"No; I just been tellin' him about a visitor I had who comes from Adams, where we used to live when we was young. I wanted John to come and see him, but the man couldn't wait. He had to catch a train." "Was it an old friend? It's nice to see old friends." "No, he wasn't exactly an old friend, but he knowed a lot of people I knowed once. Poor man, he was in a lot of trouble. He had his pocket picked and couldn't get home and his wife was sick--" The doctor looked up quickly. "Did you lend him money, Miss Doane?" "Yes; I felt so sorry for him. He was so worried I let him have fifteen dollars. He'll send it back to me to-morrow. He was so grateful. It must be awful to be in a big city and know no one and have no money." "Yes; it must," the doctor remarked dryly. Drusilla looked at him quickly. "What you speakin' in that tone of voice for?" The doctor laughed rather hesitatingly. "I'm afraid, Miss Doane, that you're what the small boys call 'stung.'" "Stung? What do you mean?" "I rather imagine that was a little confidence game." "What is a confidence game?" "Oh, a man gets money from people on false pretenses. They work a lot of games. One of them is to go to people whom they have looked up, and claim to be a relation or from their home town." "But he knowed lots of names I knowed." "Yes; he might have found them in a local paper from the place." Drusilla sat back in her chair. "Well, do tell!" Then, after a moment's pause, "But I don't believe he's dishonest. He looked honest. He looked like a man from the country." "That's where they're clever. But don't worry; you can stand the touch--it wasn't much. You got off easy." "But I don't like to think I bin cheated. It makes me mad clean through. It always did. I remember once I bought a cow when mother was bad; paid forty dollars for her to Silas Graham. He said she was young and would give fifteen quarts of milk a day, and I figgered out I could give mother all the milk she'd need and sell the rest and in that way pay for her, because forty dollars was a lot of money for me in them days. Why, when I got that cow she never give enough milk to wet down a salt risin', and she was as old as Methuselah. All she could do was to eat, and she et her head off. I couldn't see her starve and I couldn't sell her. I kept her for two years, and finally a butcher come along and offered me eight dollars for her and I let her go. Wasn't I mad! I never could abide any one by the name of Silas after that." "Never mind; you're able to stand this loss. But you'd better write up to Adams and see if what he says is true. You can find it out easy enough." "No; I'll wait and see. I believe he'll send it back to me. But it makes me excited."