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Poor Dennis was to learn that he had a disease of many and varied symptoms. After something over an hour had passed, Mr. Ludolph started from his desk, took his hat and cane as with the purpose of going out a very unusual thing at that time. But, as he was passing down the store, he met Dr. Arten opposite Dennis's counter. "Well?" said Mr. Ludolph, impatiently.
Arten, as the largest contributor toward the prize, you are appointed to bestow it. On the back of the picture you will find an envelope containing the name of the artist, whom we all shall delight to honor." Amid breathless expectation, Dr. Arten stepped forward, took down the envelope, and read in a loud, trumpet-voice "Will Dennis Fleet come forward?" cried Dr. Arten.
Dennis trembled, for he feared some dreadful bull on the part of his rough, though well-meaning friend, but Dr. Arten, in a state of intense enjoyment, cried, "Mr. Cronk has the floor."
In talking with men, Bill used the off-hand vernacular of his calling, but when addressing ladies, he evidently thought that a certain style of metaphor bordering on sentiment was the proper thing. But Christine said, "As a friend of Mr. Fleet's you shall join our party at once"; and she led them to the further end of the room, where at a table sat Dr. Arten, Professor and Mrs.
Bruder, prompted by their strong gratitude to Dennis, rushed through the streets as if distracted. Their intense anxiety and warm German feeling caused them to heed no more the curious glances cast after them than would a man swimming for life note the ripple he made. When Dennis regained consciousness, they, and Mr. Ludolph and Dr. Arten, were around him.
Bruder's direction resumed his art studies, though now in such moderation as Dr. Arten would commend. He also entered on an artistic effort that would tax his powers and genius to the very utmost, of which more anon. By the time Christine returned, he was quite himself again, though much paler and thinner than when he first entered the store.
"Well, now I can almost say, Praise God for the fire, though old Dr. Arten must commence again where the youngsters are who kick up their heels in their office all day." With professional instinct he slipped his finger on Christine's pulse, then rummaged in his pocket and soon drew out some powders, and in his brusque way made her take one. "Oh, how bitter!" she exclaimed.
Arten called and carefully inquired into Mrs. Fleet's symptoms. Her son stood anxiously by awaiting the result of the examination. At last the physician said, cheerily: "There is no immediate occasion for alarm here. I am sorry to say that your mother's lungs are far from strong, but they may carry her through many comfortable years yet. I will prescribe tonics, and you may hope for the best.
"Did she set you right in any other particulars?" "Eessir I mean yessir," replied Mary Ann, the forbidden words flying to her lips like prisoned skylarks suddenly set free. "I used to say, 'Gie I thek there broom, oo't? 'Arten thee goin' to? 'Her did say to I. 'I be goin' on to bed. 'Look at " "Enough! Enough! What a memory you've got! Now I understand. You're a country girl."
Dr. Arten soon after came and said, cheerily, "All right! all right! will have you out in a day or two as good as new, and then, Miss Ludolph, you will see how much more grateful she is to the old doctor than you were." "You must present your bill," replied Christine, with a smile. "May I?" retorted the doctor, wiping his lips.
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