Paul Faber, Surgeon | Page 5

was about to turn the corner,
he stepped out on the pavement, and the doctor checked his horse in the
gutter.
"I wish you would look in upon Mr. Drake, sir," he said. "I am quite

uneasy about him. Indeed I am sure he must be in a bad way, though he
won't allow it. He's not an easy man to do any thing for, but just you let
me know what can be done for him--and we'll contrive. A _nod_, you
know, doctor, etc."
"I don't well see how I can," returned Faber. "To call now without
being sent for, when I never called before!--No, Mr. Drew, I don't think
I could."
It was a lovely spring noon. The rain that had fallen heavily during the
night lay in flashing pools that filled the street with suns. Here and
there were little gardens before the houses, and the bushes in them were
hung with bright drops, so bright that the rain seemed to have fallen
from the sun himself, not from the clouds.
"Why, goodness gracious!" cried the draper, "here's your excuse come
direct!"
Under the very nose of the doctor's great horse stood a little
woman-child, staring straight up at the huge red head above her. Now
Ruber was not quite gentle, and it was with some dismay that his
master, although the animal showed no offense at the glowering little
thing, pulled him back a step or two with the curb, the thought darting
through him how easily with one pash of his mighty hoof the horse
could annihilate a mirrored universe.
"Where from?" he asked, by what he would himself have called a
half-conscious cerebration.
"From somewhere they say you don't believe in, doctor," answered the
draper. "It's little Amanda, the minister's own darling--Naughty little
dear!" he continued, his round good-humored face wrinkled all over
with smiles, as he caught up the truant, "what ever do you mean by
splashing through every gutter between home and here, making a little
drab of yourself? Why your frock is as wet as a dish-clout!--and your
shoes! My gracious!"
The little one answered only by patting his cheeks, which in shape
much resembled her own, with her little fat puds, as if she had been
beating a drum, while Faber looked down amused and interested.
"Here, doctor!" the draper went on, "you take the little mischief on the
saddle before you, and carry her home: that will be your excuse."
As he spoke he held up the child to him. Faber took her, and sitting as
far back in the saddle as he could, set her upon the pommel. She

screwed up her eyes, and grinned with delight, spreading her mouth
wide, and showing an incredible number of daintiest little teeth. When
Ruber began to move she shrieked in her ecstasy.
Holding his horse to a walk, the doctor crossed the main street and
went down a side one toward the river, whence again he entered a
narrow lane. There with the handle of his whip he managed to ring the
door-bell of a little old-fashioned house which rose immediately from
the lane without even a footpath between. The door was opened by a
lady-like young woman, with smooth soft brown hair, a white forehead,
and serious, rather troubled eyes.
"Aunty! aunty!" cried the child, "Ducky 'iding!"
Miss Drake looked a little surprised. The doctor lifted his hat. She
gravely returned his greeting and stretched up her arms to take the child.
But she drew back, nestling against Faber.
"Amanda! come, dear," said Miss Drake. "How kind of Dr. Faber to
bring you home! I'm afraid you've been a naughty child again--running
out into the street."
"Such a g'eat 'ide!" cried Amanda, heedless of reproof. "A yeal
'ossy--big! big!"
She spread her arms wide, in indication of the vastness of the upbearing
body whereon she sat. But still she leaned back against the doctor, and
he awaited the result in amused silence. Again her aunt raised her hands
to take her.
"Mo' 'yide!" cried the child, looking up backward, to find Faber's eyes.
But her aunt caught her by the feet, and amid struggling and laughter
drew her down, and held her in her arms.
"I hope your father is pretty well, Miss Drake," said the doctor, wasting
no time in needless explanation.
"Ducky," said the girl, setting down the child, "go and tell grandpapa
how kind Dr. Faber has been to you. Tell him he is at the door." Then
turning to Faber, "I am sorry to say he does not seem at all well," she
answered him. "He has had a good deal of annoyance lately, and at his
age that sort of thing tells."
As she spoke she looked up at the doctor, full in his face, but