occasionally to our mill at night for a pipe and a glass. He was the only outsider ever admitted to our slightest intimacy, with the single exception of a baneful old woman, known as Peg Rottengoose, who came in every day to do the cooking and housework and to steal what scraps she could. Now, on one of these visits, the doctor’s eye was casually caught by the glint of the coin on the mantelpiece. He clawed it at once, and as he examined it the man’s long, gaunt face lighted from inward with enthusiasm. “Where did you get this?” he cried, his hands shaking with excitement. “A neighbor dug it up in his garden and gave it me. Let it be, can’t you?” said my father, roughly. “Pooh, man! Such things are not given without reason. What was the reason? Stay—tell me the name of the man.” I thought my father paled a little and shifted uneasily in his chair. “I tell you,” he said, hoarsely, “he gave it me.” “And I don’t believe it,” cried the other. “You found it yourself, and where this came from more may be.” My father sprung to his feet. “Get out of my house!” he shouted, “and take your ‘may be’s’ to the foul fiend!” Dr. Crackenthorpe placed his pipe and the coin very gently on the table and walked stiffly to the door. He had almost reached it when my father’s voice, quite changed and soft, stopped him. “Don’t take offense, man. Come and talk it over.” Dr. Crackenthorpe retraced his steps, resumed his chair, and sat staring stonily at my father. “It’s true,” said the latter, dropping his eyes, “every word. It’s true, sir, I tell you.” The doctor never spoke, and my father stole an anxious glance up at him. “Well,” he said, with an effort; “anyhow, it’s a small matter to separate cronies. I don’t know the value of these gimcracks, but as you take pleasure in collecting ’em, I’ll—I’ll—come now, I’ll make you a present of it.” The doctor became human once more, and for a second time clutched the coin radiantly. My father heaved a profound sigh, but he never moved.
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