 me." 
 
 It was a gold watch with a long, richly chased 
 chain. Pietro never knew it, but Raymond's 
 money, and not Barone's, had paid for the pretty 
 gift. Pietro fixed his black eyes upon the watch. 
 " This Barone is not so bad a fellow," he thought. 
 
 Then Salvatore began to boast. He drew a
 
 THE FEAST OF RECONCILIATION 183 
 
 wonderful picture of his recent financial success ; 
 spoke of the prominence he had attained in the 
 local society of the " Sons of Italy " in his new 
 home ; told of the grand ball he had opened on 
 Shrove Tuesday evening; hinted at the suite of 
 rooms he had fitted up for his bride, and ended by 
 nonchalantly exhibiting a bank note, announcing 
 with a shrug that it was nothing at all enough, 
 perhaps, to buy a piano for Celestia, nothing 
 more. And would the kind father forgive him, 
 and accept him as a son-in-law ? 
 
 What could old Pietro do ? 
 
 It was soon noised abroad that the party on 
 Sunday afternoon would take the form of a wed- 
 ding celebration. The festivities were to be con- 
 ducted upon a most lavish scale, and Burroughs 
 and Raymond were invited. 
 
 " Now," said La Signorina, " do you not wish 
 you had taken pain to learn my language ? What 
 you will do when all talk Italian and you can 
 understand nothing ? " 
 
 "I can say something, anyway," laughed Bur- 
 roughs. " I can say, ' Com star ' to the bride, and 
 if any one says it to me, I know enough to 
 answer." 
 
 " Yes ; and what you will say do sound like 
 * benny gratsoo.' Why you will talk dialect?
 
 184 THE HEART OF THE DOCTOR 
 
 Why you will not say, ' Come sta ' and ' Bene, 
 grazie,' like gentleman ? " 
 
 Burroughs laughed, and said that the kind of 
 people he had to talk to seemed to understand 
 him, and that was all .he cared. 
 
 " I feel positively nervous," said Raymond the 
 following Sunday, as they approached the house of 
 feasting. " I am afraid I shall make some awful 
 break." 
 
 " You ! " laughed Burroughs. 
 
 " Yes. We are distinguished guests, and if we 
 should do anything contrary to custom it would 
 make Celestia feel dreadfully. I am not up in the 
 etiquette of this particular circle." 
 
 " Neither am I," replied Burroughs. " We can 
 only keep our eyes open and trust to luck." 
 
 " And for mercy's sake, don't try to get off any 
 of your mongrel Italian." 
 
 " What do you take me for ? " returned Bur- 
 roughs in disgust. 
 
 The rooms were overflowing with people. Every 
 one was in the best of humor and there was much 
 laughter and the music of a mandolin and guitar 
 orchestra. The entrance of the two young men 
 caused quite a flurry of excitement. A whisper 
 went through the rooms that these were two of the 
 men who had helped in the elopement. Barone had
 
 THE FEAST OF RECONCILIATION 185 
 
 admitted that his assistants were not of his own 
 nationality, and deductions were easy to make. 
 Handsome Raymond towered above the majority 
 of the guests, and when he gallantly kissed the 
 bride, a dozen pretty Italian girls fell in love with 
 him. Celestia, the warm blood pulsing beneath 
 the olive brown of her cheeks, received the con- 
 gratulations of her friends with a proper diffidence, 
 exhibiting her new watch and chain and telling 
 every one that she was perfectly happy. Barone 
 was practically speechless with joy, and Pietro and 
 his wife beamed with a complacency augmented 
 by the thought of the big bank note and Salvatore's 
 social triumphs at the Mardi Gras ball. 
 
 Somebody with a deep bass voice sang a solo 
 accompanied by the guitars. It was evidently a 
 comic song, for there was much applause and 
 laughter. 
 
 " I wonder what it 's about," said Raymond. 
 " Imagine being the only people in the room who 
 cannot understand ! I feel as if I were a thousand 
 miles from home." 
 
 Cake and ice cream were being constantly passed 
 among the guests, and Burroughs and his friend 
 were well supplied. They toasted the bride in 
 tiny bumpers of something so strong that it set 
 them choking and spluttering in most ignominious
 
 186 THE HEART OF THE DOCTOR 
 
 confusion. Everybody laughed good-naturedly, 
 and that was the only breach of etiquette of which 
 the two Americans were guilty. 
 
 In the midst of the jollity, Scarabini entered. 
 He came in quietly, spoke to Pietro and his wife, 
 and then went over to the bridal couple. Barone 
 shook hands good-naturedly. He could afford to 
 be magnanimous to his former rival, since he had 
 won the prize. But when Scarabini extended his 
 hand to Celestia, she drew back and looked at him 
 coldly without speaking. 
 
 " Diavolo ! " exclaimed Scarabini, under his 
 breath. 
 
 As he turned away, he met Burroughs's steady, 
 disconcerting gaze. The interne had witnessed 
 the little episode and there was an exultant gleam 
 in his eyes. For an instant the two men looked 
 at each other. Then Scarabini dropped his eyes 
 and made his way out of the room. From that 
 hour he abandoned himself to a single thought, 
 which was destined to eat into his soul until there 
 was no rest for him on earth or in heaven. 
 
 When the dancing began, Barone led off with 
 his wife, and other couples followed. Then Uncle 
 Tommaso danced with the bride and every one else 
 formed a circle around the edge of the room to 
 watch them. Uncle Tommaso was a man of ample
 
 THE FEAST OF RECONCILIATION 187 
 
 proportions, but he footed it bravely, and little 
 Celestia never looked more dainty tban when she 
 swung around the room in his panting embrace. 
 Soon after, Burroughs and Kaymond made their 
 adieus and withdrew. They went over to the 
 burying ground and sat in the soft twilight listen- 
 ing to the music and laughter which issued from 
 Pietro's house. 
 
 " ' Well, the gods give us joy ! ' " quoted Ray- 
 mond, and then they sat in silence, each busied 
 with his own thoughts. Their musings were dis- 
 similar, yet emanating from the same group of 
 suggestions. Neither dared trust himself to speak 
 for a time, but at length Burroughs said with a 
 sigh only half suppressed, 
 
 " And all things come to him who waits." 
 
 " Yes ? " questioned his friend. " Do you be- 
 lieve that ? You forget that Barone did not wait." 
 
 And Burroughs answered, as if unconscious that 
 he spoke aloud, " You must not tempt me." 
 
 " Now what in the world does he mean by that ? " 
 thought the young doctor to himself.
 
 CHAPTER XVIII 
 A MEETING OF THE LADY-BOARD 
 
 ONE morning Miss Cutter showed unusual signs 
 of activity. Before the majority of Spring Hill 
 people were astir she was throwing dipperfuls of 
 water on her sidewalk and sweeping it vigorously. 
 Then she washed her sitting-room window, and a 
 little later, arrayed in her Sunday cap and best 
 lawn apron, she stood in her doorway waiting for 
 La Signorina. 
 
 " Good-inornin'," she said when the nurse ap- 
 peared. " It 's a fine day for the Lady-board, 
 ain't it?" 
 
 " Yes, I t'ink," said La Signorina. 
 
 " I s'pose they 've got a great lot er new notions 
 sence the last meetin' and air castles enough ter 
 fill up the hull er Spring Hill. I'll hev a fine 
 time talkin' ter 'em. There '11 be Miss Marvin, 
 most likely a-ridin' her wheel-thing, 'n' old lady 
 Stebbins come in her kerri'ge with that there 
 stuck-up coachman, 'n' Miss Henrietta Terrell will 
 ad-vance with that delicate walk er hers, ez ef she
 
 A MEETING OF THE LADY-BOARD 189 
 
 was steppin' on eggs. Ef I weighed two hundred 
 'n' fifty I would n't try ter make folks think I was 
 light on my feet. She puts 'em down ser soft 'n' 
 ser easy ; looks 's ef she had corns." 
 
 " Miss Cutt', Miss Cutt'," laughed the nurse, 
 " why you say all so bad of Miss Terr'l ? She is 
 aU right." 
 
 " Yer mean she thinks she 's all right," cackled 
 Miss Cutter. " They all think they 're all right, 
 but it 's air castles, air castles, air castles ! " 
 
 The first of the committee to arrive was Miss 
 Marvin. As Miss Cutter had predicted, she came 
 on her bicycle. Miss Cutter went out to greet 
 her. 
 
 " Good-mornin', Miss Marvin," she said, sub- 
 duing her voice to what she considered a genteel 
 conversational tone. " So yer still a-ridin' that 
 there monkey thing ? " 
 
 "How do you do, Miss Cutter? Yes, I still 
 ride my bicycle." 
 
 " Wai, I should n't think yer 'd do it. Ladies 
 did n't do sech things when I wuz young." 
 
 " When you were young, Miss Cutter ! " ex- 
 claimed Miss Marvin with a fine show of surprise. 
 " Why, you 're young now, are n't you ? " 
 
 Miss Cutter chuckled in self-satisfaction. 
 
 " Wai, I ain't ser old ez I might be," she re-
 
 190 THE HEART OF THE DOCTOR 
 
 plied. " But 's I wuz sayin', we did n't ride none 
 er them things in those days. When I wuz 
 younger than I be now we rode a-horseback, 'n' 
 the horses had nice, long tails a-droopin' behind, 
 and we wore sweepin' habits 'n' looked like ladies. 
 But them monkey things ! I would n't git on to 
 one uv 'em fer nothin'." 
 
 "Wouldn't you? "laughed Miss Marvin. "I 
 believe you would if you had a chance. I would n't 
 dare to leave my wheel down here overnight for fear 
 you would be out here practicing on it after dark." 
 
 Miss Cutter was easily flattered, and any impli- 
 cation that she was sprightly pleased her very well. 
 
 " Wai, now," she chuckled, " I be kinder spry 
 fer one er my years. The dar-tory says ter me th' 
 other day, ' Miss Cutter,' he says, ' yer younger 'n 
 I be.' That 's when I chased them young Eye- 
 talians away from my ash barr'l. Oh, them Eye- 
 talians plagues me so ! But here comes Miss 
 Henrietta Terrell, a-walkin' like a young rooster 
 on ice. Thinks she 's light on her feet. Ha ! ha ! 
 ha ! Guess I 'd better go inside. I always sass 
 Miss Terrell." 
 
 Only once more did Miss Cutter encounter the 
 managers of St. Luke's as they gathered that 
 morning for their meeting. One of the ladies 
 was especially interested in introducing missionary
 
 A MEETING OF THE LADY-BOARD 191 
 
 methods into the work of the dispensary, and Miss 
 Cutter, having become aware of the fact in some 
 mysterious way, lost no opportunity of ridiculing 
 the idea. 
 
 " Hi, there, Mis' Lawrence ! " she called. 
 " What d' yer s'pose happened ter the office yes- 
 terday afternoon ? " 
 
 Mrs. Lawrence stopped with a look of resigna- 
 tion upon her face. She had known Miss Cutter 
 for several years, but she never felt quite sure 
 what the old woman would say next. 
 
 " Well ? " she asked, patiently. 
 
