his knowledge and love of his profession, his activity, his tender heart—­especially to women and children, his keen intellect, and his devising though not embodying imagination, if any man could get on without a God, Faber was that man.  He was now trying it, and as yet the trial had cost him no effort:  he seemed to himself to be doing very well indeed.  And why should he not do as well as the thousands, who counting themselves religious people, get through the business of the hour, the day, the week, the year, without one reference in any thing they do or abstain from doing, to the will of God, or the words of Christ?  If he was more helpful to his fellows than they, he fared better; for actions in themselves good, however imperfect the motives that give rise to them, react blissfully upon character and nature.  It is better to be an atheist who does the will of God, than a so-called Christian who does not.  The atheist will not be dismissed because he said Lord, Lord, and did not obey.  The thing that God loves is the only lovely thing, and he who does it, does well, and is upon the way to discover that he does it very badly.  When he comes to do it as the will of the perfect Good, then is he on the road to do it perfectly—­that is, from love of its own inherent self-constituted goodness, born in the heart of the Perfect.  The doing of things from duty is but a stage on the road to the kingdom of truth and love.  Not the less must the stage be journeyed; every path diverging from it is “the flowery way that leads to the broad gate and the great fire.”

It was with more than his usual zeal of helpfulness that Faber was now riding toward Owlkirk, to revisit his new patient.  Could he have mistaken the symptoms of her attack?

CHAPTER VI.

THE COTTAGE.

Mrs. Puckridge was anxiously awaiting the doctor’s arrival.  She stood by the bedside of her lodger, miserable in her ignorance and consequent helplessness.  The lady tossed and moaned, but for very pain could neither toss nor moan much, and breathed—­panted, rather—­very quick.  Her color was white more than pale, and now and then she shivered from head to foot, but her eyes burned.  Mrs. Puckridge kept bringing her hot flannels, and stood talking between the changes.

“I wish the doctor would come!—­Them doctors!—­I hope to goodness Dr. Faber wasn’t out when the boy got to Glaston.  Every body in this mortal universe always is out when he’s wanted:  that’s my experience.  You ain’t so old as me, miss.  And Dr. Faber, you see, miss, he be such a favorite as have to go out to his dinner not unfrequent.  They may have to send miles to fetch him.”

She talked in the vain hope of distracting the poor lady’s attention from her suffering.