“Like myself.  Yes, I see his small majesty.  Well, tell me, please, why you like the work so much?  You wouldn’t give it up?”

She drew a quick breath.  “Oh, no!”

“And the reason why you like it—­am I too curious?  Do you mind telling me?”

“Why, not at all.  I can—­hardly tell you, though, what it is that makes me like it.  Of course, I’m happy to have a hand, even though it’s only an assistant’s hand, in saving life.  But—­the life isn’t always saved.  I suppose, the real secret of it is one likes to be doing the thing one can do best.”

“That’s it!” He drew a heavy breath.  “The thing one can do best.  And when that thing is the setting poor, disabled human machinery straight—­making it run smoothly again!  One can hardly imagine turning one’s hand to—­book-binding, making things in brass, dressing dolls, to take up one’s time, occupy one’s mind, keep one’s hands busy, after having known the practice of a profession like that!”

He got up from the bench and strode a few paces with a quick, impatient step, such as she had never seen him take.  Then, wheeling suddenly, he came back to the bench and dropped upon it, breathing short.  She had instantly to his support a small bottle of strong salts which she always carried, but for a moment she feared that this might not be stimulant enough to a heart still inclined to be erratic upon small provocation.  She laid anxious fingers upon his pulse, but found it already steadying.

“This will be over in a minute,” she said quietly.  “Soon, you will have got above such bothersome minutes.  I shouldn’t have let you talk about a thing which means so much to you.”

“No, I can’t even talk about it,” he said.  “I’m as much of an infernal hypochondriac as that.  I beg your pardon—­” and he set his lips.

They sat in silence for a little.  Then, suddenly a voice hailed them—­a cheerful, familiar voice.

“‘Under the spreading chestnut-tree?’ Or is it an apple?  May I join the party?”

Redfield Pepper Burns appeared, looking like a schoolboy lately released from imprisonment.  But his face sobered somewhat as his eye fell upon his friend.  It was not that John Leaver had not looked up with a smile, as Burns approached, nor was it that he now showed physical distress of any significant sort.  A certain hard expression of the deep-set eye told the story to one who could read signs.

“There’s a caller for you at the house, Miss Mathewson,” said Burns.

As she went away he dropped down upon the grass near Leaver.  “It’s at least five degrees cooler under this tree,” said he, “than in any outdoor spot I’ve found yet.”

“Work must have been trying to-day.”