"O don't touch it—it hurts," Danny wailed, when Pearl examined his grimy little foot, from which a trickle of blood was showing through the murk of prairie soil.

"Just let me wash it, dear," said Pearl soothingly. "We cannot tell how badly you are hurt until we get the dirt off. It may not be so bad at all."

This was the afternoon of the same day.

Danny's tears came in torrents. "It is bad," he sobbed. "It's the worst sliver there's ever been in this family—or maybe in these parts."

"Well now, maybe it is. I wouldn't wonder if we'll have to send for the doctor," said Pearl, "and that will be one on Patsey—he never had a doctor in his life—and maybe never will. Just let me see how serious it is—and I'll promise you if I can't pull it out with my fingers—the doctor will be phoned for at once, and told to hurry."

With this promise to sustain him, Danny bravely submitted to a thoroughly good washing of the afflicted member, and even the cleansing of the other, for Pearl explained to him that feet came in pairs, and had to be treated alike in matters of washing.

But the sliver refused to move, though Pearl appeared to try to pull it out.

"Send for the doctor, Pearl," Danny gasped. "I'm getting weaker every minute, and everything is goin' from me—and now its gettin' dark—can't some of yez light a lamp?"

Danny had heard his mother tell so many times the story of his grandfather's last moments—it came easily to him now, and he revelled in the sensation he was making.

"Rouse yourself, Danny dear," his mother cried tearfully, "speak to us, darlin' and don't let yourself go to sleep—I'm feart it's gone to his heart."

"It couldn't, ma," said Pearl, "it's only a sliver—it's not a telephone pole—a dash of cold water in the face will bring him back."

Danny suddenly returned to the earth, that his young soul seemed about to spurn, and the look he gave his sister was at once an appeal and a reproach.

"Haven't you anything in your rainy-day box that's good for slivers?" he asked.

"Sure there is," said Pearl, "I think in a case of this kind, an accident that calls for medical treatment entitles its owner to a very substantial donation from the emergency chest. Mary, will you please make a selection, while I go and phone, and remember, your youngest brother is grievously wounded; do your best for him."

Pearl went to the phone, with a curiously lightened heart. At least she would hear him speak—she would see him. Not once had she seen him since the day she had been in his office. Not once—and that was three months ago. Three months, which seemed like three years!

"Give me twenty-one, please Central," she said steadily.

She knew the way he took off the receiver.

"Dr. Clay, this is Pearl speaking," she hurried on, without giving him time for reply. "Danny has a sliver in his foot, and we want you to come out. Can you come?"

"Right away," he answered. "I'll be there in twenty minutes. Is it very bad, Pearl?"

"No, not very—I nearly got it out myself."

"Well, I'm glad you didn't,"—his voice was eager.

"But he wanted you—"

"Good for Danny—he was always a wise child."

When the patient was made comfortable in a rocking-chair, with a package of Japanese water "Flowers" and a cup of water in which to expand them, as a means of keeping his mind from despair, Pearl made a hurried survey of herself in the mirror, and pulled her brown hair into curls over her ears.

"Ears are not good this year, Mary," she laughed. "They must not be seen."

A roar of pain from Danny brought her flying back to him.

"Stay with me Pearl," he shouted, "I'm a sick man, and tell the kids to keep quiet—it jars me—I can't stand it—it makes me all go cold!"

Pearl sat down beside him, making a rather unsuccessful effort to be becomingly solemn. Mary hushed the shouts of the others, who were quite ready to be thrilled by their brother's precarious condition—and when the doctor came in, the Watson brothers assembled to hear the verdict.

"He will recover," said the doctor. "Not only recover, but regain the full use of the injured member. But it's a bad, bad sliver just the same, and some boys would cry if they had it."

Danny set his lips tightly together, as one who was determined to endure to the end.

Very tenderly the doctor took him on his knee, and examined the little foot. "I'll have a basin of water, Pearl, please," he said.

"It has been washed," Danny cried, with indignation. "Pearl washed both of them."

"Sure enough," the doctor said, "but you just watch and see what I am going to do."

The doctor opened his black bag to get out a lance, the sight of which was too much for Danny's reserve of courage, and in spite of his brave efforts, the tears burst forth.

The doctor laid the lance back in the bag, and said, "Now Danny, I am going to tell you a real true story, and we won't touch your foot at all, unless you ask me to.

