“You don't mean to tell me it is ten o'clock IN THE FORENOON!” I cried. “Um-hm. I hated to disturb you. You've been sleepin' like the everlastin' hills and I knew you must be completely wore out. But I felt pretty sartin you'd want to see the--who 'tis that here's to see you, so I decided to wake you up.” “It is high time you did, I should think! I'll be down in a minute. Who is it that wishes to see me, Dorinda?” But Dorinda had gone. I dressed hurriedly and descended the stairs to the dining-room. There, seated in a chair by the door, his eyes closed, his chin resting upon his chest, and his aristocratic nose proclaiming the fact that he slumbered, was Johnson, the Colton butler. I was not greatly surprised. I had rather suspected that my caller might be he, or some other messenger from the big house. He started at the sound of my entrance and awoke. “I--I beg your pardon, sir,” he stammered. “I--I beg your pardon, sir, I'm sure. I've been--I 'aven't closed my eyes for the past two nights, sir, and I am tired out. Mr. Colton wishes to see you at once, sir. He wishes you to come over immediately.” I was surprised now. “MR. Colton wishes it,” I repeated. “You mean Miss Colton, don't you, Johnson.” “No, sir. It is Mr. Colton this time, sir. Miss Colton is out in the motor, sir.” “But Mr. Colton is too ill to see me, or anyone else.” “No, sir, he isn't. He's very much better. He's quite himself, sir, really. And he is very anxious to see you. On a matter of business, he says.” I hesitated. I had expected this, though not so soon. He wanted to ask questions concerning my crazy dip into his financial affairs, doubtless. Well, I should have to see him some time or other, and it might as well be now. I called to Dorinda, who was in the kitchen, and bade her tell Mother, if she inquired for me, that I had gone out, but would be back soon. Then Johnson and I walked briskly along the bluff path. We entered the big house. “Mr. Colton is in his room, sir,” explained the butler. “You are to see him there. This way, sir.” But before we reached the foot of the stairs Doctor Quimby came out of the library. He and I shook hands. The doctor was a happy man. “Well!” he exclaimed, “what's the matter with the one-horse, country-jay doctor now, hey! If there is any one of the Boston specialists at a hundred a visit who can yank a man out of a serious sickness and put him on his feet quicker than I can, why trot him along, that's all! I want to see him! I've been throwing bouquets at myself for the last ten hours. Ho! ho! Say, Ros, you'll think my head is swelled pretty bad, won't you! Ho! ho!” I asked how the patient was getting on.