arm. He looked pathetically young, with his tearstreaked face placid in oblivion, and the childless heart of Mrs. Murray yearned toward him. At her step on the bare floor, he started to a sitting posture and gazed at her bewildered. Then sickening remembrance distorted his face and unlocked his anguish.

"Oh, Miz Murray! Miz Murray!" he cried, burying his face in his hands.

Mrs. Murray sat down in the rocker by the still figure on the bed, and said quietly: "Come here, Tom." He obeyed blindly, kneeling at her side. "What made you go off?" she asked stroking his hair.

"God knows!" he groaned. “Oh, Miz Murray! If I could only take it back! If I only hadn't done it. I knowed it was wrong when I sneaked out Sunday mornin'. I knowed I oughtn't er play ball on Sunday, but I thought Maw'd never find out-and then I had a plan. I hadn't no idea she was bad sick. Did she want me-did she know where I'd went?"

"She wanted you, but she never knowed. She thought you was at the church-house-I seen to that."

Tom seized her roughened hand and pressed it to his face.

Drawing it away, she took him by the shoulders and compelled his blurred gaze to hers. "Tom Embree," she said slowly, "your mother killed herself for you. For four years, she saved her wash money-that was her very heart's blood-so's you could go off to school an' be a preacher."

Tom drew back sharply. "Me a preacher!" he cried. "You said you'd be, four years ago when you was converted."

"Oh, then!" said Tom. In the two words was epito

mized all the cruel casualness of youth. Mrs. Murray's hands fell to her sides.

"I knowed she hadn't forgot," he went on, "but I didn't rightly sense she was plannin' on it an' savin' the money she slaved for. Oh, God! I've been sinful! I've been selfish an' mean. I let Maw kill herself before my eyes— without tryin' to stop her." He sobbed aloud. "The only way you kin make it up," said Mrs. Murray solemnly, "is to carry out her wishes."

Tom threw back his head and spoke rapidly, in a hushed voice as though to keep his words from carrying to the bed: "I can't! I can't! Not to save my life! It ain't in me to be a preacher any more'n it's in you to be a church member. I know I said it that night—but that don't count. They git a feller all worked up with their prayin' an' singin' an' he don't rightly know what he's about. Why, Miz Murray, I ain't even a believer!" "Not a believer, Tom!" Her voice was a startled whisper.

"No! no more'n you! I can't see nothin' in it—but I couldn't let Maw know."

"Of course not."

He looked up into her comprehending eyes, and buried his face in her lap.

For a while she was silent, stroking his hair, her troubled, pitying face turned to the dead one on the bed as though imploring forgiveness for a breach of trust.

"The money, Tom-you must use that for an education."

"Yes," he said huskily, "I'll sure do that."

"Go to the mantelpiece and get the box behind the clock."

Tom obeyed. "It's awful light," he said.

Mrs. Murray opened it. "It's empty!" she groaned. "It's empty!" Instantly she recalled a figure slinking from the house the night before. "I know who stole it," she cried, starting to her feet, "that low-down Amos! Tom, your mother had the better part of two hunderd dollars saved up we got to git it back."

With her hand on the door, Tom halted her. "It wouldn't do no good to try," he said with finality. "He'd lie out of it. And the only way to git it would be to have the law on him an' that'd mean the pen for him again— an' there's Callie."

"Listen, Miz Murray, listen," he continued rapidly, "maybe it's fer the best-seems as if it'd a kilt me to use that money of Maw's-an' anyway, there ain't no need. When I went to Walnut yistiddy it was partly fer her. I told you I had a plan. You know how much money ball players make-perfessionals, I mean? Well, Bill Summers knew fer certain the manager from Dallas was goin' to be there, said the Dallas team was out for a pitcher. I figgered if I could git on one of the big teams it'd put me an' her on easy street-an' I fin'ly let Bill persuade me to go. Well, it was just like he said. The Dallas man got me to sign a contrack to pitch for 'em this season. When you told me about Maw an' the money I didn't mean to say nuthin' about this but just go on an' do as near like she wanted as I could. But now there ain't no money, it's different, ain't it? I could save enough in a year fer two year's schoolin'."

"Yes, but Tom, would you?"

"Before God, I will, Miz Murray!"

But Mrs. Murray, reader of hearts, looking into the

boyish face, grief-sharpened into lines of determination, was not so sure. Again her troubled eyes implored the peaceful face across the room.

Finally, she said slowly: "Well, it can't be helped."

"What, Miz Murray?"

"Nothin', Tom, nothin'.

You go to the kitchen an' let

Miz McGregor give you a cup of coffee."

He left Mrs. Murray standing motionless in the middle of the sun-brightened room, looking at the empty tin box in her hand.

T

DOC GREER'S PRACTICE

BY AGNES MARY BROWNELL

HE beginning of Doc's practice extends back some thirty years into the latter 80's. Doc arrived in Belleview in silk plug and swallow-tail; spent money lavishly-lavishly, that is, for that day-on livery hire and the like; and soon had, it was reported, every girl in the county engaged to him. From which it may be inferred that he had a way with him. But the money he

borrowed.

He used to whip furiously out of town, on the way to some hypothetical patient; and these tactics, and others as spectacular (including the clownish plug and swallow-tail) were shortly attended by success in certain impressionable quarters. The livery team, belabored out of town, came drippingly to stand at some actual farm-house, while Doc's flapping tails and imposing brim disappeared within. Doc was a stodgy, heavily-built individual, with enormous shoulders, upon which sat a brilliant auburn head, the effect of which, when the silk plug was doffed, was as if a head-light bore into view. Doc had small, deep-set, boring eyes, curiously darker by contrast with their red brush brows, and features as yet unset. He was just out of medical school, and looked, in spite of his heavy figure, like a masquerading boy.

When Doc hunched his great shoulders down over the bed, advanced his cropped red head and looked at the pa