"There's a bad, bold sliver about this long, that ran into Danny Watson's foot. No one asked the sliver to go in—no one wanted it—but it went. Danny's foot does not like it—and every nerve is crying 'Pull it out—pull it out,' and the blood has gathered round to see what's wrong, just like a crowd of people on the street, growing bigger every minute, so Danny's foot is beginning to swell and get red and hot.

"Now, if we leave the sliver alone, the foot will get it out its own way, but it will take a long time. The foot will get redder, hotter, sorer. It will be very stiff, and Danny will not be able to walk on it. And even after the sliver works out, it will take quite a while to heal, and there may be an ugly mark here for a long time. Still, that's one way to get rid of slivers.

"There's another way. It is to let me cut the skin with this sharp knife—sharp like a razor-blade—and then take these little tweezers, catch the end of the sliver, and give one quick jerk. Then we'll put your foot in the warm water and let all the blood that has been gathering to see what was wrong, run away, and then we'll put on something nice and soft, and some absorbent cotton, and make a fine bandage, and about tomorrow it will be as good as the other one.

"Which way will we do it, Danny?"

Danny had followed every word of the story, his eyes meeting the doctor's calmly.

"Which way, Danny?" the doctor repeated.

Danny buried his head in the doctor's shoulder, and said one word:

"Jerk!"

In a few minutes it was all over, and Danny, looking a little pale, with his foot resting on a pillow, was taken for a ride in the new wheelbarrow, well padded with fresh hay by his thoroughly concerned and solicitous young brothers. Danny, knowing the transitory nature of his popularity, was not too overcome by his recent operation to accept promptly the presents his brothers offered, and did so with a sweetly wan and patient smile which kindled a noble rivalry in the matter of gifts. Patsey, now very repentant, brought his catapult, Bugsey his alleys, his loveliest "pure," and the recumbent lamb set in a ball of clear glass; Tommy surrendered his pair of knobbies. Their mother, watching the procession leaving the gate, was moved almost to tears by these expressions of brotherly love.

"They fight and squabble and jander at each other, but when trouble comes, they cling together. That's what the psalmist means when he says 'A brother is born for adversity.' It's the day of trouble that proves what your own mean to you."

Mary and her mother were at the kitchen door, having come out to get the patient properly started for his ride.

"I never knew it meant that, ma," said Mary, "but that's a nice meaning anyway."

She looked into the living-room, where Pearl and the doctor sat without speaking, and just as her mother was about to go to join them, she said:

"I believe there's cream for a churnin', ma, it will be too sour before Monday. If you come out and stay with me, I'll do it, but I hate to work alone."

As she flung the cream from end to end of the barrel-churn, while her mother sat beside her mending the boys' shirts for the Sabbath, Mary said to herself:

"A sister is born for adversity, too—you bet." Meanwhile, the doctor and Pearl, left alone, had broken the silence which fell upon them at first.

"Come out for a ride, Pearl," he said at last. "Saturday is the teacher's happy day, and I haven't seen you for months—not to speak to you—and I want to hear all about what you've been doing. You haven't told me yet that you are glad I was elected."

"But I wrote you a note, didn't I?"

"Oh yes indeed, you did," he agreed, "but you know even the best notes in the world lack color—or something."

"Even roses," said Pearl, "lack something too, though it isn't color."

"You will come, won't you, Pearl?" he urged.

Pearl sat on the flowered lounge, looking at him intently.

"Just wait a minute, doctor," she said, "your explanation of slivers and their treatment interests me very much. I think I had better consult you now as my physician. I have never had a physician, but it would no doubt be you if I should need one."

"Thank you, Miss Watson," he said, quite gravely, "I appreciate the compliment," and waited for her to speak.

"I have a sliver, too," she said at last. "No, not in my foot. It is in my heart, and I am afraid I have been trying the foolish way of letting it work out. You are quite right in saying it is slow, and painful—and attracts attention to itself. It does. Now that day, the second day of March, you and I had some serious conversation. I didn't understand why you said what you did. I don't yet. I am sure you said what you thought you should say. You may have been telling the truth—or if not, something you considered better than the truth, easier, more comfortable, less painful."

