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 Seen in the light, Dr. Jallup was a little sandy-bearded man with a round, simple face, oddly overlaid with that inscrutability carefully cultivated by country doctors. With professional cheeriness, he approached the mound of bedclothes.

“A little under the weather, Aunt Ca'line?” He slipped his fingers alongside her throat to test her temperature, at the same time drawing a thermometer from his waistcoat pocket.

The old negress stirred, and looked up out of sick eyes.

“Doctor,” she gasped, “I sho got a misery heah.” She indicated her stomach.

“How do you feel?” he asked hopefully.

The woman panted, then whispered:

“Lak a knife was a-cuttin' an' a-tearin' out my innards.” She rested, then added, “Not so bad now; feels mo' lak somp'n's tearin' in de nex' room.”

“Like something tearing in the next room?” repeated Jallup, emptily.

“Yes, suh,” she whispered. “I jes can feel hit—away off, lak.”

The doctor attempted to take her temperature, but the thermometer in her mouth immediately nauseated her, so he slipped the instrument under her arm.

Old Caroline groaned at the slightest exertion, then, as she tossed her black head, she caught a glimpse of old Captain Renfrew.

She halted abruptly in her restlessness, stared at the