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 "There's the profit of merciful deeds," she returned, correctively.

"A doctor can't live on that in this country," Major Cottrell said gently. "What do you think of the prospect, Doctor?"

"I haven't got down to thinking much about it."

"There'll be telephones strung all over this country in time, like they're getting them in the cities, though I don't suppose a doctor could bring a child into the world by telephone."

"Major Cottrell!"

"Nor operate on a man for this new disease you doctors have invented, this new affix, or suffix—or what is it you call it?"

"Appendicitis, I expect you mean, Major."

"That's the word. It's got an ominous sound."

"Have you had any more calls to the country, Doctor?" Mrs. Cottrell inquired anxiously.

"No, I'm happy to say. They seem to be pretty healthy out there on the prairie."

"They doctor themselves till they're in the last extremity," Major Cottrell said. "I've been among that kind—Missourians, and those people. Every family's got a bottle of salts and calomel, take 'em like sugar. So, you haven't been considering staying with us, Doctor?"

"Not to say seriously."

"It's a great opportunity, a splendid chance."

"I have been told so, Major."

"You don't want to follow a railroad camp all your days, even if you could. You'll have to settle down one of these days and build up a permanent practice. Why not here in Damascus?"