"Sometimes a very bitter thought comes to me—a sore thought—it is the sliver. I am not trying to be tactful now, just truthful. Tact and truth do not always combine naturally. This is one of the times. I am going to ask you something—but, don't speak until I am all done."

Here Pearl straightened her fine young shoulders, and her eyes grew very dark and luminous.

"Was it really because you think I am too young to know my own mind, that you spoke as you did, or is there another reason?"

She was looking into his eyes with such intensity, with such directness, that he knew he was going to tell her everything. It seemed as if she must read whatever was in his heart.

"My people are common, working people," she went on—and her head was held very high now, and her voice, all silver as it was, had an inner foundation of steel, like the famous silverware. "My people have always worked for a living. They are honest, kindly, honorable people, but they are what the vulgar would call—and do call—people who have no 'class.' My father eats with his knife; my mother does not know anything about having her subject and predicate agree in certain fine points in which subjects and predicates are supposed to agree. She knows how to work in harmony with her family and her neighbors, but her adjectives, verbs and nouns do sometimes tangle. I don't mind. These are small matters to me. I love my own people—admire and honor them."

Pearl's cheeks were flaming now.

"If you care greatly for these things—I know many do—and feel they are too serious, I want you to do something for me as my physician. You can do it with one word. It will hurt, but not for long. It will heal quickly. I will wash out the place with pride, and put on a bandage of the love I bear my own people. It will just be the first shock—there will be no after effects. Tell me the one word. Was it because—my father eats with his knife? Danny buried his face in your shoulder so he could not see. I will use a pillow—it is—more seemly. All right! Ready! Jerk!"

The pillow was thrown across the room, and Pearl found herself looking into his eyes, as he held her close.

"No, Pearl," he cried, "it is not that. I love you—more than all the world. I would marry you—if every relative you ever had had been hanged on the highest hill. There are no two people I know, to whom I would rather be related, than your father and mother. But there is a gap between us. I did not tell you the truth that day, because I felt it was more honorable to hide it. But I will tell you everything now."

When he was done, Pearl's eyes were soft and tender, and her arms tightened around him.

"Is that all?" she said happily. "Is that all?"

"You don't understand, dear, how serious it is," he said, "I couldn't ask you to marry a sick man."

"But you love me?" she said, "You want me—you have been miserable trying to give me up."

"It has been a bitter fight," he said, "a miserable, lonesome fight."

Pearl stood up suddenly, and he thought he had never seen her so beautiful, so queenly or so compelling. He knew he was going to do whatever she said. The weight of responsibility seemed to be lifted.

"Come out," she said quickly, "we are too happy to stay inside. I must breathe the sunshine and look up at the sky. My heart is too full for a house."

They drove to the river bank, a mile away, and sat on a fallen log at the head of a ravine, which fell sharply to the river below. Through the opening in the trees, they would see the slow running Souris, on which the sunshine glinted, making its easy way to join its elder brother, the Assiniboine, on the long, long march to the sea. Across the river plumy willows, pale green and tremulous, grew paler still as a wind passed over them.

The afternoon sun was sinking in a sea of wine-red mist, throwing streamers of light into the upper sky, like a giant's fan.

"I know now," said Pearl, "why I was led to Purple Springs, and why I felt when I met Annie Gray that my life would be knit with hers;" and then as they sat, hand-in-hand, with the glory of the sunset transfiguring the every-day world, she told him of the wonder valley of hot springs in the far North, whose streams have magical powers of healing. The valley of Purple Springs—away beyond the sunset.

"We'll go over tomorrow," said Pearl, "and Annie will tell you all about it, with its arch of mountains, its tropical flowers, the size of the vegetables and grains which grow there, and the delight of the Indians when they find their sick people growing well again. Annie has been longing to go, and I told her yesterday I would go with her, and we can still get there before the cold weather."

The doctor made one last effort to hold to his original intention:

"Pearl, I cannot let you bind yourself to me until I am well again. I am holding my own, Dr. Brander says. He thought the election would pull me down, but it didn't. My case is a hopeful one. It's too much like taking advantage of your romantic way of looking at this. To marry a sick man is a serious affair, and I cannot ask a girl like you, so full of promise, so splendid in every way, to do it."

