The door slammed with much the effect of an oath, and the questioner sprinted for the park. Being wise in the way of human misery, he knew that mysterious instinct of suicides which guides them, no matter what their chosen method of self-destruction, toward water. Therefore he took the shortest route for Our Fountain. Young Irvy's customer sat huddled on a bench at the water's edge. The bottle was in her hand, uncorked. She had just made a trial of the liquid on her hand, and was crying softly because it burned. As the Little Red Doctor's grip closed on her wrist, she gasped and sought to raise the drug to her lips. “Drop it!” said her captor in the voice of authority. She obeyed. But she misinterpreted the authority. “Is it to jail ye'll be taking me?” she asked despairingly. The soft appeal of the voice, with its faint touch of the brogue, shook the Little Red Doctor. One glance at the piteously lined young face conquered him. He formulated his program on the spot. “Jail?” he echoed in affected surprise. “What for?” She glanced mutely at the shattered bottle. “Oh, that's foolish stuff to use for warts,” he observed carelessly, lifting the hand, which was as soft and smooth and free from blemish as a moth's wing. “Now, you come with me to a friend of mine, and she'll fix that burnt finger.” Many men there are in whom dogs confide instinctively; fewer who win offhand the confidence of children, and a rare few whom women trust at sight. Of this few is the Little Red Doctor. His captive followed him without protest to the nestling little house with the quaint old door and the broad, friendly vestibule which had been her husband's wedding gift to the Bonnie Lassie. There, without fuss or query, Molly Dunstan was accepted as a guest, and presently, too worn out even to wonder, she was deep in healing sleep, in the spare room over the studio. In the morning she presented herself to her hostess's unobtrusive but keen observation: a wistful slip of a woman of perhaps twenty-five, with hollow cheeks, deep-brown, frightened eyes, a softly drooping mouth, and a satiny skin from which the color had ebbed; a woman whose dainty prettiness had been overlaid but not impaired by privation and some stress of existence only to be guessed at. For all her simple and worn dress (all black) and the echo of brogue in her speech, she bore herself with a certain native dignity and confidence. “It's good ye've been to me, and I'll not know how to thank you, now that I'll be going,” she said, and the silken-soft voice with its touch of accent won the Bonnie Lassie's soft and wise heart from the first. “But you're not to go yet,” protested the latter. “You must stay until you're well. And then I want to sculp you, if you'll let me. I'm an artist, and I think you would make a wonderful model.” “It's kind ye are,” returned the other. “But how can I be beholden?” “You won't be. It's you that will be doing the favor. As soon as you're well enough--”