Purple Springs. Nellie L. McClung

I was, and the cough is a simple thing—this seems impossible to me!"

      The old doctor had gone to the window to watch the throng of boys and girls who raced past on their way to the hill for an evening's sleigh-ride.

      "It always seems impossible," he said, with the air of a man who is totally disassociated from human affairs, and is simply stating an interesting fact, "that is part of the disease, and a very attractive part too. The people who have it, never think they have—even to the last they are hopeful—and sure they will be better tomorrow. No, I am afraid I am not mistaken. You know yourself the theory Clay, of the two sets of microbes, the builders and the destroyers. Just at the present moment, the destroyers have the best of it—they have put one over on the builders—but that does not say that the good microbes are not working—and may yet win. You are young, buoyant, happy, hopeful, temperate in your habits—all of which gives you a better chance—if you will throw the weight of your influence on the side of the builders—there is a good chance of winning—I should think with your Irish blood you would enjoy the fight, Clay."

      The young doctor turned around suddenly and threw back his head, with an impatient gesture.

      "I love a fight, Dr. Brander, but it has to be of something worth while. I have fought for the life of a man, a woman, a child, and I have fought joyfully—for life is sweet, and I desired it for these people, believing it to be a good gift. But in the fight you outline for me, I see nothing to fire man's heart. I won't fight for life if it means just breathing and scraping along at a poor, dying rate, cheating the undertaker of a nice little piece of legitimate business—I can't grow enthusiastic over the prospect of always thinking about myself—and my rest—and my sleep—or my clothes—always looking for a draught or fleeing from the night air or a thunderstorm—never able to do a man's job or a day's work. I can't do it, Dr. Brander, and you couldn't do it. It's a poor, miserable, dull existence, unhappy for me, and no service to any one."

      Two red spots burned in his cheeks, and the old doctor, noticing them, wished again that he had come to see him sooner.

      "See here, Clay," he said, sitting down again, with his hands spread out on his knees, "you exaggerate this thing. You do not think you are working unless you are slaving and owling around all hours of the night, setting bones and pulling teeth, or ushering into this wicked world sundry squalling babies who never asked to come, and do not like it now they are here. You have been as strong as an ox, and keen as a race-horse, now you have to slow up—you have to get out of this country before another winter, and when you come back in Spring you can go on with your patients—always with care."

      The young doctor surveyed him with curling lip.

      "Resume my practice," he said, "how simple. Send word ahead, I suppose, by circular letter—

      "'Dear Friends, I will be with you May 1st, to attend to your medical needs. Save your appendicitis and neuralgia and broken bones for me. Medical season opens for business May 1st, every one welcome'. Something like that ought to be sufficient to hold my practice. It has always seemed to me very inconsiderate for people to get sick in the winter, and certainly it is no time for infants to begin their career. … Now, see here, Dr. Brander, I appreciate all you say. I know why you are talking this way to me. It is out of the kindness of your heart—for you have a soft old heart behind all that professionalism. But it does not look reasonable to me that a man who has really lived, can ever drag along like you say. Who wants to live, anyway, beyond the time of usefulness? I don't. I want to pass out like old Prince—you remember my good old roan pacer, do you?"

      "That red-eyed old anarchist of yours that no one could harness but you?"

      "That's the one—as good a horse as ever breathed—misunderstood, that was all—well, he passed on, as the scientists say, last Fall, passed on in a blaze of glory too, but just how glorious his death was, I don't believe I realized until tonight.

      "How did it happen?"

      "I had a thirty mile drive to see Mrs. Porter, at Pigeon Lake—and just as I was about to start, another message came that it was very urgent if her life was to be saved. Old Prince would not drive double—and my team was tired out. So I started with him alone. The snow came on when I was half way there, and that made the going bad—to add to the difficulties, a strong wind drove the blinding snow in our faces. But the old boy ploughed on like a wrecking engine—going out in a storm to clear the track. He knew all about it, I never had to urge him. The last mile was the worst—he fell once, but staggered to his feet and went on, on three legs. … When we got to the house, I knew it was all up with old Prince—he had made his last journey."

      "But he was still living when I came out to see him four hours later. The men had put him in a box stall, and had done all they could, but his eyes were rolling, and his heart missed every fourth beat."

      "The two little girls came out and cried over him, and told him he had saved their mother's life, and tried to get him to eat sugar lumps … and—right to the last there was the same proud look in his red eyes, and he gave me a sort of wink which let me know it was all right—he didn't blame me or any one—and so I kissed him once, on the white star on his honest forehead, and I put my left arm around his head so he couldn't see what was coming, and sent a bullet through his brain."

      "We buried him on the hillside overlooking the lake, and the little girls put a slab up over him, which says:

      "Prince of the house of Clay

       Who saved our mother's life,

       Lies here in peace, and lives

       In grateful memory in our hearts."

      There was a silence, in which each man's mind went back to the one overwhelming thought—that bound them so close together.

      Then the young doctor said slowly: "If what you say is true, I envy

       Prince—and would gladly change places with him."

      The old man recovered himself in a moment: "You take things too seriously, Clay," he said quickly: "be glad you are not married. A wife and children clutter up a man's affairs at a time like this—you are quite free from family ties, I believe?"

      "Quite free," the young man replied, "all my relatives live in the East, all able to look after themselves. I have no person depending on me—financially, I mean."

      "Marriage," began the old doctor, in his most professional tone, as one who reads from a manuscript, "is one-fourth joy and three-fourths disappointment. There is no love strong enough to stand the grind of domestic life. Marriage would be highly successful were it not for the fearful bore of living together. Two houses, and a complete set of servants would make marriage practically free from disappointments. I think Saint Paul was right when he advised men to remain single if they had serious work to do. Women, the best of them, grow tiresome and double-chinned in time."

      The young doctor laughed his own big, hearty laugh, the laugh which his devoted patients said did them more good than his medicine.

      "I like that," he said, "a man with a forty-two waist measure, wearing an eighteen inch collar, finding fault with a woman's double chin. You are not such a raving beauty yourself."

      The old man interrupted him:

      "I do not need to be. I am a doctor, a prescriber of pills, a mender of bones, a plumber of pipes … my work does not call for beauty. Beauty is an embarrassment to a doctor. You would be happier, young fellow, without that wavy brown hair and those big eyes of yours, with their long lashes. A man is built for work, like a truck. Gold and leather upholstering do not belong there. Women are different; it is their place in life to be beautiful, and when they fail in that, they fail entirely. They have no license to be fat, flabby double-chinned, flat-footed. It is not seemly, and of course you cannot tell how any of them may turn out. They are all pretty at sixteen. That is what makes marriage such a lottery."

      "I don't agree with you at all," said his companion, "it is absurd to expect a woman of fifty to have the slim grace of a girl of eighteen. My mother was a big woman, and I always thought her very beautiful. I think you have a