George Wright was looking quite solemn as he made his way to the cabin where Mrs. Carter had taken to her bed. He was not relishing the idea of having to speak to the wife of his patient, but speak he must. He knew very well that Nan would never have come to him if matters had not reached a crisis. How would Helen take his interference? He could not fool himself into the belief that what Helen said and thought made no difference to him. It made all the difference in the world. But duty was duty and since he was ministering to a mind diseased, he must guard that mind from all things that were harmful to it, just as much as a doctor who is treating an open wound must see that it is kept aseptic. If Robert Carter's wife was contemplating upsetting the good that had been done her husband, why, it was his duty as that husband's physician to warn her of the result. Mrs. Carter was looking very lovely and pathetic, acting the invalid. An extremely dainty and costly negligee accentuated her beauty. Her cabin room, while certainly not elegant, was perfectly comfortable and kept in spotless condition by the devoted Susan. There were no evidences of rough living in her surroundings and the hand which she extended feebly to welcome the physician could not have been smoother or whiter had it belonged to pampered royalty. "Ah, Dr. Wright, it is kind of you to come in to see me." She smiled a wan smile. "I am sorry you are ill. What is troubling you?" He felt her pulse, and finding it quite regular, he smiled, but did not let her see his amusement. "I think it is my heart. I can make no exertion without great effort." "Any appetite?" "Oh, very little--I never eat much, and I am so tired of chicken! Fried chicken, broiled chicken, stewed chicken!" "Yes, spring chicken is a great hardship, no doubt," he said rather grimly. "I like broiled chicken very much in the spring, but I never did care very much for chicken in the summer. People seem to have chicken so much in the summer. I never could see why." "It might be because it is cheaper when they are plentiful," he suggested, finding it difficult to keep the scorn he felt for this foolish little butterfly out of his voice. "Perhaps it is, I never thought of that." Helen came in just then, bringing a bouquet of garden flowers that Mr. McRae had sent to the ladies of the camp. "I might as well tackle them together," he thought, taking a long breath. "Ahem--are your plans for the winter made yet?" he asked Mrs. Carter.