John shook the doctor roughly and cursed him soundly in both English and Gaelic, without avail, but the child’s cry so full of pain and weakness roused him with a start.  In a minute Dr. Frederick Barner was himself.  He took the child gently from his mother and laid him on the bed.

For two days the doctor stayed in John’s dirty little shanty, caring for little Murdock as tenderly as a mother.  He cooked for the child, he sang to him, he carried him in his arms for hours, and soothed him with a hundred quaint fancies.  He superintended the cleaning of the house and scolded John’s wife soundly on her shiftless ways; he showed her how to bake bread and cook little dishes to tempt the child’s appetite, winning thereby her undying gratitude.  She understood but little of the scolding, but she saw his kindness to her little boy, for kindness is the same in all languages.

On the third day, the little fellow’s fever went down and, peeping over the doctor’s shoulder, he smiled and chattered and asked for his “daddy” and his “mathar.”

Then Big John broke down utterly and tried to speak his gratitude, but the doctor abruptly told him to quit his blubbering and hitch up, for little Murdock would be chasing the hens again in a week or two.

The doctor went faithfully every day and dressed little Murdock’s wound until it no longer needed his care, remaining perfectly sober meanwhile.  Hope sprang up in Mary’s heart—­for love believeth all things.

At night when he went to bed and she carefully locked the doors and took the keys to her room, she breathed a sigh of relief.  One more day won!

But alas for Mary’s hopes!  They were built upon the slipping, sliding sands of human desire.  One night she found him in the office of the hotel; a red-faced, senseless, gibbering old man, arguing theology with a brother Scotchman, who was in the same condition of mellow exhilaration.

Mary’s white face as she guided her father through the door had an effect upon the men who sat around the office.  Kind-hearted fellows they were, and they felt sorry for the poor little motherless girl, sorry for “old Doc” too.  One after another they went home, feeling just a little ashamed.

The bartender, a new one from across the line, a dapper chap with diamonds, was indignant.  “I’ll give that old man a straight pointer,” he said, “that his girl has to stay out of here.  This is no place for women, anyway”—­which is true, God knows.

Five years went by and Mary Barner lived on in the lonely house and did all that human power could do to stay her father’s evil course.  But the years told heavily upon him.  He had made some fatal mistakes in his prescribing, and the people had been compelled to get in another doctor, though a great many of those who had known him in his best days still clung to the “old man” in spite of his drinking.  They could not forget how he had fought with death for them and for their children.