“I’m not well to-day,” he muttered.  He returned to the porch, walking heavily.  In body and in mind he felt listless.  There seemed to be something or some one inside him—­a newcomer—­aloof from all that he had regarded as himself—­aloof from his family, from his work, from his own personality—­an outsider, studying the whole perplexedly and gloomily.

As he was leaving the gate a truck entered the drive.  It was loaded with trunks—­his son’s and his daughter’s baggage on the way from the station.  Hiram paused and counted the boxes—­five huge trunks—­Adelaide’s beyond doubt; four smaller ones, six of steamer size and thereabouts—­profuse and elegant Arthur’s profuse and elegant array of canvas and leather.  This mass of superfluity seemed to add itself to his burden.  He recalled what his wife had once said when he hesitated over some new extravagance of the children’s:  “What’d we toil and save for, unless to give them a better time than we had?  What’s the use of our having money if they can’t enjoy it?” A “better time,” “enjoy”—­they sounded all right, but were they really all right?  Was this really a “better time"?—­really enjoyment?  Were his and his wife’s life all wrong, except as they had contributed to this new life of thoughtless spending and useless activity and vanity and splurge?

Instead of going toward the factories, he turned east and presently out of Jefferson Street into Elm.  He paused at a two-story brick house painted brown, with a small but brilliant and tasteful garden in front and down either side.  To the right of the door was an unobtrusive black-and-gold sign bearing the words “Ferdinand Schulze, M.D.”  He rang, was admitted by a pretty, plump, Saxon-blond young woman—­the doctor’s younger daughter and housekeeper.  She looked freshly clean and wholesome—­and so useful!  Hiram’s eyes rested upon her approvingly; and often afterwards his thoughts returned to her, lingering upon her and his own daughter in that sort of vague comparisons which we would not entertain were we aware of them.

Dr. Schulze was the most distinguished—­indeed, the only distinguished—­physician in Saint X. He was a short, stout, grizzled, spectacled man, with a nose like a scarlet button and a mouth like a buttonhole; in speech he was abrupt, and, on the slightest pretext or no pretext at all, sharp; he hid a warm sympathy for human nature, especially for its weaknesses, behind an uncompromising candor which he regarded as the duty of the man of science toward a vain and deluded race that knew little and learned reluctantly.  A man is either better or worse than the manner he chooses for purposes of conciliating or defying the world.  Dr. Schulze was better, as much better as his mind was superior to his body.  He and his motherless daughters were “not in it” socially.  Saint X was not quite certain whether it shunned them or they it.  His services were sought only in extremities, partly because he would lie to his patients neither when he knew what