So he hastens up stairs to the room which John Alexander Craig temporarily occupies, opens the door, and speedily returns with the little traveling case in which the young physician keeps many important medicines, an assortment of ready liniment and lint, with the wonderful remedial agents known to modern surgery.

To John’s surprise, after he has opened the case and started to arrange the small bandage, it is gently taken from his hands.

“Allow me,” says the pretty “doll,” as he has at times been forced to mentally term Lady Ruth, after she has played with his admiration.

“But, do you know—­”

“I never told you my uncle was a surgeon, Sir Archibald Gazzam—­”

“What! that great man your uncle!” cries the student, with the deep respect a young M.D. has for a famous practitioner.

“Yes; and more than once I have assisted him in some simple case at the house.  He gave me credit for a fair amount of nerve.”

“Fair amount!  Jove! for a girl you have a wonderful quantity.  Why, I believe you’d have faced that brute yourself, if I hadn’t gone,” he says, enthusiastically, the others being momentarily at the window to witness a procession pass the hotel, with the dead dog on a litter.

“No, no, I could not do that; but, Doctor Chicago, was that what sent you out to meet that awful beast?”

Her head is bent over her work, so that the intense blush remains unseen, but it fades away at his cool reply.

“Oh, no; quite another thing!  I told you I never considered myself a coward, and when I saw that dear little child apparently doomed to a terrible death, I could see the eyes of one I revere looking at me, and though death were sure I could not refrain.”

He says this quietly and earnestly, yet without an apparent desire to arouse any feelings of chagrin on her side.

Lady Ruth bites her lips, but her hands are steady, and the touch is exceedingly gentle as she binds up the ugly red mark which he has inflicted on himself with what she is disposed to term Spartan-like courage.

“There; it is done, doctor.”

“And neatly done, too,” says Aunt Gwen, with a nod and a look of pride.

“I thank you sincerely, Lady Ruth.”

“Ah! you are a thousand times welcome.  There is not a woman in Valetta who would not feel it an honor to bind up the wound of the hero who saved that Maltese child,” says this young lady, frankly.

More shouts without.

This time the men of Valetta are clamoring for the American to show himself.  They do not know much of America, but they recognize true grit wherever they meet it.

Of course, a rush is made for the balcony, but John remains behind.

He is feeling somewhat weak after the exciting events of the afternoon.

And, as he sits there, smiling to hear the clamor without—­for he is human, this young Chicago M.D.—­some one touches his arm.