Brent urged the horse homeward, his serenity ruffled, his pride touched. At short intervals he passed others; one and all they seemed reluctant to meet his eye, though he knew and called each by name. Ever since public opinion had crystallized, months ago, and sides had been taken, his patients and patriot neighbors had withdrawn their confidences from him, though not their ills. But not until now had they appeared so unwilling even to acknowledge him. They turned their faces away or they met his greeting in stony silence or with a muttered word that was no answer at all. And so he went on, gaining no information, but being constantly met with the selfsame rebuff. It only served to whet his curiosity, and at last when he came to his own house and saw Caleb Gorham, an old, infirm friend, hobbling along the road like the rest, he instantly got off his horse and protested. “By Godfrey, I put you to bed yesterday and told you to stay there. What’s this foolishness?” But his friend, too, had changed. “Figger I’ll have to disobey those orders, Isaac.” And he kept his way, face averted. Brent crossed the yard and took Gorham by the shoulders. “See here, what in the name of sense is happening? Come in the house.” “No, Isaac, it wouldn’t look just right for me to be goin’ in your house this partic’lar mornin’.” Doctor Brent swore again. “Caleb, I have not been ashamed to cross your doorsill and you shall not be ashamed to cross mine! Come. I’ll have an answer from someone.” Gorham walked toward the door reluctantly, turning as one of his passing neighbors hailed him in reproof. “You got other chores to do, Caleb.” The old man nodded. “Be there in a minute,” he answered, and entered the doctor’s house. A small fire had been built in the hearth against the morning chill. The table was set and the cakes were steaming in the platter. “Better eat with me,” suggested Brent. His wife came out of the pantry and he motioned at the table. “Another plate for Caleb.” “No,” said Gorham firmly. “Ain’t got time for sociableness.” “You’ll have time to die, though, if you disobey my orders,” said Brent darkly. “Guess a man can die when the time comes,” was Gorham’s stout reply. The weight of his musket was heavy for his old arms, and he leaned the weapon against the door. His fingers were rheumatic and gnarled and his cheeks receded from a thin, long nose. When he spoke it was with a strong nasal quality; his eyes snapped. “You mustn’t push friendship, Isaac, when it’s times like these. Folks know you and me have been real thick. But a neighbor’s patience ain’t long in war.” “This township,” retorted Brent, “must take me as I am. Before all this nonsense about taxes and freedom came up they were glad enough to know me and use me. Now they want my service but not my friendship. Well, every man to his opinion. I keep mine, and so long as the folks keep me here to listen to their tales of sickliness, they must bear my politics.”