Dr. Augustus Norton did not return at the end of one week, nor of two. The city saw him, indeed, no more that year. It was said that a frisky, rosy ghost of the great surgeon had slipped into St. Jerome's near Christmas--had skipped through a club or two and shaken hands about pretty generally--and disappeared. Sometimes letters came from him with an out-of-the-way postmark on them, saying in a jesting tone that he was studying the methods of an extraordinary country doctor, who seemed to cure men by touch. "He lives up here among the hills in forty degrees of frost, and if I am not mistaken he is nearer the Secret than all of you pill slingers"--(for he was writing a mere doctor of medicine!). "Anyhow I shall stay on until I learn the Secret--or my host turns me out; for life up here seems as good to me as ice-cream and kisses to a girl of sixteen.... Why should I go back mucking about with you fellows--just yet? I caught a five-pounder yesterday, and _ate_ him!" There are many stories of the great surgeon that have come to me from those days. He was much liked, especially by the younger men, after the first gloom had worn off, and he began to feel the blood run once more. He had a joking way with him that made him a good table companion, and the Brothers pretending that he would become the historian of the order taught him all the traditions of the place. "But the Secret, the Secret! Where is it?" he would demand jestingly. One night--it was at table and all were there--Harvey asked him: "Has the Master confessed you?" "'Confessed me'?" repeated the surgeon. "What's that?" A sudden silence fell on all, because this was the one thing never spoken of, at least in public. Then the Master, who had been silent all that evening, turned the talk to other matters. The Master, to be sure, gave this distinguished guest all liberties, and they often talked together as men of the same profession. And the surgeon witnessed all--the mending of the mill, the planting and the hoeing and the harvesting, the preparations for the long winter, the chopping and the road-making--all, and he tested it with his hands. "Not bad sport," he would say, "with so many sick-well young men about to help!" But meanwhile the "secret" escaped the keen mind, though he sought for it daily. "You give no drugs, Doctor," he complained. "You're a scab on the profession!" "The drugs gave out," the Master explained, "and I neglected to order more.... There's always Bert Williams at Stowe, who can give you anything you might want--shall I send for him, Doctor?" There was laughter all about, and when it died down the great surgeon returned to the attack. "Well, come, tell us now what you do believe in? Magic, the laying on of hands? Come, there are four doctors here, and we have the right to know--or we'll report you!"