"Oh, yes, _I_ know." Exasperation was in every letter of every word. "Take one every six months and let me hear from you when they're all gone." Slam! "There's always _some_ damned thing," he muttered, and turning faced his wife. "A surprising prescription, John. What does it mean?" "It means that she's one of these everlasting complainers and that I'm tired of hearing her. She's been to Chicago and St. Louis and Cincinnati. She's had three or four laparotomies and every time she comes back to me with a longer story and a worse one. They've got about everything but her appendix and they'll get that if she don't watch out." "Why, I thought they always got that the first thing." "You have no idea how it tires a man to have people come to him and complain, complain, _complain_. The story is ever new to them but it gets mighty old to the doctor. Then they go away to the city and some surgeon with a great name does what may seem to him to be best. Sometimes they come back improved, sometimes not, and sometimes they come back worse than when they went. In all probability the operator never sees the patient again and so the last chapters of the story must be told to the home doctor over and over again." Mary gave a little sigh. The doctor went on: "In many cases it isn't treatment of any kind that is needed. It is occupation--occupation for the mind and for the hands. Something that will make people forget themselves in their work or in their play." Ting-a-ling-ling-ling. Ting-a-ling-ling-ling. "Is this you, Doctor?" "Yes." "I wanted to see if you were at the office. I'll be over there right away." In a few minutes the door opened and a gentleman about thirty-five years of age entered. His manner was greatly agitated and he did not notice Mrs. Blank at the window near the corner of the room. "Good morning, Mr. Blake," said the doctor, shaking hands with him, "back again, are you?" Mr. Blake had been to C--, his native city. He had not been well for some time and had evinced a desire to go back and consult his old physician there, in which Dr. Blank had heartily concurred. "How long do you think I can live?" Mr. Blake asked now. "What do you mean?" replied the doctor, regarding him closely. "I want to know how much time I have. I want to get my business fixed up before--" "Blake, you couldn't die if you wanted to. You're not a sick enough man for that." The patient took a letter from his pocket and handed it in silence to the doctor. The latter took it, looked carefully at the superscription, read it slowly through, then folded it with cool deliberation and put it back into the envelope. "I thought you were going to your old physician," he said. "Dr. Kenton was out of the city so I went to the great specialist." "Did he tell you what was in this letter he sent to me?" "No, but the letter was not sealed and I read it. I was so anxious to know his opinion that I couldn't help it. Tuberculosis of the larynx--" his voice faltered.