In the privacy of his little study the boy said, "Doctor, you had a reason for telling me to ask Miss Farwell if the church could do anything for--for that poor girl. And the nurse told me to ask you about the case. I want you to tell me about her--_all_ about her. Why is she living in that wretched place with those negroes? Why did she attempt to kill herself? I want to know about this girl as you know her--as Miss Farwell knows." The old physician made no reply but sat silent--studying the young man who paced up and down the room. When his friend did not speak Dan said again, "Doctor you must tell me! I'm not a child. What is this thing that you should so hesitate to talk to me freely? I must know and you must tell me now." "I guess you are right, boy," returned the other slowly. To Big Dan, born with the passion for service in his very blood and reared amid the simple surroundings of his mountain home, where the religion and teaching of the old Shepherd had been felt for a generation, where every soul was held a neighbor--with a neighbor's right to the assistance of the community, and where no one--not even the nameless "wood's colt"--was made to suffer for the accident of birth or family, but stood and was judged upon his own life and living, the story of Grace Conner was a revelation almost too hideous in its injustice to be believed. When the Doctor finished there was a tense silence in the minister's little study. It was as though the two men were witnessing a grim tragedy. Trained under the influence of his parents and from them receiving the highest ideals of life and his duty to the race, Dan had been drawn irresistibly by the theoretical self-sacrificing heroism and traditionally glorious ministry of the church. Now, for the first time, he was face to face with existing conditions. Not the theory but the practice confronted him now. Not the traditional, but the actual. It was, indeed, a tragedy. The boy's face was drawn and white. His eyes--wide with that questioning look--burned with a light that his old friend had not seen in them before--the light of suffering--of agonizing doubt.