 " What should it be but that there singin' woman 
 from the mission ! First I knew, two young fellers 
 come a-luggin 'a leetle, weenty organ up the hill 
 'n' then the singin' woman come in her be-u-tiful 
 trailin' robes V that want-ter-be-an-angel face er 
 hers. 'N' she sung ter them Eye-talians ! I went 
 along ter hear." 
 
 "Did you?" 
 
 " Yes, 'n' 's I stood there, I thought a lot. I 
 thinks, thinks I, ' What good 's that singin' goin' 
 ter do them heathen ? ' 'N' then I thought it over. 
 I 've got a real sore toe ; hurts worse sometimes 
 than others. But when I was a-listenin' ter that 
 there mission woman 'n' she sung higher 'n' higher, 
 I kep' a-risin' 'n' a-risin' higher on to my toes "
 
 192 THE HEART OF THE DOCTOR 
 
 she suited action to her words and her voice soared 
 into the upper register " V by V by I clean 
 f ergot all 'bout my sore toe." 
 
 " That was a good thing," said Mrs. Lawrence, 
 smiling in spite of herself. 
 
 " 'N' then," went on Miss Cutter, " I knew what 
 good that singin' woman did. She made them 
 Eye-talians fergit their aches V pains. Only," 
 she added, facetiously poking her listener with her 
 long finger, " ' only,' thinks I ter myself, ' she '11 
 spoil the dar-tory's business.' Ha ! ha ! ha ! " 
 
 " Did you ever know a queerer woman than that 
 Miss Cutter ? " asked Mrs. Lawrence, as she en- 
 tered the dispensary. 
 
 "Never," said Miss Marvin. "What has she 
 been saying now ? " 
 
 " Nothing worth repeating. What she says sel- 
 dom amounts to anything. It is the way she says 
 it." 
 
 " She told me one day that she supposed the 
 fees of the dispensary went a good ways toward 
 paying the wages of what she termed my ' stuck- 
 up ' coachman," said Mrs. Stebbins. 
 
 " She always says kind things to me," purred 
 Miss Terrell. " She looked out one day, and 
 when she saw me, she exclaimed, ' How tall ! And 
 how spry ! ' '
 
 A MEETING OF THE LADY-BOARD 193 
 
 Miss Marvin turned away to hide her smile. 
 She could imagine just how Miss Cutter said it. 
 
 " I wonder what she would have been if she had 
 not lived this solitary life among foreigners," said 
 Mrs. Lawrence. 
 
 " You might as well wonder what effect the 
 kindergarten would have had upon the Artful 
 Dodger," laughed Miss Marvin. " Miss Cutter is 
 what she is, and I cannot possibly imagine her 
 otherwise." 
 
 When the ladies had made their monthly inspec- 
 tion of the office and waiting room, they took up 
 the business of the morning. The chief feature 
 was the consideration of a plan to offer Burroughs 
 a permanent position at the dispensary after he 
 was graduated from the medical school. 
 
 " I say yes," said Miss Marvin, in the general 
 discussion. "One of the hindrances to success- 
 ful work here has been that we have had a fre- 
 quent change of internes. If we can offer Mr. 
 Burroughs an adequate salary, I should certainly 
 advise that we make an effort to retain him." 
 
 " So far as I can learn," said Mrs. Lawrence, 
 " his work has been conscientious and successful." 
 
 " Oh, there is not the slightest doubt of that," 
 exclaimed Miss Terrell. "I have frequently ac- 
 companied Mr. Burroughs on his professional
 
 194 THE HEART OF THE DOCTOR 
 
 visits, and he has great judgment and kindness. 
 I could not do better with those people myself." 
 
 " I do not believe you could ! " mused Miss 
 Marvin, communing with herself. 
 
 Miss Terrell uttered a reminiscent laugh. 
 
 " Do you know," she said, with up-tilted eye, 
 and a smile which was supposed to be very coy, 
 " one of the Italian women thought that I was Mr. 
 Burroughs's wife, and the strange part of it was, 
 he did not seem to mind." 
 
 Nobody replied. 
 
 "The strange part of it was," repeated Miss 
 Terrell, "that Mr. Burroughs did not seem to 
 mind at all." 
 
 " Madame president ! " said Miss Marvin, 
 sharply, " I move you that we stick to the subject 
 in hand." 
 
 Miss Terrell cast a quick, spiteful look at Miss 
 Marvin, but said nothing more. 
 
 " I have felt all the year," said Mrs. Stebbins 
 from the chair, " that Mr. Burroughs is thoroughly 
 reliable. I have had the feeling that if I made a 
 request it would be carried out, whether I came 
 down here to look after the matter or not. It is 
 worth several hundred dollars a year to have such 
 a man in charge of the work." 
 
 "Doctor Hereford, at the medical school, says
 
 A MEETING OF THE LADY-BOARD 195 
 
 that Mr. Burroughs is very careful in his practice ; 
 is always willing to take advice, and to call for aid 
 when he feels in doubt. Medical students are not 
 always like that." Miss Grant said this, and her 
 words had weight, for she was a large contributor 
 to the support of the dispensary. 
 
 " And best of all," went on Miss Marvin, " the 
 people are fond of him. We need to look in the 
 squalid homes about here to learn Mr. Burroughs's 
 true worth. Have you talked with La Signorina ? " 
 
 " I have done so," said Miss Grant. " Her tes- 
 timony showed me conclusively that we ought to 
 retain Mr. Burroughs if possible." 
 
 " Can we be sure that La Signorina's word is 
 reliable ? " Miss Terrell spoke in a smooth, soft 
 voice, which nevertheless impressed her hearers as 
 being vindictive. " Italian women are very im- 
 pressionable, you remember." 
 
 "Change in the wind," mentally commented 
 Miss Marvin, while Miss Grant replied with much 
 feeling, 
 
 "I trust La Signorina absolutely. Her devo- 
 tion to her people makes her estimate of a co- 
 worker unimpeachable." 
 
 " Ah ! " said Miss Terrell, sweetly. 
 
 The matter was discussed long and earnestly, 
 and the result of the conference was that Bur-
 
 196 THE HEART OF THE DOCTOR 
 
 roughs was invited to become resident physician 
 at St. Luke's on a definite salary. He was sur- 
 prised when he heard of the decision, and was 
 naturally very much pleased that the ladies should 
 wish to retain his services. But his thoughts were 
 bent upon a private practice, in what location he 
 had not yet decided. 
 
 He had often thought, as he plodded through 
 the familiar district, that when he was gone he 
 would miss the old hill with its picturesque life 
 and varied associations. Now when the oppor- 
 tunity to remain was given him, he could scarcely 
 resist the temptation to accept it. Yet he felt that 
 he owed it to himself to put the result of his long 
 struggle to some different, perhaps wider use. 
 Then, too, he had a hope which he knew he must 
 not entertain if he stayed in the dirt and noise of 
 Spring Hill. He talked the matter over with La 
 Signorina. The work of St. Luke's was her hobby, 
 and she mounted and galloped away. Her enthu- 
 siasm was contagious, and for a time Burroughs 
 yielded to it. Before making a final decision, how- 
 ever, he resolved to consult Doctor Raymond.
 
 CHAPTER XIX 
 THE DREAM OF A HOME 
 
 "Do not decide until you have seen the place 
 I 've picked out for you," was Raymond's advice 
 when Burroughs told him of the proposition the 
 Board of Managers had made. " The ladies have 
 given you a week in which to consider, have n't 
 they? Arrange with somebody at the school to 
 take your clinic day after to-morrow, and we will 
 go out and look over the ground." 
 
 The necessary substitute was secured, and Ray- 
 mond boarded the trolley car with his friend in 
 most exuberant spirits. They sat on the front 
 seat like eager children. It was a two-hour ride 
 to their destination, and the way ran by fields and 
 woods, valleys and hillsides. Fruit orchards in 
 full bloom scented the air with their perfume ; 
 there was a haze in the air that made the distant 
 green look blue ; there was sunlight through the 
 haze that glinted like gold dust. 
 
 " At Greenleigh when the apple-trees 
 Fling all their sweetness to the breeze,
 
 198 THE HEART OF THE DOCTOR 
 
 The birds sing high, the birds sing low, 
 Nestling where the lilacs grow, 
 And I shall see my love, I know 
 
 At Greenleigh in the Springtime," 
 
 softly sang Raymond in his friend's ear as they 
 sped along. 
 
 Burroughs sat alert with an eager look of expec- 
 tancy in his face ; the look of a man who finds a 
 long cherished dream coming true, yet who fears 
 lest he shall awake before the vision is fulfilled. 
 
 Now and then they waited at a turnout for an- 
 other car. As a rule these sidetracks are located 
 in uninteresting places ; against sand-banks per- 
 haps, or opposite barnyards and pigsties. In this 
 case, however, the two men beheld visions of 
 meadows, farmers at the plough or birds building 
 their nests on apple-trees beyond the stone walls. 
 
 " I declare, Burroughs, you 've grown young 
 since we started ! " exclaimed Raymond. " Those 
 anxious wrinkles have all gone and you look more 
 as you did when I first met you in your freshman 
 year." 
 
 " That 's because I 'm getting some good oxygen 
 into my lungs," explained the interne. 
 
 " To tell you the truth, old man," continued 
 Raymond, " you 've been looking very thin lately 
 and need a change. You 've been wonderfully
 
 THE DREAM OF A HOME 199 
 
 good to those Dagoes and have done a great 
 amount of night study. You would not be able to 
 keep on burning the candle at both ends much 
 longer. It 's lucky your school work is over." 
 
 Burroughs heaved a deep sigh. 
 
 "You may be sure I'm glad. It has been a 
 long pull. It is what I 've worked for since I was 
 fifteen years old, but if you and some of the others 
 had n't stood by me, I am not sure that I should ever 
 have made the run." 
 
 Eaymond turned a look of tender regard upon 
 his friend. He was very fond of this quiet perse- 
 vering man who had overcome so many difficulties, 
 yet who never boasted of his triumphs. He often 
 wanted to say pleasant things to Burroughs, but 
 there was a certain dignity about the younger man 
 at such times that made Raymond's words of praise 
 sound like empty flattery, and he usually broke 
 down in the middle .of his adulations. To-day he 
 seemed better able to choose his words and they 
 rang true. 
 
 " You 've been very plucky," he said. " I envy 
 you your courage. You deserve the softest berth 
 that we can find for you. Wait till we have 
 climbed three or four more hills and see what I 
 have to show you." 
 
 The car sped on, crossing brooks, pulling more
 
 200 THE HEART OF THE DOCTOR 
 
 slowly up the green edges of hillside pastures, 
 sweeping through cool, dim vistas of balsam groves 
 until at length it emerged upon an airy upland 
 overlooking a green plain. 
 
 " Look down there, old man," said Raymond, 
 joyously. 
 
 Burroughs looked. 
 
 The long, white road ran down before him, past 
 prosperous farmhouses and ample barns. Beyond, 
 the white spire of a country church rose from 
 clustering roofs and feathery treetops. A broad, 
 still stream wound through the valley, a silver 
 ribbon in the foreground, a glint in the meadows 
 beyond the village, and as the car descended 
 the hill and approached the town, Burroughs could 
 see reeds on the river bank blowing in the wind, 
 and quick dartings of swallows among old-fash- 
 ioned chimneys. 
 
