And now, oh thou dignified rector of St. Agnes, in thy home beyond the sea, lay aside the “Appendix to the Apology of St. Perpetua,” over which thou porest, for under all thy dignity and formalism there beats a loving father’s heart.  The shadows are gathering, dear sir, around thy fifth son in a far country, and in the gathering shadows there stalks, noiselessly, relentlessly, that grim, gray spectre, Death.  On thy knees, then, oh Rector of St. Agnes, and blend thy prayers with the feeble petitions of her who even now, for thy house, entreats the Throne of Grace.  Pray, oh thou on whom the bishop’s hands have been laid, that the golden bowl be not broken nor the silver cord loosed, for the breath of thy fifth son draws heavily, and the things of time and sense are fading, fading, fading from his closing eyes.

Pearl repeated the prayer.

   —­And grant, oh most merciful Father for His sake;
   That we may hereafter lead a godly, righteous and a
   sober life—­

She stopped abruptly.  The old dog lifted his head and listened.  Snatching up the lantern, she was out of the door before the dog was on his feet; there were wheels coming, coming down the road in mad haste.  Pearl swung the lantern and shouted.

The doctor reined in his horse.

She flashed the lantern into his face.

“Oh Doc!” she cried, “dear Doc, I have been waitin’ and waitin’ for ye.  Git in there to the granary.  Arthur’s the sickest thing ye ever saw.  Git in there on the double jump.”  She put the lantern into his hand as she spoke.

Hastily unhitching the doctor’s horse she felt her way with him into the driving shed.  The night was at its blackest.

“Now, Thursa,” she laughed to herself, “we got him, and he’ll do it, dear Doc, he’ll do it.”  The wind blew dust and gravel in her face as she ran across the yard.

When she went into the granary the doctor was sitting on the box by Arthur’s bed, with his face in his hands.

“Oh, Doc, what is it?” she cried, seizing his arm.

The doctor looked at her, dazed, and even Pearl uttered a cry of dismay when she saw his face, for it was like the face of a dead man.

“Pearl,” he said slowly, “I have made a terrible mistake, I have killed young Cowan.”

“Bet he deserved it, then,” Pearl said stoutly.

“Killed him,” the doctor went on, not heeding her, “he died in my hands, poor fellow!  Oh, the poor young fellow!  I lanced his throat, thinking it was quinsy he had, but it must have been diphtheria, for he died, Pearl, he died, I tell you!”

“Well!” Pearl cried, excitedly waving her arms, “he ain’t the first man that’s been killed by a mistake, I’ll bet lots o’ doctors kill people by mistake, but they don’t tell—­and the corpse don’t either, and there ye are.  I’ll bet you feel worse about it than he does, Doc.”

The doctor groaned.

“Come, Doc,” she said, plucking his sleeve, “take a look at Arthur.”