ought to give his time and his work for nothing. If you can make any suggestions as to how the practitioners can give all of their time, free of charge, and still be fed and clothed and housed, I'm mighty sure that they would be glad to hear from you on the subject."
I laughed. "You poke such big holes in my arguments that everything leaks out," I said.
"And there's another thing," went on Uncle Rob. "A gift,—as of time and work in this case,—given without charge, and accepted as a right, not as a favor (for that seems to be your argument), has little value. It has cost no effort—it calls forth no gratitude—it makes little impression—it is a small matter. Then, if it fail, there seems to be little lost, and therefore much of the effect of the treatment is forfeited through the indifference of the patient. His apathy is a bar to the good which an active, receptive attitude might make an opening for. But let him feel that he has something at stake, and that attitude changes at once, and he becomes eager and interested and ready to assimilate what is given to him. Isn't it so in everything? Don't you suppose that the fellow who is working his
