HE went slowly toward the door—a bent old man. But at the door, he paused and looked back, his lip moving tremulously.

John sprang toward him. “What is it, sir?”

“I can’t—go away—not before the fifth-two weeks. Blake must give me that two weeks! You know what it means—if I go now!” His voice was harsh and he lifted his gaunt, shaking hand to the broad shoulder that bent toward him. “It’s ruin—John—for the road! I can’t do it! It’s my life!”

The strong hand reached up to the quivering one and drew it down, holding it fast. “You shall not go, sir. You shall stay here till the fifth—and save the road.” The low, quiet tone was full of confidence.

But Simeon’s voice broke across it harshly. “Blake said he would n’t give me a day—not twenty-four hours!” he said hoarsely, “You should have heard him talk!” He shuddered a little.

“Never mind, sir,” said John. “You shall stay—if you want to.”

The helpless eyes devoured his face. “I can’t!” He half whispered the words. “I’m afraid!”

“Listen, sir.” John’s face was close to his and a kind of power seemed to pass from the clear eyes into the wavering ones. “You shall stay if you want to.”

“If I want to?” repeated Simeon vaguely.

“Yes. Listen.” He had led him back to his chair and placed him in it. “Now I will tell you.”

Simply, as if to a child, John laid the plan before him. It was not something new—thought of on the spur of the moment. For weeks the youth had seen the approach of some such crisis as this and his slow mind had been making ready for it, working out the details with careful exactness. If the road could be tided over the semi-annual meeting, everything was saved. In spite of the attacks of the C. B. and L. and in spite of Simeon’s quixotic schemes for the country, there would be a comfortable dividend to declare. And with Simeon at the head of the table—not a wreck apparently, but the competent, keen-witted man whom the directors knew and trusted—all would be well. After that, let rumors get abroad—The directors would buy up any frightened stock that might be thrown on the market. There could be no attack on the road—with their confidence unshaken.

Simeon’s face, as he listened, lost its strained-look and his lips seemed to move to the slow words that unfolded the plan to him.

“You could do it?” questioned John.

“I could do it,” said Simeon with a deep breath. “It ’s easy—after what I have been through.”

“You are to do as I tell you—exactly?”

“There’s Blake,” said Simeon, the look of fear coming back to his face.

“I ’ll see Blake,” said John promptly. “Now, you are going home to rest, sir. I ’ll write the letter to Tomlinson and then I ’m through.”

“Yes—yes, write the letter to Tomlinson,” said Simeon. “The sooner the better.”

And John, as he sat down to write it, had no glimpse of the clue that was laughing at him, to his face, while his pen moved over the paper; he had no suspicion that the farm, offered rent free, was a last desperate attempt to lift a Scotch curse.... He saw only Tomlinson’s face—when he should read the letter—and the children playing on the Bardwell farm.

The physician gave his consent reluctantly. “You may be able to carry it through, but it’s a great risk. He ought to stop now—at once.”

“He ’s more quiet, sir,” said John, “less nervous. He wants to sleep—falls asleep at his desk sometimes.”

Dr. Blake smiled a little grimly. “The next stage he will not be so quiet,” he said. “Best not tempt nature too far.”

John’s face grew thoughtful. “It would kill him to do it.”

“To stop now—What ’s the difference-two weeks, or now?”

He listened as John laid the facts of the case before him. “But he’s rich—even if the road goes to pieces. Better lose the road than his reason—his life!”

John smiled. “I think the road is his reason—his life. He has lived in it so long that he does n’t quite know, I think, which is Road and which is Simeon Tetlow.”

The physician was looking with interest at this stupid, slow-speaking young man, who seemed to put his finger so exactly on the truth.

He nodded. “Yes, I know—organic, almost But there are other roads. He could build up another. He ’s a young man still—young in years. Let him recover and he will be as eager to fight as ever.”

“It is n’t quite that, sir.” The slow mind groped for prosaic words in which to clothe Simeon’s radiant dream. “He’s not fighting just for the love of it. He thinks the country has been injured—the road has made money out of it without paying back—and he wants to make good. If the road goes to pieces—if the C. B. and L. buys it up—he could never do it. I think it would kill him.”

The physician’s head was bent in thought. “So Sim Tetlow loves men—like that—as much as that!” He looked up candidly. “Do you know I should have said that there was nobody in the world he would turn his hand over for. And now you tell me he’s been killing himself for farmers.”

The young man’s face flushed a little. “I don’t think it’s farmers, sir—nor—nor—anybody. It’s just the country!”

The physician looked at him a minute—“I see—it ’s impersonal.”

“Yes, sir. But the country is like a person to him. I think he loves it. And I know he wants to make up for the harm he’s done it. It would kill him to give up—now.... Two weeks will do it.”

“Well—Well. You take the risk, you understand?”

“Yes, sir.” The clear eyes met his.

The physician’s looked into them with quiet scrutiny. “You ’re very fond of him,” he said.

“I love him, sir,” said the young man.

“I don’t know why you should,” said the physician.

The slow smile met his. “I don’t know, either. I think he needs me.”

“I think he does,” said the physician drily, “more than he knows.”

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