Dr. Sevier stamped his wet feet on the pavement of the hospital porch. It was afternoon of the day following that of the rain. The water still covering the streets about the hospital had not prevented his carriage from splashing through it on his double daily round. A narrow and unsteady plank spanned the immersed sidewalk. Three times, going and coming, he had crossed it safely, and this fourth time he had made half the distance well enough; but, hearing distant cheers and laughter, he looked up street; when--splatter!--and the cheers were redoubled. "Pretty thing to laugh at!" he muttered. Two or three bystanders, leaning on their umbrellas in the lodge at the gate and in the porch, where he stood stamping, turned their backs and smoothed their mouths. "Hah!" said the tall Doctor, stamping harder. Stamp!--stamp! He shook his leg.--"Bah!" He stamped the other long, slender, wet foot and looked down at it, turning one side and then the other.--"F-fah!"--The first one again.--"Pshaw!"--The other.--Stamp!--stamp!--"_Right_--_into_ it!--up to my _ankles!_" He looked around with a slight scowl at one man, who seemed taken with a sudden softening of the spine and knees, and who turned his back quickly and fell against another, who, also with his back turned, was leaning tremulously against a pillar. But the object of mirth did not tarry. He went as he was to Mary's room, and found her much better--as, indeed, he had done at every visit. He sat by her bed and listened to her story. "Why, Doctor, you see, we did nicely for a while. John went on getting the same kind of work, and pleasing everybody, of course, and all he lacked was finding something permanent. Still, we passed through one month after another, and we really began to think the sun was coming out, so to speak." "Well, I thought so, too," put in the Doctor. "I thought if it didn't you'd let me know." "Why, no, Doctor, we couldn't do that; you couldn't be taking care of well people." "Well," said the Doctor, dropping that point, "I suppose as the busy season began to wane that mode of livelihood, of course, disappeared." "Yes,"--a little one-sided smile,--"and so did our money. And then, of course,"--she slightly lifted and waved her hand. "You had to live," said Dr. Sevier, sincerely. She smiled again, with abstracted eyes. "We thought we'd like to," she said. "I didn't mind the loss of the things so much,--except the little table we ate from. You remember that little round table, don't you?" The visitor had not the heart to say no. He nodded. "When that went there was but one thing left that could go." "Not your bed?" "The bedstead; yes." "You didn't sell your bed, Mrs. Richling?" The tears gushed from her eyes. She made a sign of assent. "But then," she resumed, "we made an excellent arrangement with a good woman who had just lost her husband, and wanted to live cheaply, too." "What amuses you, madam?"