“Was it the prayer or the potion that saved it, Doctor?” questioned Breckenridge in his caustic tone.

“I don’t know,” said the doctor—­and there was something new and gentle in his voice.  “It was very nearly beyond potions—­I’m inclined to think it was the prayer.”  An hour afterward, Doctor Brainard, sitting wide-awake and thoughtful before Brown’s fire, was aware of the quiet entrance of the younger man.  He looked up, and a radiant smile met him.

“Still doing well, I see, Don.”

Brown nodded.  He sank down into the chair opposite the doctor and ran his hand through his hair.  In spite of the brightness of his face the gesture betrayed weariness.

Doctor Brainard got up.  He went over to the corner where his overcoat hung upon a peg in the wall, and took from a pocket a small instrument composed mostly of tubes.  He inserted certain earpieces in his ears and returned to the fire.

“Sit up and let me get at you,” he commanded.

Brown glanced round, saw the doctor’s grotesque appearance with the stethoscope in position, and shook his head.  “That’s not fair.  I was up rather early, and it’s been a fairly full day—­and night.  Take me in the morning.”

“I’ll take you right now, when you’re tired enough to show up whatever’s there.  Coat off, please.”

He made his examination painstakingly, omitting no detail of his inquiry into the state of both heart and lungs.

“What would you say if I told you you were in a bad way?” he asked.

Brown smiled.  “I shouldn’t believe you.  I know you too well.  You can’t disguise the fact that you find nothing new, and the old things improved.  I know I’m stronger than I was a year ago.  Why shouldn’t I be—­with nothing to do but take care of myself?”

The doctor whistled.  “How do you make that out, that ‘nothing to do?’”

“With the demands of a great parish off my shoulders the little I do here is child’s play.”

“After I left you with the baby,” said the doctor, “Mrs. Kelcey followed me into the other room and told me a few things.  In your old parish you had your sleep o’ nights.  In your new one I should say you spend the sleeping hours in activity.”

“In my old parish,” said Brown, studying the fire with an odd twist at the corners of his lips, “I lay awake nights worrying over my problems.  Here, I’m asleep the minute my head touches the pillow.  Isn’t that a gain?”

“Too weary to do anything else, I suppose.  Well, I shall have to admit that you are improved—­surprisingly so.  You are practically well.  But what I can’t understand is how a man of your calibre, your tastes, your fineness of make-up, can stand consorting with these people.  Be honest, now.  After such a visit as you’ve had to-night with the old friends, don’t you feel a bit like giving in and coming back to us?”