having intentionally assisted the demise of certain well-known indigent worthies; the popular, logical surmise concerning his motive for the commission of the deed being that he thought “pore folks” cumberers of the ground. Science, although furnishing many rich and varied instances of transformation, fails to give data concerning the gradual development of the professional man,—artist, author, physician, lawyer,—from the waiting, eager grub; what causes assist at the metamorphosis, what influences favor it, what casualties retard it, what circumstances preclude it utterly. Time seems no factor, and the poor worm, with no instinct of forecast, must writhe indefinitely, not knowing whether his sinuous carcass contains the possibilities of splendid wings, or merely continued wriggles. Rathburn had turned his eyes far afield; he yearned for the great cities that he had known as a medical student, and their ampler opportunities. He thought that he longed for wealth as a stepping-stone to the worthy practice of his chosen profession, rather than his profession as a stepping-stone to wealth. He was eager to forsake this state of elaborately equipped idleness, this farce of postulance, this endless waiting, with no certain result in view. But consciously or unconsciously, most of all he thirsted for riches; it fired his blood to think of the avaricious grasp of the great rocky gorges. He dreamed by day as well as by night; and sometimes, so little was there that he would not risk, that he would not do for his cherished hope, he dreamed that it might be well to lay his strong hands on Jake Baintree’s neck—that had escaped such catastrophe so closely—and tighten their grasp, till the secret that the foolish, suspicious, obstructive, ignorant marplot so jealously guarded should be choked out or remain with him, hopeless, inert, and indeed incapable of telling his tale if he would. But as yet Rathburn dreamed this chiefly by night. XVIII.