He reached the doctor’s house on the further side of the town, sprang from the mare’s back, bounded up the steps and knocked at the door. No one answered. He knocked again. How loud it rang through the hall! May be the doctor was gone! He had not thought of such a possibility before. He choked at the thought. Springing quickly from the steps to the ground he felt for a stone, bounded back and began to pound on the door with all his might. The window was raised, and the old doctor thrust his head out calling, “What on earth’s the matter? Who is that?” “It’s me, Charlie Gaston--my Mama’s sick--she’s awful sick, I’m afraid she’s dying--you must come quick!” “All right, sonny, I’ll be ready in a minute.” The boy waited and waited. It seemed to him hours, days, weeks, years! To every impatient call the doctor would answer, “In a minute, sonny, in a minute!” At last he emerged with his lantern, to catch his horse. The doctor seemed so slow. He fumbled over the harness. “Oh! Doctor you’re so slow! I tell you my Mama’s sick--!” “Well, well, my boy, we’ll soon be there,” the old man kindly replied. When the boy saw the doctor’s horse jogging quickly toward his home he turned the mare’s head aside as he reached the court house square, roused the Preacher, and between his sobs told the story of his mother’s illness. Mrs. Durham had lost her only boy two years before. Soon Charlie was sobbing in her arms. “You poor little darling, out by yourself so late at night, were you not scared?” she asked as she kissed the tears from his eyes. “Yessum, I was scared, but I had to go for the doctor. I want you and Dr. Durham to come as quick as you can. I’m afraid to go home. I’m afraid she’s dead, or I’ll hear her laugh that awful way I heard to-night.” “Of course we will come, dear, right away. We will be there almost as soon as you can get to the house.” He rode slowly along the silent street looking back now and then for the Preacher and his wife. As he was passing a small deserted house he saw to his horror a ragged man peering into the open window. Before he had time to run, the man stepped quickly up to the mare and said, “Who lived here last, little man?” “Old Miss Spurlin,” answered the boy. “Where is she now?” “She’s dead.” The man sighed, and the boy saw by his gray uniform that he was a soldier just back from the war, and he quickly added, “Folks said they had a hard time, but Preacher Durham helped them lots when they had nothing to eat.” “So my poor old mother’s dead. I was afraid of it.” He seemed to be talking to himself. “And do you know where her gal is that lived with her?” “She’s in a little house down in the woods below town. They say she’s a bad woman, and my Mama would never let me go near her.” The man flinched as though struck with a knife, steadied himself for a moment with his hands on the mare’s neck and said, “You’re a brave little one to be out alone this time o’night,--what’s your name?” “Charles Gaston.”