 " Will this do ? " asked Raymond, softly. 
 
 Burroughs did not speak, but the eyes he turned 
 to meet his friend's gaze shone with an unwonted 
 moisture. 
 
 They entered the village street with much clamor 
 of the car gong. Pink-faced children waved their 
 hands from sunny dooryards clean children, who 
 looked as if they had plenty of good food to eat. 
 There were sleek dogs with shining collars which
 
 THE DREAM OF A HOME 201 
 
 paced to and fro demurely in well-fed content. 
 Pretty young women were planting geraniums in 
 neat gardens. Honest-faced men were driving fat 
 ponies leisurely up and down the elm-arched street. 
 At the church green they left the car and Bur- 
 roughs looked about him in delight. 
 
 " It was good of you to look this up, Walter," 
 he said. 
 
 There was a block of shops with the post-office 
 in the centre ; there was a good school-house and 
 a town hall. In the centre of the green was a 
 band-stand, and beyond the parsonage Burroughs 
 saw a little library building of gray stone. The 
 industries of the town were south of the main street, 
 Raymond said, near the railroad station, and con- 
 sisted of two factories and a grist mill. Excepting 
 the factory owners and their employees, the people 
 of the town were well-to-do farmers. 
 
 " Now first of all we must have some dinner," 
 said Raymond, " then we will go to see the butcher, 
 the baker, and the candlestick maker, and do a 
 little feeling round. Hi ! hi ! " he added, merrily, 
 quoting Miss Cutter, " is there anything the mat- 
 ter with this? And it's all for you, Phil, free- 
 gratis, for nothing. No practice to buy out, no 
 rival to contend with. All you '11 have to do is to 
 hang out your shingle and prove your merit."
 
 202 THE HEART OF THE DOCTOR 
 
 After a hearty country dinner, Burroughs sat in 
 a huge rush rocker on the hotel piazza, while Ray- 
 mond went to hire a horse and carriage for their 
 afternoon jaunt. It was a little after twelve and 
 the sun-flecked street was practically deserted. 
 Three or four men hurried by on bicycles ; a 
 plump boy in overalls rode an old white horse 
 over to the watering-trough and worked his small 
 body up and down in unison with the squeaking 
 pump-handle. When his steed had quenched its 
 thirst, the boy disentangled himself from the pump 
 handle and rode off under the shadow of the elms. 
 Then a drowsy restfulness fell over Burroughs's 
 spirits ; every nerve and muscle seemed to relax. 
 The church door stood open and some one within 
 was playing the " Priests' March " very softly on 
 the organ ; a ground-sparrow was building her 
 nest beside the hotel porch. Surely, this was the 
 place Burroughs had seen in his day dreams and 
 the vision would come true at last. 
 
 The two men studied the situation very thor- 
 oughly that afternoon, calling upon many of the 
 leading townspeople, viewing the mansions of the 
 prosperous, examining outlying districts. When 
 their research was complete, Raymond said, 
 
 " I have just one thing more to show you. Here 
 it is."
 
 THE DREAM OF A HOME 203 
 
 He drew rein before a house in the pleasant 
 neighborhood above the church. It was a little 
 house painted white, with green blinds. A wis- 
 taria vine ran riot over the porch and a sturdy 
 rose tree guarded the steps. Two elms stood in 
 the yard at one side and under their boughs there 
 was a glimpse of meadows and a long, undulating 
 line of far blue hills. 
 
 " How is this ? " asked Kaymond. Burroughs 
 could not speak. 
 
 The young physician had once told Margaret 
 Worthington that he would put himself to a good 
 deal of trouble in order to see that quiet gleam of 
 joy which came into Burroughs's eyes when he was 
 happy. The look had been there all day and 
 Raymond was satisfied. 
 
 " You can rent this house very reasonably," he 
 said. " It is centrally located, as you see, and the 
 neighborhood is all right. That little wing with 
 the side entrance is just the place for your office ; 
 I can see the whole thing now : ' P. M. Burroughs, 
 M. D.,' gold letters on a black background, and a 
 lantern on a bracket beside the door for evening 
 use, with ' Doctor Burroughs's Office ' painted on 
 the glass." 
 
 Still Burroughs did not speak, but his eyes were 
 alight.
 
 204 THE HEART OF THE DOCTOR 
 
 " You have some old auntie or somebody, have 
 n't you," queried Raymond, " who would be willing 
 to come here and keep house for you ? " 
 
 " No ; but I suppose a housekeeper would do." 
 
 " Just exactly as well. You must have an es- 
 tablishment, for it gives a man so much better 
 footing in a place. You see, the fellow who has 
 just left here lived hi lodgings back of his office in 
 the block and took his meals at the Railroad House, 
 opposite the depot. People were a little afraid of 
 him from the first, and when they found him hob- 
 nobbing with the hostlers and playing poker with 
 them, they froze him out so completely that he de- 
 parted for regions unknown. Now, if you come 
 in here with that dead-in-earnest face of yours and 
 go to housekeeping, you '11 be received with open 
 arms." 
 
 " It could not be more attractive," said Bur- 
 roughs. " I '11 come out as soon as I pass the 
 State examinations." 
 
 " And if you need funds to start with, Burroughs, 
 you know on whom to call," said Raymond, ear- 
 nestly, " and you can take your own time about 
 repaying me." 
 
 When the sky was turning gold and the shadows 
 were growing long, the two young men went back 
 to the city by train. Raymond was hilarious,
 
 THE DREAM OF A HOME 205 
 
 Burroughs quietly happy. Before the city lights 
 gleamed through the dusk, Raymond had furnished 
 the little white house and had laid low every citi- 
 zen of the village with some critical illness. Bur- 
 roughs enjoyed the plans, but he was less intent 
 upon the health statistics of the town than upon a 
 mental picture which had shaped itself as he 
 looked at the cottage Raymond had selected for 
 him. This picture grew momentarily more dis- 
 tinct. Dared he hope that it might some day be- 
 come a reality? What Burroughs saw was a 
 glimpse of himself advancing cheerily along the 
 elm-bowered street. He carried the inevitable 
 satchel, the badge of his profession. When he 
 reached the house with the wistaria vine he turned 
 in at the gate, quickening his pace, for the house 
 door stood open and the doorway framed a lithe, 
 graceful figure, and a beloved face which smiled a 
 welcome to him. And that and that alone could 
 make home for him. 
 
 Raymond took Burroughs home with him for 
 dinner. The doctor's mother was away and the 
 two men dined alone. The substantial elegance of 
 Raymond's cosy library had never appealed to 
 Burroughs more strongly than it did that evening 
 as he lounged in an easy chair and feasted his eyes 
 upon fine pictures and well-filled book shelves.
 
 206 THE HEART OF THE DOCTOR 
 
 After dinner the men went into Raymond's office 
 and made careful inventories of books and instru- 
 ments without which Burroughs could not begin 
 his practice. Then Raymond took out his guitar, 
 and so serene was Burroughs's mood that he per- 
 mitted his friend to sing " Sweet Rosy O'Grady " 
 and half a dozen more sentimental ditties, ending 
 with the serenade with which he had signaled Ce- 
 lestia on that long-to-be-remembered evening. It 
 was but a short step from serenades to sweethearts. 
 
 " Burroughs, you must get married." 
 
 " So must you. What about that affair you 
 were talking of last fall ? " 
 
 " That did not turn out very well, Phil." 
 
 " I 'm sorry." 
 
 "Oh, it is probably just as well. But I was 
 rather disappointed. However, that has nothing 
 to do with your case. You must get married." 
 
 " That 's out of the question." 
 
 " No, it is not. Just pick out some nice girl 
 and ask her to marry you. I never saw such a 
 fellow for not caring about girls ! " 
 
 Burroughs winced. He did not have the nervous 
 habit common to many men of walking up and 
 down, when tired or excited. But now he rose 
 quickly and strode to and fro. 
 
 " We 've been pretty close friends, Walter," he
 
 THE DREAM OF A HOME 207 
 
 said, pausing before Raymond's chair, " but I Ve 
 never told you about Miss Worthington. The 
 second year in the High School, we sat in adjacent 
 seats. I was the butt of considerable ridicule be- 
 cause I was poor. The girls all called me ' that 
 Burroughs thing,' and joked because my collars 
 were threadbare. But," with a sudden burst of 
 energy, " they were clean ; my mother saw to that. 
 I was growing very fast then, and my arms and 
 legs stuck out beyond my clothes several inches too 
 far for elegance. I had only one suit. I shall 
 never forget it. It had been brown, but was faded 
 to a dirty yellow. Among other tasks I worked 
 in a grocery store out of school hours, and some- 
 times I tore my clothes on cases and barrels, so 
 that before the winter was over the suit looked 
 pretty bad in spite of all my mother's mending. 
 Life would have been an absolute burden to me if 
 it had n't been for Margaret. She saw how it cut 
 me to be made sport of, and she took pains to be 
 nice to me. In fact, she loved me. I adored her 
 then and I adore her still. Her feelings toward me 
 have not changed, but she is beyond my reach." 
 
 Raymond heard his friend with quickening pulse. 
 By a sudden enlightenment, he understood many 
 things which had not been clear to him before. 
 He remembered with a thrill that handclasp across
 
 208 THE HEART OF THE DOCTOR 
 
 Pastorelli's marble-topped table. He understood 
 intuitively the strength of Burroughs's devotion, 
 and his own attachment to Margaret seemed a very 
 feeble thing. With a delicacy born of his affec- 
 tion for his friend he said, 
 
 " Margaret's eyes are very beautiful at all times, 
 but I have noticed that they are never more so 
 than when I am speaking to her of you." 
 
 Then after a silence made potent by the current 
 of sympathetic appreciation which needed no ex- 
 pression in words, he said, 
 
 " You could not expect her father to consent to 
 your marriage if you stay at St. Luke's." 
 
 " I would never ask her to share such a life with 
 me." 
 
 " That 's where the man in you speaks. There 
 are plenty of fellows so self-satisfied that they 
 think any girl ought to be proud to go with them 
 to the Fiji Islands. Now, Burroughs, you 've 
 done some heavy sledding and you must convince 
 yourself that it is over for a long time. You de- 
 serve a great deal of happiness. You deserve to 
 have Miss Worthington for your wife and I be- 
 lieve that you can have her. At the end of a year 
 or two, when you are as prosperous as I know you 
 will be, Margaret's father will be proud to have 
 you for a son-in-law. Just believe that. And con-
 
 THE DREAM OF A HOME 209 
 
 vince yourself, too, that a girl like Miss Worthing- 
 ton will never give up a thing she has set her heart 
 upon. I know that if she loves you, all the fathers 
 in the world will never hold you apart forever. I 
 shall take occasion to call at the house to-morrow 
 and you may trust me to see that your prospects 
 are fully set forth ; not too unctuously, of course, 
 but judiciously. I '11 manage it." 
 
 " You 're a trump, Raymond ! " 
 
 " Oh, no ; just an easy-going rascal who never 
 had anything in the world to bother him. Some- 
 times I wish I had had your scramble. It would 
 have made more of a man of me." 
 
