“No I dunno’s I have, but he’ll do it again if he gets the chance—­you just see!”

Thorpe drummed idly on the table with his pencil, wishing that Miss Mehitable would go.  He had for his fellow-men that deep and abiding love which enables one to let other people alone.  He was a humanitarian in a broad and admirable sense.

“I was told,” said Miss Mehitable, “to get a definite answer.”

Thorpe bowed his white head ever so slightly.  “You may tell the Ladies’ Aid Society, for me, that next Sunday morning I will give my congregation a sermon on hell.”

“I thought I could make you see the reason in it,” remarked Miss Mehitable, piously taking credit to herself, “and now that it’s settled, I want to speak of Araminta.”

“She’s getting well all right, isn’t she?” queried Thorpe, anxiously.  He had a tender place in his heart for the child.

“That’s what I don’t know, not bein’ allowed to speak to her or touch her.  What I do know is that her immortal soul is in peril, now that she’s taken away from my influence.  I want you to get a permit from that black-mailing play-doctor that’s curing her, or pretending to, and go up and see her.  I guess her pastor has a right to see her, even if her poor old aunt ain’t.  I want you to find out when she’ll be able to be moved, and talk to her about her soul, dwellin’ particularly on hell.”

Thorpe bowed again.  “I will be very glad to do anything I can for Araminta.”

Shortly afterward, he made an errand to Doctor Dexter’s and saw Ralph, who readily gave him permission to visit his entire clientele.

“I’ve got another patient,” laughed the boy.  “My practice is increasing at the rate of one case a month.  If I weren’t too high-minded to dump a batch of germs into the water supply, I’d have a lot more.”

“How is Araminta?” asked Thorpe, passing by Ralph’s frivolity.

“She’s all right,” he answered, his sunny face clouding.  “She can go home almost any time now.  I hate to send her back into her cage—­bless her little heart.”

It was late afternoon when Thorpe started up the hill, to observe and report upon the state of Araminta’s soul.  He had struggled vainly with his own problem, and had at last decided to read a fiery sermon by one of the early evangelists, from a volume which he happened to have.  The sermon was lurid with flame, and he thought it would satisfy his congregation.  He would preface it with the statement that it was not his, but he hoped they would regard it as a privilege to hear the views of a man who was, without doubt, wiser and better than he.

Miss Evelina came to the door when he rapped, and at the sight of her veiled face, a flood of pity overwhelmed him.  He introduced himself and asked whether he might see Araminta.

When he was ushered into the invalid’s room, he found her propped up by pillows, and her hair was rioting in waves about her flushed face.  A small maltese kitten, curled into a fluffy ball, slept on the snowy counterpane beside her.  Araminta had been reading the “story book” which Doctor Ralph had brought her.