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 patients many of his most vehement defamers, arrived. His first act was to order father and son out of the room, while he opened his black bag, removing instruments and vials and tubes, and prepared to make an examination of the sick woman. Henry Johns returned to the dining-room and lit a cigar; Gareth went out to the front porch. Mr. Arlington, the old Negro, was cutting the grass. His mother was mortally ill, probably dying, and yet everything went on as usual, the sun shone, the flowers bloomed, the birds sang, and Mr. Arlington was cutting the grass. The persistent clutter of the lawn-mower distracted Gareth's attention for a second or two. He felt deadened, almost forgetting who he was or where he was. Then a fresh burst of grief almost stopped the beating of his heart. Mother! Mother! he whispered. Don't die! He vowed to himself that he would follow out his father's wishes rather than submit his mother to another such scene.

Chet Porter passed the house, a tennis racket under his arm.

Come on an' play tennis, Gareth, he called out.

Can't.

Aw, come on. What's the matter?

Don't feel like it this morning.

Chet strolled on, unconcernedly whistling, I want you, ma honey, yes, I do.

Gareth, his senses numbed, rocked back and forth in the great porch chair. Presently, Dr. Sinclair