"But couldn't you go--without a summons?"

The doctor frowned.

"Well, hardly. _I_ have some pride, you know."

"But if you're so anxious--couldn't you swallow your pride and forget the quarrel--"

"Forget the quarrel!" interrupted the doctor, savagely. "I'm not talking of that kind of pride. So far as THAT is concerned, I'd go from here there on my knees--or on my head--if that would do any good. It's PROFESSIONAL pride I'm talking about. It's a case of sickness, and I'm a doctor. I can't butt in and say, 'Here, take me!'can I?"

"Chilton, what was the quarrel?" demanded Pendleton.

The doctor made an impatient gesture, and got to his feet.

"What was it? What's any lovers' quarrel after it's over?" he snarled, pacing the room angrily. "A silly wrangle over the size of the moon or the depth of a river, maybe--it might as well be, so far as its having any real significance compared to the years of misery that follow them! Never mind the quarrel! So far as I am concerned, I am willing to say there was no quarrel. Pendleton, I must see that child. It may mean life or death. It will mean--I honestly believe--nine chances out of ten that Pollyanna Whittier will walk again!"