“Well, you won't be a starved parson's wife, anyway. You'll have money.” It was equivalent to another man's hearty good wishes. “Benedict will talk to him,” he said, and went out to find Benedict. David had found in old Doctor Benedict a companion and friend. An old-style family physician, the town's medical man-of-all-work, with a heart as big as the world and a brain stored with book-lore and native philosophy, the doctor and David made a strange pair of friends and loved each other the better for their differences. Once every so often the doctor had his “periodical,” when he drank until he was stupid. Once already David, knowing of this weakness and seeing the “period” approaching, had kept old Benedict talking philosophy until midnight and, when he grew restless for brandy, had walked the streets with him until the older man tottered for weariness and had to be fairly lifted into his bed. When, the next day, Benedict began the postponed spree David had dragged him to the manse, and had kept him there that night, locked in the dominie's own bedroom. Benedict took all this good-naturedly. He looked on his “periodicals” as something quite apart from himself. He did not like them, and he did not dislike them. They came, and when they came he was helpless. They took charge of him and he could not prevent them, and he refused to mourn over them or let them spoil his good nature. The greater part of the year he was himself, but when the “periodical” came he was like a helpless baby tossed by a pair of all-powerful arms. He could not defend himself; he did not wish to be carried away, but it was useless to contend. If David wanted to wrestle with the thing he was welcome. In the meantime David and Benedict recognized each in the other an intellectual equal and they became fast friends. Old Sam Wiggett, holding the mortgages on Benedict's house and on his horse, and on all that was his, did not hesitate to order him to talk to David. “Davy,” said the doctor quizzically as he sat in an easy-chair in David's study, “they tell me you are paying too much attention to 'Thusy Fragg.” David turned. “Arethusia Fragg?” he said. “You're mistaken, Benedict. I'm paying her no attention.” “It's the scandal of the church,” drawled Benedict. “Great commotion. Everybody whispering about it. You walk abroad with her, Davy; you laugh with her at oyster suppers.” He became serious. “It's being held against you. A dominie has to walk carefully, Davy. Small minds are staggered by small faults--by others' small faults.” “I meet her occasionally,” said David. “I have seen no wrong in that.” “That's not for me to say,” said Benedict. “Others do. She's a giddy youngster; a flyaway; a gay young flibbertygibbet. I don't judge her. I'm telling you what is said, Davy.”