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“You are all right, Doctor, and ready for your work,” Scofield remarked brusquely. “As for the horse, I’ll soon bring him around;” and he rapidly began to unhitch the over-driven animal.

“What are you going to do?” Miss Madison asked curiously.

“Rub him into as good shape as when he started.”

She turned away to hide a smile as she thought, “He has waked up at last.”

The boy was rendered unconscious, and his leg speedily put in the way of restoration. “He will do very well now if my directions are carried out strictly,” the physician was saying when Scofield entered.

Mr. Merriweather and Mr. Hackley stood rather helplessly in the background and were evidently giving more thought to the fair nurse than to the patient. The mother was alternating between lamentations and invocations of good on the “young leddy’s” head. Finding that he would come in for a share of the latter, Scofield retreated again. Miss Madison walked quietly out, and looking critically at the horse, remarked, “You have kept your word very well, Mr. Scofield. The poor creature does look much improved.” She evidently intended to continue her walk with the two men in waiting, for she said demurely with an air of dismissal, “You will have the happy consciousness of having done a good deed this morning.”

“Yes,” replied Scofield, in significant undertone; “you, of all others, Miss Madison, know how inordinately happy I shall be in riding back to the village with the doctor.”

She raised her eyebrows in a little well-feigned surprise at his words, then turned away.

During the remainder of the day he was unable to see her alone for a moment, or to obtain any further reason to believe that the ice was in reality broken between them. But his course was no longer noncommittal, even to the most careless observer. The other guests of the house smiled; and Mr. Merriweather and Mr. Hackley looked askance at one who threw their assiduous attentions quite into the shade. Miss Madison maintained her composure, was oblivious as far as possible, and sometimes when she could not appear blind, looked a little surprised and even offended.

He had determined to cast prudence and circumlocution to the winds. On the morning following the episode in the mountains he was waiting to meet her when she came down to breakfast. “I’ve seen that boy, Miss Madison, and he’s doing well.”

“What! so early? You are a very kind-hearted man, Mr. Scofield.”

“About as they average. That you are kind-hearted I know–at least to every one except me–for I saw your expression as you examined the little fellow’s injury yesterday. You thought only of the child–“

“I hope you did also, Mr. Scofield,” she replied with an exasperating look of surprise.

“You know well I did not,” he answered bluntly. “I thought it would be well worth while to have my leg broken if you would look at me in the same way.”

“Truly, Mr. Scofield, I fear you are not as kind-hearted as I supposed you to be;” and then she turned to greet Mr. Merriweather.

“Won’t you let me drive you up to see the boy?” interposed Scofield, boldly.

“I’m sorry, but I promised to go up with the doctor this morning.”

And so affairs went on. He thought at times her color quickened a little when he approached suddenly; he fancied that he occasionally surprised a half-wistful, half-mirthful glance, but was not sure. He knew that she was as well aware of his intentions and wishes as if he had proclaimed them through a speaking- trumpet. His only assured ground of comfort was that neither Mr. Merriweather nor Mr. Hackley had yet won the coveted prize, though they evidently were receiving far greater opportunities to push their suit than he had been favored with.

At last his vacation was virtually at an end. But two more days would elapse before he must be at his desk again in the city. And now we will go back to the time when we found him that early morning brooding over his prospects, remote from observation. What should he do–propose by letter? “No,” he said after much cogitation. “I can see that little affected look of surprise with which she would read my plain declaration of what she knows so well. Shall I force a private interview with her? The very word ‘force,’ which I have unconsciously used, teaches me the folly of this course. She doesn’t care a rap for me, and I should have recognized the truth long ago. I’ll go back to the hotel and act toward her precisely as she has acted toward me. I can then at least take back to town a little shred of dignity.”