“Does not the Good Book say that the laborer is worthy of his hire? Do your regular physicians, of whom I understand you are one, treat cases for nothing? Ah,” he went on, outstretching his hands to the audience with a gesture of appeal, “the injustice which I have suffered from the jealousy and envy of the medical profession! Never do I enter a town without curing many unfortunates that the regular doctors have given up as hopeless. Hence the violence of their attacks upon me. But I forgive them their prejudice, as I pity their ignorance.” Some applause followed the enunciation of this noble sentiment. “We have with us to-night,” pursued the speaker, quick to catch the veering sentiment, “a number of these marvelous cures. You shall hear from the very mouths of the saved ones testimony beyond cavil. I will call first on Mrs. Amanda Gryce, wife of Mr. Stanley Gryce, the well and favorably known laundryman. Speak up clearly, Mrs. Gryce, and tell your story.” “It’s two years now that I been doctorin’,” said the lady thus adjured, in a fluttering voice. “I doctored with a allopathic physician here, an’ with a homypath over to Roxton, an’ with a osty-path down to Worthington, an’ with Peruny in betwixt, an’ they didn’t any of ‘em do me no good till I tried Professor Gray. He seen how I felt without askin’ me a question. He just pulled down my eyelid an’ looked at it. ‘You’re all run down; gone!’ says he. An’ thet’s jest what I was. So he treated me with his herb medicine an’ I feel like a new woman. An’ I give Professor Graham Gray the credit an’ the thanks of a saved woman.” “Not to mention seven dollars an’ a half,” supplemented a mournful drawl from the audience. “You hush, Stan Gryce!” cried the healed one, shrill above the laughter of the ribald. “Would you begrutch a few mizzable dollars for your poor, sufferin’ wife’s health?” An alarmed child of ten was next led forward and recited in sing-song measure:— “I—had—the—fits—for—most—three— years—and—I—was—cured—by Gospel—Herbs—and—I—have—come—here—to—say—God—bless—my—dear benefactor—Professor—Graham—Gray,”—and sat down hard at the last word, whereupon a tenor squeak in the far gallery took up the refrain: “You’d scarcex peckwon of my yage To speakin public on the stage.” Again there was a surge of mirth, and the lecturer frowned with concern. But he quickly covered whatever misgivings he might have had by bringing forward other “testimonies”: old Miss Smithson whose nervousness had been quite dispelled by two doses of the herbs; Auntie Thomas (colored) whose “misery” had vanished before the wonder-working treatment; and the Widow Carlin, whose boy had been “spittin’ blood like as if he was churchyard doomed,” but hadn’t had a bad coughing spell since taking the panacea. And all this time Dr. Strong sat quiet in his seat, with a face of darkening sternness.