“Umph! Very likely!” The man glanced at him over quick spectacles. “What ’s the matter with her? Sit down.” He touched the chair again with his foot. The young man sat down. “We don’t know what it is. She cannot walk--cannot stand--a good deal of the time--and sometimes she suffers. But it is a kind of nervousness that is hardest to bear. She cannot lie quiet. Something seems to drive her.” The man nodded. His fingers opened and closed. “What else?” he said brusquely. “That ’s all--except that it quiets her to have me around. I can get work in Bridgewater and do the housework nights and mornings.” The man was scowling at him intently. “It ’s what I ’ve always done, till I came here,” he said quickly. “Washed dishes and cooked and made beds?” “Yes, sir.” “It’s no work for a _man_.” “I know.” The dull face smiled a little. “The boys always called me ’Sissie Johnny.’” “Umph! I ’m glad they did!... ’Sissie Johnny’!” He smiled grimly and took a card from the desk before him, holding it a minute in his fingers, snapping it back and forth. “Has she ever seen a specialist?” The young man shook his head. “No, sir.” The man wrote a few words on the card and blotted it quickly. “Take her to see Dr. Blake. He is the best nerve specialist in five hundred miles. If she is n’t well enough to go to him, have him come to her. I ’ll pay the bill.” He thrust himself into his hat and coat and got himself out of the room, shrugging nervously. The young man stood with the card in his hand, looking at it, a little smile on his lips. Then he went about, turning out all the bulbs but one and putting away papers and arranging the room for the night.