room, she pressed her face against her mother's kimono
that still hung behind the door. "I am not crying for
you to come back, mother," she sobbed bitterly, "I am
just crying for your little girl."

The doctor was asleep when John reached his little shanty
in the hills. The child still lived, his Highland mother
having stopped the blood with rude bandaging and ashes,
a remedy learned in her far-off island home.

John shook the doctor roughly and cursed him soundly in
both English and Gaelic, without avail, but the child's
cry so full of pain and weakness roused him with a start.
In a minute Dr. Frederick Barner was himself. He took
the child gently from his mother and laid him on the bed.

For two days the doctor stayed in John's dirty little
shanty, caring for little Murdock as tenderly as a mother.
He cooked for the child, he sang to him, he carried him
in his arms for hours, and soothed him with a hundred
quaint fancies. He superintended the cleaning of the
house and scolded John's wife soundly on her shiftless
ways; he showed her how to bake bread and cook little
dishes to tempt the child's appetite, winning thereby
her undying gratitude. She understood but little of the
scolding, but she saw his kindness to her little boy,
for kindness is the same in all languages.

On the third day, the little fellow's fever went down
and, peeping over the doctor's shoulder, he smiled and