"Thank you, Ned," answered the doctor. He drew the robes closer about him as he walked the horse up and down, for there was a keen wind blowing this cold February afternoon. Presently a group of boys loitered by and stood on the corner, waiting for the rest of Miss Clay's pupils to join them.
"I'm glad Miss Clay isn't my teacher!" one of them exclaimed, in a loud voice. "Skating's too good now to waste time learning to spout pieces."
"Well, I think it's about time to give George Washington a rest," said the largest boy in the group. "He's a back number, and I'll tell her so, too, if she asks me to say any of her old pieces."
"That's a pretty way to talk about the Father of your Country!" piped up a little fellow in spectacles, who was sliding on the ice in the gutter. "Back number! I just dare you to say that to Miss Clay!"
The doctor overheard this, but he did not hear the quarrel that followed, for Max came running down just then, and climbed into the sleigh.
"You're late to-day, my boy. What's the trouble?"
"Oh, Miss Clay kept us to arrange a programme for Washington's Birthday, and nobody wanted to take part. We're all tired of the same old thing year after year--just songs and recitations and dialogues about the same old fellow!"
"A fine lot of patriots this next generation is going to turn out!" said the doctor, so sternly that Max gave him a quick glance of surprise, and then flushed at his evident disapproval. The grim look crept into the man's eyes that was always there when he was absorbed in a critical case.
"O papa, are we going home?" cried Max, in a disappointed tone, as the horse turned in that direction.
"For a few minutes," answered Doctor Morris. "I want you to take something to one of my patients at the hospital. I'll leave you with him while I go on to the Berridge place."
Max, who had expected a long sleigh-ride, forgot his disappointment when he found that Captain Wilshire was an old soldier, who bore the scars of more than one battle. An internal wound, received at Shiloh, still troubled him at times, and exposure during the last year of the war had brought on the consumption that was now slowly taking his life away.
"He is one of the truest patriots it has ever been my honour to meet," said the doctor. "I have known many statesmen in my time, several generals and two Presidents. Any one of them might well be proud to take off his hat to Joe Wilshire. When you see the old hero lying alone, Max, in that cheerless little room in the hospital, I want you to think of the reason why I so greatly respect him. It is not simply because he was brave in battle, or because his heroic cheerfulness kept him alive through half a year in Libby Prison, or because he came home with the seeds of disease planted in his system and his good right hand crippled and useless. Many a man has encountered these tests, and yet has lost his zeal for his country as soon as the cannon smoke cleared away and the martial music was done."