 " Never wish that, Walter. That sort of a life 
 puts a hardness into a man that he would give 
 worlds to be rid of. Why, I am so used to work 
 that I don't half know how to play when I have 
 the chance. I envy you a dozen times a day. You 
 are handsome, graceful, light-hearted. It makes 
 people happy just to see you around." 
 
 " Your characterization would apply with equal 
 force to a good-natured puppy dog," answered 
 Eaymond, lightly. " One thing is sure ; there is 
 one person in this city to whom the mere thought 
 of you brings more happiness than a lifetime's 
 association with me could bring. I know this, 
 Phil, because she has refused me."
 
 210 THE HEART OF THE DOCTOR 
 
 " My dear Raymond ! " 
 
 Burroughs went back to St. Luke's that evening 
 with a heart so light that he seemed to be walking 
 on air. Electricians were festooning the church 
 and the square with incandescent lamps prepara- 
 tory to the carnival to be given the following even- 
 ing in honor of a visiting bishop. Burroughs 
 took very little notice of the work ; he hardly saw 
 the chattering crowds ; he did not mind the odors 
 or the dirt ; he was no longer a part of the hys- 
 terical life of the district. St. Luke's and the 
 poor Italian people were a receding vision. Quiet, 
 decency, normal living, and Margaret ; these were 
 before him. He was coming to the end of the 
 long, anxious struggle begun in boyhood. He 
 went to his desk in the office intending to write to 
 the Board declining their offer. Then he decided 
 to wait a day or two, in order to avoid undigni- 
 fied haste. To-morrow he would announce his ap- 
 proaching departure and prepare his clientele for 
 a new interne. Then would come the graduation 
 and State examinations and then life ! 
 
 Thus for hours he sat dreaming, while beyond 
 the city's farthest suburb, the little white house 
 with a rose tree at the doorstone awaited his com- 
 ing, and the village in the river valley slept in 
 quiet under the splendid stars.
 
 CHAPTER XX 
 THE PLOT IN THE ALLEY 
 
 THE excitement connected with Celestia's elope- 
 ment had died away. Barone took his bride to 
 her new home, and through the kindness of friends 
 she secured a good position as soloist in one of the 
 churches. Peace was apparently restored in all 
 quarters. Only Scarabini, working vainly to re- 
 gain his hold upon the poor people, nursed his 
 grudge against the American doctor. It would 
 have been quite useless for a hundred of Scara- 
 bini's countrymen, or even Celestia herself, to at- 
 tempt to convince the Italian that Burroughs had 
 nothing to do with the elopement. His mind was 
 made up that the interne at St. Luke's had been 
 the chief conspirator, and that all his bad luck, in 
 love as well as in business, came from Burroughs. 
 
 One day, on the street where Guido Mascaro 
 lived, Scarabini saw old Bettina, a troop of chil- 
 dren at her heels, making her way along the side- 
 walk. The children were hooting and throwing 
 bits of garbage at her and making taunting ges-
 
 212 THE HEART OF THE DOCTOR 
 
 tures. Now and then she turned savagely and 
 struck at them with her lean, brown hand. They 
 would dodge the blows and redouble their jeers. 
 Laughing women leaned out of their windows 
 watching the sport, which lasted until the old wo- 
 man reached her own doorway. Then she turned 
 and faced the impudent youngsters, shrieking 
 maledictions and threatening to tear their eyes out 
 if they came any nearer. 
 
 "What is the matter with that old woman?" 
 Scarabini inquired of a young fellow who stood 
 smoking at the door of his shop. 
 
 " Oh, she tells fortunes and they no longer come 
 true. She told a fortune to my wife last week, and 
 how false it was ! They say she has a devil and 
 has lost her power to read the stars because she 
 hates that American doctor, who, as all the world 
 knows, is under the especial protection of the 
 Blessed Virgin." 
 
 " That American pig is not beloved by the Vir- 
 gin," sneered Scarabini. " I know him well. He 
 means not kindness to you people. There is mis- 
 chief behind his smile." 
 
 The grocer shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 " I know nothing of that," he said. " I know 
 only that he did save the life of Mascaro's Maria 
 when Bettina's old woman was too drunk to see
 
 THE PLOT IN THE ALLEY 213 
 
 straight. I only hear how good was he to Reg- 
 gerio's Amadeo who fell out of the window 
 peace to the poor little innocent," and he crossed 
 himself devoutly. 
 
 " But he did not save the boy's life," went on 
 Scarabini, vindictively. 
 
 " And how could he ? " asked the grocer, with 
 asperity. " The poor child fell so far that he was 
 all spoiled inside. Only the blessed saints could 
 have made him live, and they willed otherwise." 
 
 " You may be sure they did, when they saw the 
 American at work," growled Scarabini, turning on 
 his heel. 
 
 The young grocer watched the ill-tempered Ital- 
 ian as he went down the street. Then with one 
 of the inimitable and very expressive gestures of 
 his race, he said, aloud, 
 
 " Go, my fine gentleman ! I know who you are. 
 There are many crosses in the cemetery for which 
 you will sweat in Purgatory. I want neither your 
 medicine nor your fine words ! " 
 
 In her rage against Burroughs for defeating her 
 when little Guido was born, Bettina had undone 
 herself. In the past she had enjoyed a certain 
 notoriety as a fortune teller, but she had grown so 
 sulky through dwelling on her defeat, that her 
 prognostications lacked their former flavor of op-
 
 214 THE HEART OF THE DOCTOR 
 
 timism, and very naturally nobody cared to pay 
 for revelations of a future full of bad luck. Then 
 her friend and ally, La Levatrice, had died under 
 unfavorable conditions. The coroner rendered a 
 verdict of " alcoholism," but the denizens of the 
 street knew that she drank herself to death, and 
 they scorned the big -sounding American word 
 which none of them understood. After that Bet- 
 tina grew more and more moody. Maria was 
 afraid of her, and would not let her touch the 
 baby. Guido ordered' his mother to stay in the 
 shop and leave his wife in peace. Then he would 
 jeer at her relentlessly, now and then shaking in 
 front of her an especially fine bunch of radishes, 
 or an exceptionally long sausage, with the infor- 
 mation that he was going to make a present to 
 the American doctor. So Bettina sat by the hour 
 musing on her grievances, muttering incoherently 
 the while, until the report became current that she 
 was possessed of a devil, and scarcely a child save 
 Capotosti's Gracia dared venture inside the shop 
 while she was there. Out in the sunshine it was 
 different. The sun is the child's friend, and in its 
 light he hopes and dares a thousand things. When 
 Bettina went abroad, she ran a gauntlet of ridicule 
 from the children, which she knew only reflected 
 the opinions of the older people.
 
 THE PLOT IN THE ALLEY 215 
 
 On the day that Burroughs and Kaymond took 
 their trip into the country, Bettina strode swiftly 
 up Spring Hill Street. Her gold earrings, with 
 pendants the size and shape of half-dollar pieces, 
 swayed violently as she stalked along. She was 
 smarting from an encounter with some of her 
 neighbors, and was frantic with rage. Stopping 
 before St. Luke's, she examined the front of the 
 building, her fishy eyes alert with hate. Then she 
 shook her fist at the doorway, and muttered an 
 imprecation. By this time Miss Cutter's head was 
 out of the window. As the interne was away, and 
 La Signorina was making calls, the old woman 
 felt responsible for the welfare of the dispensary. 
 
 " Hi, there, you old Dago-woman ! " she cried. 
 "What 're yer shakin' yer fist at the dar-tory's 
 house fer ? " 
 
 Old Bettina stopped, and flashed an angry look 
 at her interrogator. She did not understand Eng- 
 lish, but Miss Cutter's tone conveyed an entirely 
 obvious meaning. 
 
 " You dirty old woman ! " she returned, in 
 Sicilian, " mind your own business ! " 
 
 "I don't understand a word yer say," piped 
 Miss Cutter, " 'n' I don't want ter, neither. But 
 yer 'd better stop a-shakin' yer fist at the dar-tory's 
 house, er I '11 set the cop on to yer."
 
 216 THE HEART OF THE DOCTOR 
 
 Then she rushed out to the sidewalk, and con- 
 tinued the battle at shorter range. So fixed a 
 habit was it in the Spring Hill district to thrust 
 the head out of the window, that Raymond, in 
 remarking upon the phenomenon, had once told 
 Burroughs that a stag at gaze would be the proper 
 crest of any family in the region who entertained 
 heraldic aspirations. As the tones of the two old 
 women grew shriller, windows were raised and 
 interested faces were put forth. Some boys, who 
 had played truant from school that day, drew near, 
 charmed by the prospect of a fight, while Brady 
 and his companions came to the graveyard fence 
 and peeped between the bars in great delight. 
 Spring Hill Street was " at gaze." A young man 
 sauntered up the street, and paused on the edge of 
 the circle which surrounded the angry women. 
 Bettina was dancing up and down, shrieking her- 
 self purple in the face, while Miss Cutter pranced 
 forward and back, waving her hands in scorn, and 
 crying, 
 
 " I don't understand a word yer say, V I don't 
 want ter, neither." 
 
 The newcomer stepped up to her. 
 
 " She says," he explained, " that she will break 
 that doctor's neck, if she can get hold of him." 
 
 " She will, will she ! Wai, she won't. D' yer
 
 THE PLOT IN THE ALLEY 217 
 
 hear me, yer old Dago-woman ? D' yer hear what 
 I say ? He 's too fine er feller f er you ter 's much 
 as lay yer finger on to." 
 
 " She says," translated the man, turning to Bet- 
 tina, " that you are a dirty old dog, too vile to eat 
 the doctor's leavings." 
 
 Bettina howled. Then the words spluttered 
 from her thin lips. 
 
 " She says," went on the self-appointed inter- 
 preter in English, " that the American doctor has 
 made her the laughing stock of her neighbors. No 
 one will buy her herbs or her love-potions." 
 
 " 'N' it 's mighty good they don't," shrilled Miss 
 Cutter. 
 
 " This woman says your nasty old hands would 
 poison the herbs," said the man, turning to 
 Bettina. 
 
 There seemed to be danger that the old woman 
 would fall in a fit. 
 
 "And," continued this mischief-maker, "she 
 says that the American doctor has told all the 
 people that you are a witch." 
 
 " Cheese it, cheese it ! the cop ! " cried one 
 of the boys, beginning to run. 
 
 The interpreter glanced hastily down the street, 
 and drew out of the crowd. Bettina stopped scold- 
 ing, and started rapidly for home. By the time
 
 218 THE HEART OF THE DOCTOR 
 
 the police officer reached the top of the hill the 
 boys had vanished, Brady and his friends were over 
 on the other side of the burying ground, and not a 
 head was to be seen at any of the windows. Miss 
 Cutter sat in her usual place. She was compla- 
 cently knitting ; her hands were steady, and her 
 brow unruffled. 
 
 " Good morning, Miss Cutter," said the police- 
 man, " what 's been the matter up here ? " 
 
 " Oh, nothin' special, 'xcept an old Dago-woman 
 was lyin' about the doctor, V I went out V told 
 her to go on home." 
 