"You won't need to," she laughed, slipping her arm through his. "It's all settled—I'll just marry you without being asked. The covenant between you and me was made before the foundations of the world. You're my man. I knew you the moment I saw you. So when I say, 'I, Pearl, take you, Horace,' it's not a new contract—it's just a ratification of the old. It's just the way we have of letting the world know. You see dear, you just can't help it—it's settled."

"But are you sure, Pearl; you are so young in years; I mean—are you sure you will not be sorry? I love you Pearl—I want you, but I desire still more to see you get the most out of life."

"I'm sure," she said steadily. "If I can't have you, life has fooled me—cheated me—and I do not believe God ever intended that. Peter Neelands said I was in love with life, with romance; that because you were the nearest hero I had selected you and hung a halo around you, and that maybe I was mistaken."

"What does he know about it?" asked the doctor sharply.

"I told him," said Pearl. "He was the only person I could talk to, and when there came not a word from you—and Mrs. Crocks told me you went quite often to the city to see Miss Keith, I began to wonder if I could be mistaken—so I tried to forget you."

"You did!"

"Yes. I worked two weeks on it, when I was in the city."

"How did you go about it?" he asked, after a pause.

"Peter said most girls were so romantic and ready to fall in love, they often loved a man who cared nothing for them, but who married them rather than break their hearts, and that's what causes so many unhappy homes. Of course, it works the other way too, and he said the way to tell if it were a real true, undying love, was to try the 'expulsive power of a new love.' That's a fine phrase, isn't it?"

"Well, Peter was willing to be experimented on. He said if he had come to Millford about the same time you did, I might have selected him instead of you, and made a hero of him."

"He has his nerve," exclaimed the doctor.

"O, I don't know," she said. "I mean I didn't know. I was willing to see. So Peter stuck around all the time, and he drove me everywhere, and always saw me home. I like him—all right—but you see I couldn't make my heart beat when he came into the room, and there was no rainbow in the sky, or music in the air, when he came to see me, and every day I got more lonesome for you, until it just seemed as if I couldn't go on. The three years when I thought you loved me, I saved up a lot of happiness—sort of money in the bank—and I used it every day and told myself you would tell me everything some day—and it would all come right. I got that mixed in with my prayers every night. But when you didn't come—and didn't come—my balance in the bank grew less and less—and I got panicky, and afraid I had been mistaken. So just to be sure, I did try to like Peter—not because I wanted to, but just to see if it could be done—in the interest of scientific research, Peter said it was."

"But I couldn't get accustomed to having him with me—he tired me sometimes—he talked too much, and I never could let him pay for my lunch, when we had lunch together. I could not let him spend a cent on me—not even the price of a movie."

"I'm glad you didn't, Pearl," the doctor said quickly. "You were quite right about that, but you won't feel that way about me, will you dear? These new women can get to be so independent—they are uncomfortable to live with."

Pearl rubbed her cheek against his shoulder, like a well-pleased kitten.

"No chance!" she said. "I'll let you pay every time—I'll just love spending your money—I won't ever know it from mine."

"O won't you?" laughed the doctor. "Well now, I am glad to be warned, and I am glad there are some laws to protect poor simple-minded men like me. I'll speak to Driggs about it as soon as I go back, and you may expect to see on the front page of the 'Mercury' something like this: 'I, Horace Clay, physician of the village of Millford, hereby warn the public I will not be responsible for my wife's debts.'"

At that, they laughed so much that the woodpecker in the tree above them stopped drumming, to listen, and when he found out how matters stood, he turned the whole story into telegraphic code and sent it up and down the valley; and a brown squirrel looked at them through a tangle of cranberry leaves, and when he got the drift of their conversation, he raced to the top of the highest tree and chee—chee—chee-d the news to all the other squirrels in the woods; and old silver-spot, the crow, scenting a piece of gossip, came circling over the trees and made a landing on a stump quite near them, and with his head on one side, listened for a few minutes, and then, with an insufferable smirk, rose cautiously and, circling high over the trees, made a rapid flight up the river, without uttering a sound.

The doctor watched him as he disappeared around the bend. "Do you know where he's off to, Pearl?" he said. "He's going to tell Mrs. Crocks. She understands Crow, of course—it's left over from her last re-incarnation. This will save an announcement!"

All afternoon, a black cloud, thick and thunderous, had huddled over the hills to the north, but before the sun went down, there came across its shoulder, a shining ribbon of rainbow.

*******

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