When I was almost well I one day said to him: "Doctor, what do I owe you?"
The sweet serenity of his face merged into a benevolent beam, and in the
vernacular of the Society of Friends, of which he was a member, he said:
"Mary, Rachel and I have been talking it over, and we have concluded that
thee will be too delicate to travel this winter, and will need all thy
money; so thee does not owe me anything."

Choking with grateful emotion, as soon as I could command control I said:
"Doctor, I could not expect you to give me such kind attention without
remuneration, but since you have so willed it, I can only say I thank you
for having saved my life." Whereupon there came the same luminous look,
and the gentle voice said: "Mary, it was not I that saved thy life; it
was thy Heavenly Father."

As soon as I was well enough to ride he made arrangements for me to visit
his house. I took the street car, but by pre-arranged plan, he met me at
his door, lifted me from the car, and carried me in his arms into a
luxurious bed-chamber, where I was met by the sweet-voiced Rachel, who
gave me a reviving draught of rare old wine, and in every way studied my
wants during the day's visit, after which the Doctor drove me home in his
carriage.

How do our hearts go out in gratitude to such true and loving natures, and
how fondly do we recall in after years the sweet sounds of sympathy, whose
melody pervades life's measured music.

Once again I found myself in Baltimore, where I received a letter from my
brother William, urging me to spend the winter at his home in Pecatonica,
Ill. This, together with a meeting with my cousin Sammy Heald, determined
me to go West. My cousin was about to visit Iowa City, Iowa, where dwelt