The hours went by and still Iris was awake, the mute paper crushed close against her breast. "I wonder," she murmured, her crimson face hidden in the pillow, "I wonder who he can be!" VII Friends The Doctor's modest establishment consisted of two rooms over the post-office. Here his shingle swung idly in the Summer breeze or resisted the onslaughts of the Winter storms. The infrequent patient seldom met anyone else in the office, but in case there should be two at once, a dusty chair had been placed in the hall. Both rooms were kept scrupulously clean by the wife of the postmaster, who lived on the same floor, but the bottles ranged in orderly rows upon the shelves were left severely alone, because the ministering influence lived in hourly dread of poison. Here the family physician of East Lancaster lived out his monotonous existence. When he had first taken up his abode there, he had set up his household gods upon the hill, in company with his countrymen. He soon found, however, that his practice was confined to the hill, and that, for all he might know to the contrary, East Lancaster was unaware of his existence. It was the postmaster who first set him right. "If you're a-layin' out to heal them as has the money to pay for it," he had said, "you'll have to move. This yere brook, what seems so innocent-like, is the chalk mark that partitions the sheep off from the goats. You'll find it so in every place. Sometimes it's water, sometimes it's a car track, and sometimes a deepo, but it's always there, though more 'n likely there ain't no real line exceptin' the one what's drawn in folks' fool heads. I reckon, bein' as you're a doctor, you're familiar with that line down the middle of human's brains. Well, this yere brook is practically the same thing, considerin' East and West Lancaster for a minute as brains, the which is a high compliment to both." So, at the earliest possible moment, the Doctor had cast in his fortunes with the "quality." East Lancaster affected refined astonishment at first, but when the resident physician, who had long enjoyed the deep respect of the community, had been gathered to his fathers, Doctor Brinkerhoff became the last resort. His skill was universally admitted, but no one went to his office, for fear of meeting undesirable strangers. It was thought to be in better taste to pay the double fee and have the Doctor call, even for such slight ailments as boils and cut fingers.