“No-o,” said Araminta, doubtfully.  “Aunt Hitty never said it was.”

“I wouldn’t have you do anything wrong, Araminta—­you know that.  Good-bye, now, until to-morrow.”

Beset by strange emotions, Doctor Ralph Dexter went home.  Finding that the carriage was not in use, he set forth alone upon his feline quest, reflecting that Araminta herself was not much more than a little grey kitten.  Everywhere he went, he was regarded with suspicion.  People denied the possession of cats, even while cats were mewing in defiance of the assertion.  Bribes were offered, and sternly refused.

At last, ten miles from home, he found a maltese kitten its owner was willing to part with, in consideration of three dollars and a solemn promise that the cat was not to be hurt.

“It’s for a little girl who is ill,” he said.  “I’ve promised her a kitten.”

“So your father’s often said,” responded the woman, “but someway, I believe you.”

On the way home, he pondered long before the hideous import of it came to him.  All at once, he knew.

XIII

The River Comes into its Own

“Father,” asked Ralph, “who is Evelina Grey?”

Anthony Dexter started from his chair as though he had heard a pistol shot, then settled back, forcing his features into mask-like calmness.  He waited a moment before speaking.

“I don’t know,” he answered, trying to make his voice even, “Why?”

“She lives in the house with my one patient,” explained Ralph; “up on the hill, you know.  She’s a frail, ghostly little woman in black, and she always wears a thick white veil.”

“That’s her privilege, isn’t it?” queried Anthony Dexter.  He had gained control of himself, now, and spoke almost as usual.

“Of course I didn’t ask any questions,” continued Ralph, thoughtfully, “but, obviously, the only reason for her wearing it is some terrible disfigurement.  So much is surgically possible in these days that I thought something might be done for her.  Has she never consulted you about it, Father?”

The man laughed—­a hollow, mirthless laugh.  “No,” he said; “she hasn’t.”  Then he laughed once more—­in a way that jarred upon his son.

Ralph paced back and forth across the room, his hands in his pockets.  “Father,” he began, at length, “it may be because I’m young, but I hold before me, very strongly, the ideals of our profession.  It seems a very beautiful and wonderful life that is opening before me—­always to help, to give, to heal.  I—­I feel as though I had been dedicated to some sacred calling—­some lifelong service.  And service means brotherhood.”

“You’ll get over that,” returned Anthony Dexter, shortly, yet not without a certain secret admiration.  “When you’ve had to engage a lawyer to collect your modest wages for your uplifting work, the healed not being sufficiently grateful to pay the healer, and when you’ve gone ten miles in the dead of Winter, at midnight, to take a pin out of a squalling infant’s back, why, you may change your mind.”