In the privacy of his little study the boy said, "Doctor, you had a
reason for telling me to ask Miss Farwell if the church could do anything
for--for that poor girl. And the nurse told me to ask you about the case.
I want you to tell me about her--_all_ about her. Why is she living in
that wretched place with those negroes? Why did she attempt to kill
herself? I want to know about this girl as you know her--as Miss Farwell
knows."
The old physician made no reply but sat silent--studying the young man
who paced up and down the room. When his friend did not speak Dan said
again, "Doctor you must tell me! I'm not a child. What is this thing
that you should so hesitate to talk to me freely? I must know and you
must tell me now."
"I guess you are right, boy," returned the other slowly.
To Big Dan, born with the passion for service in his very blood and
reared amid the simple surroundings of his mountain home, where the
religion and teaching of the old Shepherd had been felt for a generation,
where every soul was held a neighbor--with a neighbor's right to the
assistance of the community, and where no one--not even the nameless
"wood's colt"--was made to suffer for the accident of birth or family,
but stood and was judged upon his own life and living, the story of Grace
Conner was a revelation almost too hideous in its injustice to be
believed.
When the Doctor finished there was a tense silence in the minister's
little study.
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