 The officer had hurried up the hill, and was 
 very warm. He removed his helmet deliberately, 
 wiped the band within its rim with his handker- 
 chief, and replaced it upon his head. 
 
 " You don't want ter have no trouble with them 
 foreigners, Miss Cutter," he said. " They 're a 
 dangerous lot when they get started." 
 
 " Guess I know that," replied Miss Cutter, 
 promptly. " Have n't I lived on this here hill 
 sence long b'fore you wuz born ? Can't I remem- 
 ber when there were n't a f urriner in the hull dis- 
 trict ? Why, Lor' sakes ! "When I moved on this 
 street your folks had n't ser much ez thought er 
 leavin' the dear old Em'rald Isle. Ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 Guess you can't tell me nothin' about furriners.
 
 THE PLOT IN THE ALLEY 219 
 
 Good-day ter yer," and she shut the window with 
 a bang. 
 
 In every age of the world's history there have 
 been established customs for the termination of 
 interviews and the dismission of guests. Miss 
 Cutter's way was very simple ; she merely slammed 
 her window. There were advantages in this 
 method, not the least of which being that it gave 
 the old dame the last word. 
 
 The policeman went off in a huff, and for several 
 minutes Miss Cutter chuckled over her own clever- 
 ness. Her wrath at Bettina was not appeased, 
 however. The Sicilian woman's insulting conduct 
 to the beloved " dar-tory " rankled in her breast. 
 
 " 'N' ter have had that runner fer the Spanish 
 doctor hear her, too ! " she mused. " They say he 's 
 none too fond er Doctor Burroughs." 
 
 When Scarabini was safely off Spring Hill 
 Street, he started after Bettina at a rapid pace, 
 overtaking her opposite a blind alley. 
 
 " See ! " he said in Sicilian, tapping her on the 
 shoulder. " I have something to say to you." 
 
 He drew her into the alley and addressed her 
 with an air of great dignity and authority. 
 
 " Now, old woman, I think we are of one mind 
 about that American cub. Can you hold your 
 tongue ? "
 
 220 THE HEART OF THE DOCTOR 
 
 " Yes, signore," muttered Bettina. 
 
 " He has spoiled my trade and made people hate 
 me." 
 
 " It is the same with me, signore." 
 
 "Therefore I would gladly spoil his pretty 
 face" 
 
 " Spoil his face ! " interrupted Bettina, angrily. 
 " Spoil his face ! Why is the signore so weak ? I 
 would gladly run a knife into him ! " 
 
 " Perhaps I would, also," said Scarabini, scorn- 
 fully. " But it does not follow that I will tell to 
 a silly old woman all I have in mind. For ruining 
 my work I would like to cut his nose off. For 
 something else which I will not tell you, I would 
 do more, much more." 
 
 " Signore," said Bettina, cringingly, and bending 
 over the young man's hand, " let us work together. 
 See ! I kiss your hand. I am your slave. For a 
 long time I have no rest, for all the people hate 
 me and despise my counsels. They come no more 
 to me for horoscopes. I am undone, I am broken- 
 hearted, and it is all because of that American. 
 What shall I do to help you ? How shall we be 
 rid of this pest?" 
 
 " Now you are talking like a wise woman," said 
 Scarabini, with one of his blandest professional 
 smiles. " We will be friends. Yes ! Swear you
 
 THE PLOT IN THE ALLEY 221 
 
 will keep silent ; swear to me on this," and he 
 pulled a small dagger, double-edged and keen, 
 from its sheath in his pocket. 
 
 Bettina took the weapon solemnly and laid the 
 bright blade against her breast. 
 
 "I swear by the Holy Mother of God," she 
 said, " by Saint Peter and Saint Paul and by thee, 
 blessed Saint Rosalia of Sicily, that I will hide in 
 my heart all the words of the kind signore. I am 
 at his feet. I am his slave." 
 
 " If you fail to keep this promise," said Scara- 
 bini, hanging over her, sternly, " may the sharp 
 knife turn its point into your heart." 
 
 " May the sharp knife turn its point into my 
 heart," echoed Bettina. 
 
 " Good ! " exclaimed Scarabini, putting the sti- 
 letto into his pocket. " I will see you soon again. 
 And remember ! One word of this and they '11 
 find your skinny old body in the dump heap be- 
 hind the slaughter house. Go now, and be in 
 haste!"
 
 CHAPTER XXI 
 
 AN EAVESDROPPER IN CHINATOWN 
 
 IT was a little after eight o'clock on the evening 
 of the next day. In the basement of a house in 
 Chinatown two men sat at a table talking earnestly. 
 The room was vaguely lighted by the feeble yellow 
 glow of a dingy lamp, and at first glance appeared 
 to be unoccupied save by the swarthy faced men at 
 the table and by the proprietor of the establish- 
 ment who crouched near the barred door, watching 
 his guests with slant-eyed craftiness. 
 
 A more careful inspection would have shown a 
 pulse-quickening horror at the lower end of the 
 room, where squalid human beings sprawled on 
 dilapidated mattresses in an opium-soaked sleep. 
 
 The men at the table were not Americans. The 
 sharp wits of the Chinaman told him that, for they 
 talked a pyrotechnic sort of language very different 
 from that spoken by most of his patrons. They 
 had gleaming black eyes, fierce mustaches, and 
 wore their soft hats recklessly, with a bit of red 
 feather sticking in the band of each. One of the
 
 AN EAVESDROPPER IN CHINATOWN 223 
 
 men was short ; the other towered fiercely above 
 the board. They had not called for pipes, nor did 
 they wish to play fan-tan. Glasses of whiskey 
 were all they demanded, and their conversation 
 seemed to interest them more than their drinks, for 
 they sipped leisurely, but talked with an alarming 
 strenuousness. 
 
 " To business ! " the tall man said in Sicilian. 
 
 " Will any overhear us ? " asked the short man 
 in the same dialect. 
 
 " Who is here that can understand ? Not that 
 heathen, yonder. Not those pigs in the corner." 
 
 " It is well. Here, then, is the plan. The Count 
 Scarabini may the Virgin protect him has 
 long been tormented by a certain vile American 
 doctor. This dog has caused the people to hate 
 our serene count, so that now he can do no busi- 
 ness with them. His fortunes are wrecked and his 
 influence is destroyed. 
 
 " Moreover, this same cursed one has caused the 
 count to lose his beautiful innamorata, by stealing 
 her from her father's house and marrying her to 
 a filthy Genovese. All this cannot be forgiven. 
 The only hope for our great enterprise lies in the 
 allegiance of the lower classes to our count. The 
 lady he wished to wed sings like an angel, and 
 Signore Scarabini thought to send her to Sicily to
 
 224 THE HEART OF THE DOCTOR 
 
 win the favor of those in high places by her 
 heavenly voice. Now all is ruined by that figure 
 of a pig." 
 
 " Peste ! " exclaimed the tall one, bringing his 
 heels down upon the floor with vibrating force. 
 
 The sound of a yawn came from the heap of 
 ragged creatures in the dim corner. 
 
 " Hush ! " whispered the short man, seeming to 
 shrink under the table. " You have wakened 
 some one." 
 
 " Craven ! who will understand you ? Hasten, 
 or I will depart." 
 
 " No, I pray you. I was not frightened, but 
 this is serious business." 
 
 " Go on with it, then." 
 
 " The American doctor is to be made an end of 
 to-night, during the bishop's carnival. An old 
 woman who has also a grudge will send for this 
 pig-faced Yankee and as he passes through a dark 
 street zzt! You understand. I have offered to 
 do this for the count, but he will have no one do 
 it for him. He will have his vengeance if it costs 
 him his life. It is my part to wait on the avenue 
 with a cab I have hired and our noble Scarabini 
 will ride hither in safety, while his escape will be 
 covered by the insane screams of the women and 
 the running to and fro of the men."
 
 AN EAVESDROPPER IN CHINATOWN 225 
 
 " Is this a safe place ? " 
 
 "None is safer. The police will not look for 
 an Italian among the China people, and I have 
 money enough to buy that heathen yonder twice or 
 thrice. The count will rest secure until the trains 
 and boats are no longer watched. Then he will 
 go to Italy and we will be left to continue his 
 great and good work." 
 
 " Is it well to kill an American ? I have been 
 told that they have great detectives and many 
 policemen." 
 
 " Now it is you who turns craven ! There is 
 nothing safer. With all their boastings, these 
 Americans are but stupid blunderers. It is true, 
 few Italians have carried their quarrels out of their 
 own circles, but few have had so great cause as 
 Scarabini has." 
 
 "He has great cause, truly, and as for these 
 Americans, I know but little of them. It is but 
 two days since I landed." 
 
 The short man took out his watch. 
 
 " The time draws near. I go. Wish for me 
 good fortune and to our count success." 
 
 He drained his glass quickly and rose to his 
 feet. 
 
 " It is not hard," said the tall man ; " one thrust 
 and good-day ! "
 
 226 THE HEART OF THE DOCTOR 
 
 The short man hurried to the door. 
 
 " Farewell ; and the blessed saints protect you 
 and our thrice noble count," said his companion. 
 
 "Farewell, The American will be summoned 
 at nine o'clock, and if heaven favor us, all will be 
 over by nine and a quarter." 
 
 The Chinaman let him out and the other man 
 sat in meditation. Then another yawn from the 
 mattresses broke the quiet. Somebody rolled over, 
 disentangling himself from the gratuitous embraces 
 of his companions, blinked blindly for a moment, 
 and then staggered to his feet. He was very dizzy 
 and his eyes burned like coals, but his brain was 
 clear enough to have understood the conversation 
 which had been held in a dialect learned years ago 
 in Sicily and made familiar by recent experiences 
 in the Italian quarter. He reeled over to the 
 table, the quivering of his ragged garments reveal- 
 ing how weak he was. The dark-visaged man 
 glowered at him, but he returned the look with a 
 vacuous smile as he dropped into the chair just 
 vacated. 
 
 " Good-morning," he said ; " this is a fine day." 
 
 The man eyed him suspiciously, muttered " No 
 spe'k," and went on sipping his whiskey. The 
 Chinaman drew near, obsequiously, ready to take 
 an order. The newly awakened man called for
 
 AN EAVESDROPPER IN CHINATOWN 227 
 
 liquor and counted out the price. When he had 
 settled his account he had three cents left. He 
 took a vial from the pocket of his dilapidated coat 
 and poured its contents into the glass of whiskey 
 which the Chinaman set before him. The glass 
 shook as he raised it to his lips and drained the 
 mixture with a sort of fierce earnestness. Then he 
 rose and bowed to the Sicilian and to the China- 
 man. The latter slid various bolts and bars, 
 opened an inner door of sheet iron and another of 
 stout wood and let him emerge upon the street. 
 
