Mary was studying him with deep interest. She had asked herself the question a hundred times how much she could tell him--what to say and what to leave unsaid. One glance at his calm, intellectual face was enough. He was a man of striking appearance, six feet tall, forty-five years of age, hair prematurely gray and a slight stoop to his broad shoulders. His brown eyes seemed to enfold the old woman in their sympathy. Nance was chattering her answer to his greeting. “Oh, I'm feelin' fine, Doctor--” she dropped her voice confidentially--“and you're just in time for a good dinner. My boy that was lost has come home. He's a great big fellow, wears fine clothes and come up the mountain all the way in a devil wagon.” She put her hand to her mouth. “Sh! He's asleep! We won't wake him till dinner! He's all tired out.” The Doctor nodded understandingly and turned toward Mary. “And this young lady?” “Oh, that's his wife from New York--ain't she purty?” The Doctor saw the delicate hands trembling and extended his. No word was spoken. None was needed. There was healing in his touch, healing in his whole being. No man or woman could resist the appeal of his personality. Their secrets were yielded with perfect faith. “Come with me quickly,” Mary whispered. “I understand,” he answered carelessly. Turning again to Nance, he said with easy confidence: “I'll not disturb you with your cooking, Mrs. Owens. Go right on with it. I'll have a little chat with your son's wife. If she's from New York I want to ask her about some of my people up there----” “All right,” Nance answered, “but don't you wake HIM! Go with her inter the shed-room.” “We'll go on tip-toe!” the Doctor whispered. Nance nodded, smiled and bent again over the oven. Mary led him quickly through the living-room, head averted from the couch, and into the prison cell in which she had passed the night. The physician glanced with a startled look at the gold still scattered on the floor. She seized his hand and swayed. He touched the brown hair of her bared head gently and pressed her hand. “Steady, now, child, tell me quickly.” “Yes, yes,” she gasped, “I'll tell you the truth----” He held her gaze. “And the whole truth--it's best.” Mary nodded, tried to speak and failed. She drew her breath and steadied herself, still gripping his hand. “I will,” she began faintly. “He's dead----” She paused and nodded toward the living-room. “The man--her son?”