Without exception they hailed the driver of
the single rig heartily. It was Dr. Harry returning from a case in the
backwoods country beyond Hebron.
The deep-chested, long-limbed bay, known to every child for miles around,
was picking her own way over the country roads, for the lines hung slack.
Without a hint from her driver the good horse slowed to a walk on the
rough places and quickened her pace again when the road was good, and of
her own accord, turned out for the passing teams. The man in the buggy
returned the greetings of his friends mechanically, scarcely noticing who
they were.
It was Jo Mason's wife this time. Jo was a good fellow but wholly
incapable of grasping, single-handed, the problem of daily life for
himself and brood. There were ten children in almost as many years.
Understanding so little of life's responsibilities the man's dependence
upon his wife was pitiful, if not criminal. With tears streaming down
his lean, hungry face he had begged, "Do somethin', Doc! My God Almighty,
you jest got to do some-thin'!"
For hours Dr. Harry had been trying to do something. Out there in the
woods, in that wretched, poverty-stricken home, with only a neighbor
woman of the same class to help he had been fighting a losing fight.
And now while the bay mare was making her tired way home he was still
fighting--still trying to do something. His professional knowledge and
experience told him that he could not win; that, at best, he could do no
more than delay his defeat a few days, and his common sense urged him to
dismiss the case from his mind.
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