 It was dark, and he realized then that it was 
 night and not morning. He had been asleep for 
 thirty-six hours. Against the sky, over on his left, 
 the illuminated face of the clock in a railroad sta- 
 tion showed him that it was twenty-five minutes of 
 nine. He was over two miles from the Italian 
 quarter and the only strength he could depend 
 upon was to be gained from the whiskey and 
 cocaine he had just drunk. He staggered along 
 with swimming head, but with rapidly clearing 
 brain. As he proceeded, his step grew steadier. 
 As the time grew shorter his gait became more 
 rapid until, when he reached the business section 
 of the city, he was making good speed toward the 
 Italian district, cutting corners and dodging lamp 
 posts like a man with all his faculties alive. He
 
 228 THE HEART OF THE DOCTOR 
 
 was conscious of a thankfulness that the stimulants 
 he had taken were standing him in good stead. He 
 had been a little fearful, for he had eaten almost 
 nothing for several days and had slept only by the 
 use of the opium pipe. It was the only means by 
 which he could secure rest, now. 
 
 He was glad, too, as he hurried through the 
 deserted and echoing business streets that so few 
 people were abroad. His errand was an honest 
 one, yet he feared to be detained and questioned. 
 The clock on the Chamber of Commerce chimed 
 nine. If he hurried, he would be on Spring Hill 
 Street in fifteen minutes. He began to run, but 
 soon felt a contraction about the heart, and found 
 that he could hardly breathe. He dropped back 
 into a quick walk, hoping almost against hope that 
 he would not be too late. At length, tenement 
 houses and small shops showed him that he was 
 upon the edge of the Italian district. He began to 
 run again, breathing heavily, yet determined not 
 to check his pace until his goal was won. His way 
 lay through Benediction Alley and across the 
 square of Santa Maria. As he turned into the 
 alley he could see gay Chinese lanterns dancing in 
 the wind at the far end of the dark vista. Then 
 he caught the sound of martial music. His breath 
 was failing him ; he began to reel. He was now
 
 AN EAVESDROPPER IN CHINATOWN 229 
 
 so near, and yet must fail ! For an instant he 
 leaned against the brick wall of a tenement, try- 
 ing to compose himself for the final rush across 
 the square. 
 
 Suddenly something in front of him caused him 
 to spring forward. Then youth and love, lost 
 dreams and pitiful failures leaped out of the 
 shadowy past and confronted him. For the flash- 
 light of finality made all things plain.
 
 CHAPTER XXII 
 GREATER LOVE HATH NO MAN 
 
 IN front of Guido's shop was an arc lamp and 
 everything near it was in high light or dark 
 shadow. The brick tenements sprang out of the 
 darkness with the vivid distinctness of houses on 
 the stage, their window shutters throwing long, 
 sharp shadows, their doorways caverns of inky 
 blackness. Distorted figures of loafing men zig- 
 zagged across the sidewalks and even the curbings 
 cast sharp-cut shadows upon the pavement. The 
 wide door of the shop was open. Within was 
 gloom, save where old Bettina, squatting on the 
 floor in the glare of the street lamp, stood out from 
 the background of shadow like a figure on the can- 
 vas of some old Florentine painter. The warm 
 tone of her orange headscarf, the softer folds of 
 her faded brown dress, the glint of her earrings, 
 and the vivid green of the indivia she was sorting, 
 completed the color scheme of the picture. Her 
 skinny hands were very deft as she picked over the 
 bunches of salad which would be peddled on the
 
 GREATER LOVE HATH NO MAN 231 
 
 push-carts next day, and her sharp, restless eyes, 
 while apparently bent unremittingly on her work, 
 missed nothing that was going on upon the street. 
 The bell of Santa Maria chimed nine. Capotos- 
 ti's Gracia and five little girls from the next street 
 were playing " Shir-di-lee " in front of the shop, 
 and danced gayly forward and back as their shrill, 
 resonant voices sang 
 
 " And kiss your sweetheart, shir-di-lee, 
 
 Shir-di-lee, shir-di-lee, 
 And kiss your sweetheart, shir-di-lee, 
 Upon a frosty morning." 
 
 Bettina waited until the game had run its 
 length ; then she raised her head and called stri- 
 dently in Sicilian, 
 
 " Gracia, thou imp, run to the American doctor. 
 Say that the Maria of my Guido is suddenly ill. 
 Go quickly and I will give thee a radish for thy 
 trouble." 
 
 Gracia glanced up to see that the old woman 
 was in earnest, and, being satisfied with the genu- 
 ineness of the offer, she darted off. 
 
 " That will bring him," muttered Bettina. " He 
 loves well Maria and the baby." 
 
 Then she bent over her work again. A young 
 man wearing a pince-nez stepped out of the shadow. 
 Bettina sprang to her feet.
 
 232 THE HEART OF THE DOCTOR 
 
 " Signore," she whispered eagerly, catching him 
 by the arm, " the blessed saints attend you. When 
 you wait in the shadow on the alley, let him pass 
 you. If the chance is good in the dark " she 
 made a quick and suggestive gesture. " If not, 
 wait till he comes hither. It would be a great joy 
 to me to see him writhe, but it will bring a bad 
 name on our house." 
 
 " I know all this ! " growled Scarabini. " Let 
 me go, you old hag ! " He pulled himself loose 
 from her grasp and started to leave the shop. 
 
 " Signore ! Signore ! " said Bettina in a loud 
 whisper. 
 
 Scarabini came back and bent his head toward 
 Bettina to catch her words. 
 
 " Take care you do not hit yourself with the 
 dagger, for I have poisoned it. And, signore, for 
 the love of the Virgin, leave it sticking in him. 
 He will live a little longer and suffer more." 
 
 Scarabini nodded and went out. Bettina went 
 on sorting indivia. Guido's Maria was not ill. 
 She had taken little Guido and gone to the square 
 with her husband to see the bishop. In due time, 
 Gracia came back, announcing that the doctor 
 would come at once. Bettina handed her a radish 
 and she gave a bite to each of her playmates 
 and finished the remainder herself, leaves and all.
 
 GREATER LOVE HATH NO MAN 233 
 
 Then the girls played " Lazy Mary," and Bettina 
 went on sorting salad. 
 
 The band was playing on the square, and the 
 warm glow of hundreds of incandescent lamps 
 greeted Burroughs's eyes as he approached on his 
 way to Guido's. From end to end of the open 
 space before the church the festoons of light were 
 hung, and the church itself was arched with lights 
 from entrance to towers, where the great twin 
 crosses flamed against the dark sky. Here and 
 there, about the square, strings of Chinese lanterns 
 decorated the fronts of the houses, and scarcely a 
 dwelling failed to have a display of some kind. 
 Brigandi, the confectioner, had decorated his shop 
 window with wreaths of paper roses and a group 
 of candles stuck into bottles. The background 
 was a judiciously selected exhibit of his wares, and 
 all the evening he did a brisk trade in sweets. Di 
 Rocco, the banker, burned red lights, and flung to 
 the breeze his huge bandiera d* Italia. As the 
 wind stirred the folds of the beloved flag, many 
 a dark eye in the crowd below grew moist, and 
 visions of vineyards and olive groves shut out the 
 little square. The pavements were crowded. 
 Every one seemed happy. Men slapped each 
 other upon the shoulders, knocked off each other's 
 caps, and indulged in other light-hearted banter
 
 234 THE HEART OF THE DOCTOR 
 
 and horse play. Women tossed their babies, and 
 laughed to see them laugh. Boys and girls pushed 
 their lively way through the crowd, receiving a 
 good-natured cuff, now and then, for their rough- 
 ness. Wrinkled old women sat in the doorways 
 gossiping ; old men smoked on the curbings, and 
 lovers drew close together upon the shadowy edges 
 of the square. 
 
 In front of the parochial house the crowd was 
 densest, for it was understood that the bishop 
 would- appear two or three times during the even- 
 ing to bestow the blessing of the church upon 
 those who were present to receive it. Burroughs 
 saw him emerge, bowing and smiling. The people 
 burst into cheers of enthusiasm, and " Viva I " 
 they cried, " Viva il Vescovo ! " again and again. 
 The bishop was a man of benign and commanding 
 presence. His white hair was crowned by the pur- 
 ple hat of his office, and the simple Italian folks 
 did well to love him, for he had spent half his life 
 in caring for the interests of the immigrant people, 
 saving them from a dozen perils upon their arrival 
 in this strange and wonderful land. The old man 
 smiled, the eager people nearest him crowded up 
 the steps to kiss his consecrated ring, and then the 
 slim hand was raised in blessing. For an instant 
 there was a hush, as women crossed themselves and
 
 GREATER LOVE HATH NO MAN 235 
 
 murmured prayers, and men doffed their caps and 
 bowed their heads. Then the band burst into a 
 noble chorale as the bishop reentered the house, 
 and the crowd fell back into the square. 
 
 Though loath to leave the scene, Burroughs 
 threaded his way across the square. Here and 
 there in the groups of chattering men and women 
 he would hear the word " dottore" as he passed. 
 Now and then a friendly head was nodded in his 
 direction. Then he turned down into Benediction 
 Alley, the darkness in front of him, the blaze of 
 light at his back. 
 
 Suddenly something fell against him. He heard 
 a groan, and turned quickly. A man lay in a 
 miserable heap just behind him, and two Italians 
 were struggling with something just beyond. They 
 were Carbone and Guido. Burroughs did not see 
 the man with whom they grappled. He stooped 
 over the groaning heap at his feet. The crowd 
 shut in around him. 
 
 " Stand back ! " he cried, fiercely, and his word 
 was obeyed. The lights of the illumination shone 
 in upon the white face, which Burroughs lifted up 
 toward the fresh night air. Then he found him- 
 self trembling strangely, for the face he saw was 
 that of John Maxon. 
 
 The bishop was standing on the parochial steps
 
 236 THE HEART OF THE DOCTOR 
 
 and beckoning. Burroughs saw this through a 
 sort of mist. Then he realized that Guido was 
 helping him to lift the wounded man, and together 
 they bore him within the residence. The parish 
 priest led them into a quiet room, and they laid 
 Maxon upon a couch. An Italian doctor from the 
 crowd had entered with them, and he pulled out 
 bottles and gave a stimulant, and staunched the 
 wound in Maxon's breast, while Burroughs stood 
 by as helpless as if he had never heard of 
 medicines. 
 
 As soon as he dared, Guido spoke excitedly, and 
 with furious gestures. 
 
 " Bad Italiano come behind-a wit' stillett' to 
 kill-a dottore. Dees man-a jump quick-a ! Knife 
 stick-a een 'eem. You understan' ? " 
 
 Burroughs could hardly comprehend. 
 
 " To stab me ? " he asked, slowly. " A man was 
 going to stab me ? " 
 
 " Yes-a, yes-a," reiterated Guido. " Bad Ita- 
 liano come-a so still-a, still-a. Dottore no see. 
 Dees man see an' jump. I see ; Carbone see. 
 We hold-a quick zee man. My God! It eez 
 Scarabini ! " 
 
 As if the muscles had suddenly relaxed, Maxon's 
 eyes opened. They were not the blank eyes of the 
 dead, and they turned toward Burroughs.
 
 GREATER LOVE HATH NO MAN 237 
 
 " Years I have loved you," the faint voice 
 said. " I came to you, and found you poor. I 
 could not help you. You have helped me. The 
 man speaks the truth. Somebody came behind. 
 Thank God I was in time. . . The debt is part 
 paid . . . Doctor! Doctor! Where are you? 
 Don't leave me. . . . We . . . will . . . fight it 
 . . . out . . . together. You have her eyes. . . . 
 I was not mistaken in you ... so good ... so 
 kind ... so ..." 
 
