mistaking him for any other. He was tall and lean and
gaunt. The doctor had bought him believing him to be in
poor condition, which good food and good care would
remedy. But as the months went by, in spite of all the
doctor could do, Pleurisy remained the same, eating
everything the doctor brought him, and looking for more,
but showing no improvement.

"I've tried everything except egg-nog," the doctor went
on, "and pink pills, and I would like to turn over the
responsibility to someone else. I think perhaps his
trouble must be mental--some gnawing sorrow that keeps
him awake at night. I don't mind driving Pleurisy where
people know me and know that I do feed him occasionally,
but it is disconcerting when I meet strangers to have
kind-looking old ladies shake their heads at me. I know
what they're thinking, and I believe Pleurisy really
enjoys it, and then when I drive past a farmhouse to see
the whole family run out and hold their sides is not a
pleasure. Talk about scattering sunshine! Pleurisy leaves
a trail of merriment wherever he goes."

"What difference does it make what people think when your
conscience is clear. You do feed your horse, you feed
him well, so what's the odds," inquired the Rev. Hugh
Grantley, son of granite, child of the heather, looking
with lifted brows at his friend.

"Oh, there you go!" the doctor said smiling. "That's the
shorter catechism coming out in you--that Scotch complacency