There was but one thing to do. Zenobia would follow him wherever he went—she rushed madly through Mrs. Pennypepper’s roses to greet him—and his only course was to lead her out of the town before people began to get up, and to detain her in some remote meadow until he could get her keeper to come for her and secure her by force or stratagem. He set off by the least frequented streets, and he experienced a pang of horror as he remembered that his way led him past the house of his one professional rival in Sagawaug. Suppose Dr. Pettengill should be coming home or going out as he passed! [Illustration] He did not meet Dr. Pettengill. He did meet Deacon Burgee, who stared at him with more of rage than of amazement in his wrinkled countenance. The Deacon was carrying a large bundle of embroidered linen and flannel, that must have been tied up in a hurry. “Good morning, Deacon,” the Doctor hailed him, with as much ease of manner as he could assume. “How’s Mrs. Burgee?” “She’s doin’ fust rate, no thanks to no circus doctors!” snorted the Deacon. “An’ if you want to know any thing further concernin’ her health, you ask Dr. Pettengill. _He_’s got more sense than to go trailin’ around the streets with a parboiled elephant behind him, a–frightening women–folks a hull month afore the’r time.” “Why, Deacon!” cried the Doctor, “what—what is it?” “It’s a boy,” responded the Deacon, sternly; “and it’s God’s own mercy that ’twa’n’t born with a trunk and a tail.” * * * * * The Doctor found a secluded pasture, near the woods that encircled the town, and there he sat him down, in the corner of a snake–fence, to wait until some farmer or market–gardener should pass by, to carry his message to the keeper. He had another message to send, too. He had several cases that must be attended to at once. Unless he could get away from his pachydermatous familiar, Pettengill must care for his cases that morning. It was hard—but what was he to do? Zenobia stood by his side, dividing her attention between the caresses she bestowed on him and the care she was obliged to take of her red cap, which was not tightly strapped on, and slipped in various directions at every movement of her gigantic head. She was unmistakably happy. From time to time she trumpeted cheerily. She plucked up tufts of grass, and offered them to the Doctor. He refused them, and she ate them herself. Once he took a daisy from her, absent–mindedly, and she was so greatly pleased that she smashed his hat in her endeavors to pet him. The Doctor was a kind–hearted man. He had to admit that Zenobia meant well. He patted her trunk, and made matters worse. Her elephantine ecstasy came near being the death of him.