 The voice trailed off into silence. The eyelids 
 snapped downward, and Philip Burroughs knelt 
 with his arms about a worn-out, wounded body. 
 One thought surged through his mind : " He died 
 for me, he died for me." Then the tears came 
 and blotted the dead face from his sight. 
 
 Guido crossed himself, and tiptoed out of the 
 room. He made a genuflexion to the bishop as he 
 passed the drawing-room, and went out on the 
 steps. The square was in an uproar. Women 
 were running to and fro, crying and wringing 
 their hands. Boys and men were crowding around 
 the patrol wagon, eager to get a glimpse of the 
 prisoner, a struggling young man, who fought 
 fiercely for his freedom. Carbone was in the 
 wagon, going to the station house as a witness, 
 and as he emerged from the parochial house,
 
 238 THE HEART OF THE DOCTOR 
 
 Guido was taken in charge by the police for the 
 same purpose. 
 
 The news of the attempted attack upon Bur- 
 roughs spread quickly through the crowd, and 
 when, fifteen minutes later, he appeared in the 
 doorway, a great shout of joy went up from the 
 square below. Coming from the hush and awe of 
 the death room, he stood as one dazed, looking 
 down upon the sea of faces crowded toward the 
 steps where he stood. Then he heard cries : men, 
 women, and children calling " Viva Dottore I " 
 and " Bravo I Bravo ! Bravo I " It was the first 
 time Burroughs had ever experienced the thrill of 
 eager eyes upturned, expectant, to his own. A new 
 sensation surged over him as he looked down upon 
 the tumult of swarthy faces, and heard the vivas 
 ringing for him as they had rung for the bishop so 
 short a time before. In some way his eyesight 
 seemed very keen, so that he could distinguish the 
 faces of people in the crowd who had come to him 
 for help in times past ; people whose interests he 
 had made his own. There was Forti, the fruit 
 dealer, whom he had brought through the typhoid 
 fever ; there was young Vincenzio Broglio, whom 
 he had got into the Convalescents' Hospital after 
 great difficulty ; there was Pastorelli's wife, with 
 her apron at her eyes ; there was Maria, holding
 
 GREATER LOVE HATH NO MAN 239 
 
 up little Guido on one arm, and waving her free 
 hand toward him ; there was the wife of Razzetti, 
 whose dying baby he had christened. For an 
 instant, too, came a vision of the little white house 
 on the quiet street. But it faded, and the eager, 
 loving faces surged in upon his sight. Then he 
 understood ; they were the reality, the other was 
 the dream. The band crashed out the " Imperial 
 March," the people cheered and clapped their 
 hands, and a woman, breaking from the throng, 
 rushed up the steps, dropped upon her knees, and 
 seizing his hand, kissed it again and again. 
 
 It was the poor, crazed mother of little Rosa 
 Carbone.
 
 CHAPTER XXIII 
 THE CRT OF THE PEOPLE 
 
 DAT dawned at last. At the first trace of light 
 Burroughs lifted his head from his pillow for per- 
 haps the hundredth time. His face was haggard, 
 his eyes were burning ; he shivered like a man 
 with the ague. He rose and made his toilet as 
 best he could. Then he went into the office and 
 sat down before his desk in the half light of the 
 early summer morning. The struggle was over ; 
 the battle was fought ; the cry of the people had 
 triumphed. But the little " back alley " had been 
 a soul's Gethsemane that night. 
 
 When it was light enough to see, Burroughs 
 wrote a letter to the Board of Managers of St. 
 Luke's accepting their proposition. A little later 
 he went out and posted it. Then he came back 
 to the office and dozed at his desk. 
 
 After her breakfast La Signorina came out of 
 her house to go to the office as usual. Her heart 
 was heavy, for her attachment to the interne was 
 very sincere and his narrow escape from death and
 
 THE CRY OF THE PEOPLE 241 
 
 approaching departure from St. Luke's made her 
 sad. A child called from a third-story window, 
 
 " Signorina ! Signorina ! My mother wants the 
 doctor ter vatstinate my Carmella so 's she c'n go 
 ter school next fall. Will he go away soon ? " 
 
 " He has not yet gone," said La Signorina, not 
 looking up. 
 
 " What ? What did yer say ? " 
 
 " I say," called the nurse, impatiently, " he has 
 not yet gone, but he will go to-morrow." 
 
 " All right ! " called the girl. 
 
 Pietro's wife was sweeping her sidewalk. 
 
 " Did you hear how a man did try to kill U 
 dottore last night ? " she said in awestricken tone. 
 
 " Yes, yes," said the poor nurse. " You think I 
 have no ears! There is no other talk overnight 
 but il dottore, dottore, dottore ! " 
 
 " And think you he will go away ? " 
 
 "Certainly. Will he not hate all Italians be- 
 cause of Scarabini ? " 
 
 " I think yes. But some Italians love him very 
 much. Will he not stay for them ? " 
 
 " Hush ! " cried the nurse, turning away. " How 
 can you expect it ? " 
 
 " Signorina ! Signorina ! " a faint voice quavered 
 behind her. She turned about. It was Grand- 
 father Monti. He had grown very deaf and feeble
 
 242 THE HEART OP THE DOCTOR 
 
 of late, and was quite out of breath from hurrying 
 up the hill. 
 
 " Is he dead ? " he asked, plaintively, in Italian. 
 "Is he dead?" 
 
 " No ! " exclaimed the nurse, putting her lips 
 close to the old man's ear. 
 
 " The Virgin be praised ! I heard only that a 
 man struck at him with a knife. Then they all 
 talked at once and so I could understand no more. 
 They forget the old man wants to hear the news. 
 And he is not dead ! " 
 
 His voice broke off and the tears sprang into the 
 weak, old eyes. 
 
 " A poor man whom he had befriended, jumped 
 in and received the blow," said the nurse, speaking 
 very distinctly. 
 
 " Yes ! The blessed saints preserve their own ! 
 The doctor is a kind and good young man. Never 
 too busy is he to speak kindly to old Monti. He 
 knows not Italian, but he shakes my hand and says 
 * Com' sta ? ' close to my ear and I hear him. Too 
 often the young forget how lonely the old folks 
 grow. But he does not, the saints protect him ! " 
 
 " He has kind words for all," the nurse mur- 
 mured. " Good-by, old father, good-by." 
 
 The old man hobbled off with a smile like winter 
 sunshine on his seamed old face.
 
 THE CRY OF THE PEOPLE 243 
 
 " He is alive alive ! " he said, softly. " What 
 a night I have passed thinking he was dead ! " 
 
 Miss Cutter, for some reason, had not heard the 
 news. That Burroughs was expecting to leave the 
 dispensary was the last information about him 
 which she had secured. As the nurse approached, 
 the old woman put her head out of the window. 
 
 " Lar Seenyer Keener ! Lar Seenyer Keener ! " 
 she screamed, " what yer goin' ter do when yer 
 dar-tory goes away ? " 
 
 The nurse stopped. "I not know," she said, 
 almost sullenly. " I not want you to talk of it. 
 I not bear you say that he go." 
 
 " What '11 yer Eye-talians do ? " persisted Miss 
 Cutter, pushing the probe. 
 
 " I not know. I not know," murmured the 
 nurse with a gesture of despair. " I care not for 
 myself, but so sorry am I for my poor people. So 
 good has Doctor Burr's been to them. I cannot 
 bear that he go away." 
 
 She hurried to the dispensary door and let her- 
 self in. It was very quiet. She looked into the 
 waiting-room and then into the office. Burroughs 
 sat at the desk with face buried in his hands. 
 
 " Dottore ! " exclaimed the nurse. 
 
 Burroughs raised his head and turned his hag- 
 gard face toward her.
 
 244 
 
 "My good friend," she said, coming toward him, 
 " you cannot know how much I do thank heaven 
 that you are safe." 
 
 " Thank you, Signorina. It was a strange ex- 
 perience. The man who died was Maxon, you 
 know." 
 
 " Yes, I know." 
 
 " He is to be buried to-day. Poor fellow ! And 
 he died for me." 
 
 There was quiet in the room for a moment. 
 Then La Signorina said, 
 
 " It is well that you stay no longer here. You 
 are so sad and Spring Hill will be always horror 
 to you now. It is best . . . but, Dottore, how 
 sorry will be my poor people . . . and I, too. 
 You have been like brother to me. I not like you 
 go 'way." 
 
 For the first time in many an hour Burroughs 
 smiled. 
 
 " You dear, good soul," he said, " I am going to 
 stay here and help you work for your poor people. 
 I have written to the Board this morning." 
 
 He held out his hand and she clasped it in both 
 of hers. The tears stood in her eyes. 
 
 " Dottore, Dottore, is it true ? Ah ! How much 
 have I now for which to thank heaven ! " 
 
 They sat talking eagerly of new methods and
 
 THE CRY OF THE PEOPLE 245 
 
 enlarged work, and Burroughs planned with an 
 intensity of interest that was hysterical. But when 
 the nurse was gone and he had started out for the 
 serious work of the day, the reaction came. The 
 morning seemed an interminable horror; the in- 
 quest, the inquisition of the press representatives, 
 the arrangements for Maxon's burial. But it was 
 passed at length, and Burroughs was ready for the 
 only tribute he could pay to the man who had died 
 that he might live. The service was held at the 
 undertaker's rooms and the mission worker from 
 the avenue read the service for the dead. When 
 it was over and Burroughs stood looking for the 
 last time on the face of the poor wreck whose de- 
 votion had saved his life, the undertaker came to 
 him quietly and handed him a small, black locket, 
 suspended from a ribbon. 
 
 " I found this hanging around his neck. I saw 
 it was n't a scapula, so I took it off, thinking you 
 might like to have it." 
 
 Burroughs took the locket mechanically and 
 opened it. Then he found himself suddenly very 
 attentive, and an exclamation of surprise burst from 
 his lips. The locket contained the portrait of a 
 beautiful young girl, whose eyes strikingly resem- 
 bled his own in their earnestness of expression. 
 It was the face of Burroughs's cousin Caroline,
 
 246 THE HEART OF THE DOCTOR 
 
 whom he had idolized in his childhood and who 
 had been to him a glorified saint since her death, 
 twenty years before. She was an orphan and 
 lived in his home like a daughter of the house. 
 She used to playfully call him her little brother, 
 and there were some people who never knew that 
 the relationship was not that of brother and sis- 
 ter. Confused memories filled Burroughs's brain ; 
 the dying words of Maxon sprang to his mind and 
 a recollection of something he had heard came back 
 to him : something about some one who had loved 
 his sister and now loved him for her sake. But 
 his brain was too weary for consecutive thought, 
 just then. 
 
 " You may replace this," he said, quietly, as he 
 handed the locket back to the undertaker, and then 
 he went forth, the only mourner to follow Maxon 
 to his obscure grave. He rode thither alone, 
 tremulous and dazed, his soul benumbed and his 
 mind a chaos. Caroline, Maxon, Margaret ; the 
 living and the dead. The dead were his forever. 
 Only the living was denied him. The forces that 
 hampered him were physical ; the conventions that 
 thwarted him were material ; and life itself was 
 the obstacle which seemed to rear a barrier more 
 powerful than the grave.
 
