The veteran geldings that had pulled Dr. McDermott for years over the roads of Alberta had long since been replaced by a gallant little Ford, that purred and grunted its way along the roads and trails in all kinds of weather, and performed miraculous feats over the roughest of trails, across fields, plowed land, chugging sturdily through to the medical man's goal.

Many of the farmers belonged to that type that seemed to believe implicitly in the proverb, "Where ignorance is bliss, 'tis folly to be wise." They laughed or poohpoohed the doctor's warning admonitions in regard to the plague, already as far west as Winnipeg. They "joshed" and "guyed" him, and asked: "Lookin' for trade, doc? You can't make me sick with your pills, so you better keep them to home. Haw, haw!" And they threw the disinfectant and pills (to be taken should certain symptoms develop) away out of sight and mind, and made jokes when he was gone about, "Doc gettin' cold feet like the city guys. If he don't look out he'll be gittin' just like them paper collar dudes in town and want soothin' syrup for white liver." They hugged to themselves the imbecile delusion that since they lived a cleaner and healthier life than mere city dwellers, they would prove immune to diseases that were a peculiarity of the city.

It may not be out of place to mention here that county and city hospitals numbered among their patients far more people from the country than the cities, and that the insane asylums were almost wholly recruited from the lone farm and ranch houses, where the monotonous pressure of the long life of loneliness took its due toll of those condemned, as it were, to solitary confinement.

Howbeit, the "doc" kept his stubborn vigil. He did not propose to be caught "napping," and he traveled the roads of Alberta, going from ranch to ranch, with his warnings and instructions and despised pills.

While returning from some such expedition into the foothills he stopped, in the dawn of the day, to fasten the curtains about his car, as the wind of the wild night before had turned with the morning into a snowstorm. A straight, level road was before him, and the doctor figured on making Cochrane in half an hour. Up to this time, in spite of the weather and the perilous trail to Banff, he had had no trouble with the engine. Now, however, as he cranked, the Ford, a peculiarly temperamental and uncertain car, refused to produce the spark. He lifted the hood, made an inspection, cranked again and again; held his side, and groaned and grunted with the exertion, raged and cussed a bit, regretted the old veterans; then, throwing his dogskin coat over the engine, he searched for the trouble underneath. He was lying on his back, a sheepskin under him, tinkering away with the "dommed cantankerous works," when, putting out his head to look for his wrench, he saw something approaching on the road that caused him to sit bolt upright in blank astonishment.

Her cape flapping about her, her head weighed down with the falling snow, her eyes wide and blank, snow-blind, Nettie Day swept before the wind on the Banff trail. The doctor, on his feet now, blocked her further passage, for she seemed not to see him but to be walking in a somnambulist's trance.

"What are you doin' on the road at this hour, lass?"

She did not answer, but stared out blankly before her, shaking her snow-crowned head.

A quick professional glance at the girl and the doctor realized her condition and the need for immediate action. She made no demur; indeed, was touchingly meek, as he assisted her into the car. He tucked the fur robe about her, buttoned the curtains tightly, and, his face puckered with concern, he poured out a stiff "peg" of whisky. She drank mechanically, gulping slightly as the spirits burnt her throat. Her eyes were drooping drowsily, and when the doctor put his sheepskin under her head, she sighed with intense weariness, and then lay still at the bottom of the car.

The doctor "doggoned" that engine, shoved the crank in, and, miraculously, there was the healthy chug-chug of the engine, and the little car went roaring on its way.

"You're a dommed good lad!" gloated Dr. McDermott and pulled on his dogskin gloves, wiped the frost from the glass, threw a glance back to make sure the girl was all right, and put on top speed.