“Oh, it is a very simple operation,” Dearing went on, “and in any ordinary case I shouldn't give it a second thought; but, by George, I have become attached to that little chap. He is the pluckiest little man I ever knew. I had an exhibition of his grit one day that was ahead of anything I ever saw in a child. He had fallen, and his upper teeth had cut a deep gash in his tongue. They sent for me, and I saw that I'd have to take a stitch in it to close the ugly gap. It was a ticklish job, and I hardly saw how I could do it, for I didn't want to use an anaesthetic. But I talked to him just as I would to a man, and he promised me he wouldn't cry. He didn't. I give you my word, old man, he didn't whimper as the needle went through, and even while I was tying the thread; but I could see from his big, strained eyes that it hurt him like rips. A child with grit like that, Kenneth, is bound to make a stir in the world. I have noticed that you like him too, and I am glad you do. The truth is, darn you, you are taking my place! I'm jealous; he thinks you are a regular king. He is always talking about you.” “When do you think you will do the--the operation?” Galt faltered, as he averted his shrinking glance from Dearing's face. “Why, I want to do it right off. It is like this: his mother knows it has to be done, and has agreed to leave it entirely to me; but she is very nervous over it. She has a vein of morbid superstition running through her. She fancies that some disaster is bound, sooner or later, to happen to him--in fact, as she has often put it to me, she hardly believes that a just God would allow such a sensitive and ambitious child to grow up to a full comprehension of his humiliation. “I see--I see what you mean,” Galt managed to say, and his soul seemed to writhe anew as he stood trying to make his words sound casual.