which he saw by turning his head, were as much and no more to him than his own body lying there day after day.  They were parts of a pantomime, of which he was actor and spectator, but in which he had no special interest, and which he was perfectly happy to go to sleep and leave.  Gradually his brain cleared, and slowly he got back the thread of recollection where it had broken so sharply, and began to spin again; and among the first clear new ideas that took shape out of his scattered wits was one, that the queer old couple had been exceedingly good to him, and that they had no special reason for kindness in his case; and, second, that this gruff, ruddy, Indian-haired doctor was a man of skill and decision, and one not too fond of Mr. Daniel Field.

The second Sunday afternoon Field was lying quietly looking out on the lake from the bed, and thinking in a mood uncommonly serious for him, not very complacent nor very proud.  Some feelings that had been stronger than he cared to resist these last few weeks had grown vague and intermittent—­some new ones had come into their place.

Dr. Niedever came in and looked at him, giving him no greeting and treating him brusquely enough.  He took a turn about the room, and faced round.  “Well, young man,” he said, “we pulled you through a pretty tight place.”

The manner and tone angered Field.  “That’s your trade, isn’t it?” he answered.  “I suppose money will pay you.”

“Money!” roared the old doctor.  “Of course you’ll pay, and pay well.  But do you think I’ve done it for your sake, or your money?  Look here:  he served you right when he threw you over.”

“I suppose he’d hang as well as another,” answered Field.

“He wouldn’t hang.  There’s no evidence but hearsay and surmise against him.  If you had died, your body would never have been found.  A hundred good men would testify to his character, and I’d have been one.  He stands a worse chance now than if you were anchored to the bottom of the lake.  I haven’t saved your life for his sake nor for yours:  I have done it for this old man.  You owe me nothing but money, but everything you’ve got, and all you’ll ever have, and the chance of redeeming yourself, you owe to old Joe Trapp; and I wish him joy of his debtor!”

“Now, old man,” Field answered, “you can go.  You needn’t come back.  I haven’t the money now, but old Trapp will give you my card out of my coat.  Send your bill to that address and I’ll pay you when I can.”

The doctor stood looking at him a minute with his hands in his pockets, his red face scowling savagely.  He muttered something, turned on his heel and went down.  Old Trapp was away at the time, and came home an hour later.  He came up and into Field’s room with his queer gait and face and stooping old figure.

“My friend,” said Field, “I’ll trouble you to bring me my clothes:  I’m going to get up.”

The old man went down and brought them, helped him to dress and come down stairs, and set him by the fire in an easy-chair.  The old wife brought and laid on the table a knife, a bunch of keys, a letter, a card-case and cigar-case, a handkerchief newly washed and ironed, a pair of soiled gloves, some pennies and trifles, and two rolls of bills.