 CHAPTER XXIV 
 AT THE END OF THE PIER 
 
 MARGARET WORTHINGTON came up Spring Hill 
 Street quickly, her head erect, her cheeks flushed, 
 and her eyes alert. Miss Cutter, peeping from her 
 window, saw the girl coming. 
 
 " Hi, there ! " the old woman cried ; " hi, there ! 
 Be yer lookin' fer the doctor? He ain't there. 
 He 's gone out. Want anythin' special? " 
 
 Margaret paused with the eager look still light- 
 ing her face. Miss Cutter inspected her with 
 care, deciding that she was a pretty looking girl 
 and " real pretty behaved, too," she told La Signo- 
 rina afterward. 
 
 " I wish to see Mr. Burroughs on a matter of 
 business," she said, in her well-bred way. " Can 
 you tell me when he will return ? " 
 
 " Wai, no, I can't, V what 's more, Lar Seenyer 
 Keener, she's out too. Won't yer come in 'n' 
 wait ? " 
 
 Margaret stopped to consider while Miss Cut- 
 ter's shrewd old eyes bored in and in.
 
 248 THE HEART OF THE DOCTOR 
 
 " She 's his gal, I bet," mused the old woman. 
 
 " No," Margaret said after a moment, " I '11 call 
 again a little later with the hope of better success." 
 
 " All right, my dear, all right. I can't say f er 
 sure when the dar-tory will come back. You 've 
 seen, p'raps, in the paper that he 's had a tryin' 
 time. That runner fer the Spanish doctor tried 
 ter kill him last night and them Eye-talians jest 
 went crazy over him." 
 
 " Yes," said Margaret, " I read about it. Mr. 
 Burroughs had a narrow escape." 
 
 Tears stood in the old blue eyes. 
 
 " Yes, miss," said Miss Cutter, with a gentleness 
 few had ever seen in her, " yes, it was a narrer 
 escape. Seems 's if I could n't er had that good 
 little man kilt. But yer know, p'raps, that he 's 
 goin' off, soon 's he gradoo-ates. They don't stay 
 long to St. Luke's. Jes' when folks gets us't to 
 'em, they gradoo-ates V off they goes." 
 
 " They are eager to begin their life work, I sup- 
 pose. But it is hard for the poor people," Mar- 
 garet replied. 
 
 Miss Cutter had wiped her tears aside and was 
 her picturesque self again. 
 
 " Lor' sakes ! " she piped, as if her momentary 
 weakness must be buried under a mountain of stri- 
 dent talk ; " Lor' sakes ! They hain't been no
 
 AT THE END OF THE PIER 249 
 
 doctor here ter St. Luke's that was as good ter the 
 poor folks as the dar-tory too good, I says, fer 
 them dirty Eye-talians. He '11 trot 'round all day, 
 mebbe, in the rain, V come draggin' home, wet as 
 sop, and a-luggin' that eveiiastin' little bag er 
 medicine, ser tired he can't hardly walk up the hill 
 I 've seen him and what '11 I hear next but 
 that he 's got some sick Eye-talian child in his own 
 bed, and him a-sittin' up all night with it. Ask 
 him about it 'n' he '11 say ' Oh, I 'm studyin' the 
 case.' You remember one uv them times ? You 
 was the lady what helped take care er one er them 
 children." 
 
 Margaret nodded assent. 
 
 " Wai, I just know it 's more 'n ter study the 
 case he does them things. It 's cause he loves 
 them dirty critters. He 'd rather be good ter 
 some Dago than ter eat, er sleep, er have a new 
 suit er clothes 'n' he needs one very bad, I 've 
 been a-noticin'. Oh, he 's good, he 's good ! He 's 
 about the only one I ever knew that wan't makin' 
 a show er doin' good fer what he could get out 
 uv it." 
 
 " I thank you very much for what you have said 
 about Mr. Burroughs," said Margaret, earnestly. 
 " He is all and more than you have thought him." 
 
 Miss Cutter looked shrewdly at the young wo-
 
 250 THE HEART OF THE DOCTOR 
 
 man. Then she beckoned with her thin forefinger, 
 and, leaning out of the window, whispered in the 
 ear Margaret turned toward her, 
 
 " Say, be you his gal ? " 
 
 " Yes," exclaimed Margaret, " I am his girl." 
 And she spoke with the proud confidence a woman 
 might feel whose right it was to say, " I am the 
 queen ! " 
 
 " I thought so, 'n' a nice, pretty lady you are, 
 too. God bless yer both. I wish yer good luck. 
 'N' I'll tell yer where I 'spect yer '11 find that 
 good feller uv yours. He 's down on the pier be- 
 yond the park. Went down fer a breath er fresh 
 air after supper, he told me as he went by. Oh, 
 yes, he 's a gentleman. He always stops ter say a 
 pleasant word ter me as he passes." 
 
 Miss Cutter held out her hand and Margaret 
 pressed it warmly. Then she crossed the street 
 and went through the burial ground and down over 
 the terraces toward the pier. The boys were play- 
 ing ball on the level near the water's edge, but 
 they stopped to let the lady pass and she walked 
 out on the pier. Many eyes followed her, as she 
 made her way along the promenade, but she was 
 quite unconscious that she attracted attention. 
 She saw Burroughs at the end of the pier and she 
 fixed her eyes upon her lover.
 
 AT THE END OF THE PIER 251 
 
 After the feverish struggle of the previous night 
 and the painful tasks of the day, Burroughs had 
 come at sunset to quiet brain and nerve with the 
 touch of the salt sea breeze. He, too, had walked 
 through the old graveyard, envying the sleepers 
 for whom the stress and heartbreak of the world 
 was over, yet revolting against his own thought as 
 he remembered how narrow had been the margin 
 which had separated him from the silent ones less 
 than twenty-four hours before. 
 
 On the terraces the children had shouted after 
 him, running up to greet him, and he had shaken 
 all the grimy hands with a new heartiness. On 
 the pier the Italian folk were catching the breeze ; 
 fathers and mothers with babies in arms, and little 
 ones toddling to and fro, or sticking their tiny 
 faces between the bars of the railing to look down 
 at the water. Some of these people had put them- 
 selves in his way, and shyly smiled ; some, bolder, 
 had called his name and waved their hands. To 
 all of them he had nodded good - naturedly or 
 spoken a word of greeting. Thus he had walked 
 onward, as if in the presence of his new-found 
 fate, till at last he reached the extreme end of the 
 pier. 
 
 How beautiful the water was, and how keenly 
 he enjoyed the salt air ! It must be much to him
 
 252 THE HEART OF THE DOCTOR 
 
 now, this city-circled harbor, for between it and 
 the towers of Santa Maria he was to toil for many 
 a day, and toil alone. He knew now that it was 
 better Margaret had been denied him ; better, 
 though every day's labor must end in a dream of 
 her. He could never have asked her to share this 
 dull, repulsive round of duty with him, to leave 
 comfort and refinement to make a home for him 
 here in this wilderness of dirt and poverty. He 
 was glad that he had not seen her all these 
 months ; glad, too, for that afternoon when he 
 heard her singing in the little room at St. Luke's. 
 Her voice he would bear with him in his heart to 
 the end of his life and as he mused thus, he 
 heard it at his side. 
 
 "Phil, dear!" 
 
 " Margaret ! " And then, after a pause, " Why 
 have you come here ? " 
 
 " Because I love you, Philip ; because you have 
 been so near to death, and were alone. Oh, Phil, 
 if I had lost you ! " 
 
 "But your father?" 
 
 " Listen, Phil. Father came home this after- 
 noon and found me crying over the newspaper. 
 He put his arms around me tightly, and said, ' My 
 little girl shall not suffer any longer. Your lover 
 is a good man. Go to him.' Then he told me
 
 AT THE END OF THE PIER 253 
 
 how all the time since he sent you away he has 
 been watching you, and has heard nothing but 
 good of you. And because you have kept your 
 word to him, he is glad to let me keep my promise 
 to you. Why, Philip I Are you not glad to see 
 me?" 
 
 Burroughs's face was white and set; he drew 
 back, and stood gazing at his companion with an 
 unutterable agony in his eyes. 
 
 " Margaret," he said slowly, " if you knew 
 Margaret Margaret ! " 
 
 Then he spoke more calmly, holding the rail 
 with tightly clinched fingers, as if to steady 
 himself. 
 
 " Margaret, I have reached a new decision about 
 my work. I am not going to that place Raymond 
 picked out for me. I am going to stay here at 
 St. Luke's. They want me to build up the work. 
 They will give me fair pay and better lodgings. 
 So I am to remain. 
 
 " I cannot explain how I reached this decision. 
 I discovered what I must do last night in the 
 square when the people all looked up at me as if 
 they cared for me. I cannot explain it to you ; I 
 cannot make you understand, but I know that my 
 work for the present is here, rather than in a 
 pleasanter place. After all, in spite of the wealth
 
 254 THE HEART OF THE DOCTOR 
 
 our family once had, we sprung from humble 
 beginnings. I belong to the common people, and 
 my place is with them." 
 
 They stood close together now, and were silent, 
 he thinking savagely of himself for having stated 
 the case so clumsily, she feeling that his closing 
 words had been the loftiest she had ever heard him 
 utter. 
 
 "I shall never degrade you by asking you to 
 join me in these surroundings," he went on, at 
 length ; " so you must go back to your own circle, 
 and forget me. It has been terribly hard for me 
 to relinquish the hope of having you for mine, 
 some day, and the sight of you now is almost more 
 than I can bear. But duty is duty, and I must 
 face it. If only if only I might kiss you just 
 once more, Margaret, darling ! " 
 
 The harbor voices were calling ; the shrill 
 soprano of tug and tender, the deeper tones of 
 ferry and steamboat. Behind the lovers the sun- 
 set flamed gold and red, glorifying all the dingy 
 region which was Burroughs's destiny. They two 
 were facing eastward, where the vapory masses of 
 purple-blue cloud, with a flash here and there of a 
 rosy sail, held a nameless charm hardly secondary 
 to the western glory. The blue lights of arc-lamps 
 flashed out along shore; the laughing voices of
 
 AT THE END OF THE PIER 255 
 
 children fluttered in the air; the bells of Santa 
 Maria tolled slowly for vespers. 
 
 Where the river and harbor met, two tugs, mak- 
 ing their last trip for the night, pulled a long, 
 low-lunging line of mud-scows to the dumping 
 space in the lower bay. 
 
 " See, dear heart," Margaret said, softly, and 
 her tone thrilled him, so expressive was it of love 
 and trust and holy peace ; " see the work they are 
 doing. How heavy and how ugly it is ! But it is 
 not hard for them because they are together." 
 
 And the earth and sea and sky that Burroughs 
 saw were tinted with the radiant hues of Paradise.
 
 Ekctretyptd and printed by H. O. Hougkion & Co. 
 Cambridge, Mass., U.S. A.
 
 DC SOUTHERN REGIONAL ; 
 
 A 000125453 1