“Will ten be satisfactory?” Eastman had run a hand into a pocket. Now he held a goldpiece. The doctor turned. A troubled light was in the grey eyes. “Five’d be a fair charge for Blue Top,” he said. As the smaller coin was proffered him he took it, bowed and went out. Someone followed him--he did not look back to see who. But as he reached the front door his eyes fell upon a photograph that lay on a table beside the hatrack. It was the photograph of a child--a handsome, fair-haired little boy in gingham rompers, standing on a garden path amid chrysanthemums that reached above his tumbled curls. “Is that your baby?” asked the doctor, and, with the inquiry, turned to the one behind. It was not Eastman, but the Chinese servant who had followed him out. As he opened the door he made no reply. Bobby was waiting dutifully at the steps; and when he was headed down the mountain he went single-footing away eagerly, his bit-chains rattling with his swaying gait. But the doctor rode with his chin on his breast and his soft hat pulled to his brows. And when a bend in the road brought the shingled bungalow near, instead of looking at it he turned his face toward the long, level valley. In the distance, on the tree-strewn river-bottom, was a cluster of white specks--the town he had left in the early afternoon. He had come from it hopefully: he was returning unsuccessful. But his jaw was set resolutely. It was past sundown when he reined at the gate leading to Bobby’s corral. Letty had seen him ride up. Now she came hurrying across the garden toward him. “Is it good news?” she called. He was down and standing beside his horse. “I counted my chickens ahead of time,” he answered, and smiled ruefully. “They’re gittin’ a city doc for Blue Top.” As he slipped off saddle and bridle she stood in silence, her eyes on the ground. But when he came over and paused beside her she looked up at him bravely, for all the tears on her lashes. “Never mind about Blue Top,” she said. “Think what a fine doctor you are now. And you’re so young. If you go on with your studying----” “I’ll tell you what’s the matter with me,” he said very earnestly. “I cure, don’t I? But I don’t dress good enough. I don’t know how to talk. And I ain’t one of them stylish, top-buggy physicians.” He looked up the street to his own gate. A man had pulled up before it--a queer-looking individual mounted on a raw-boned mule and wearing a long, tan linen duster and a black slouch hat. “The fact is,” he went on, “I’m not Doctor Hunter. That’s it. I’m just ‘Doc.’” The man on the mule was advancing toward them. Letty hastened to inquire about Blue Top. “You didn’t tell me who was sick at the mine,” she reminded. “Mrs. Eastman. But--she wasn’t sick.” “She wasn’t sick?” Letty raised a puzzled face. “Just unhappy. Eastman didn’t say what about. But her poor heart’s a-breakin’.” The man on the mule pulled up for a second time, near by. “Are you Doc Hunter?” he demanded. The voice sounded muffled.