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“Come in.”

The door was pushed open, and the doctor and Mrs. Carleton went in. The room was small, and furnished in the humblest manner, but the air was pure, and everything looked clean and tidy. In a chair, with a pillow pressed in at her back for a support, sat a pale, emaciated woman, whose large, bright eyes looked up eagerly, and in a kind of hopeful surprise, at so unexpected a visitor as the lady who came in with the doctor. On her lap a baby was sleeping, as sweet, and pure, and beautiful a baby as ever Mrs. Carleton had looked upon. The first impulse of her true woman’s heart, had she yielded to it, would have prompted her to take it in her arms and cover it with kisses.

The woman was too weak to rise from her chair, but she asked Mrs. Carleton to be seated in a tone of lady-like self-possession that did not escape the visitor’s observation.

“How did you pass the night, Mrs. Leslie?” asked the doctor.

“About as usual,” was answered, in a calm, patient way; and she even smiled as she spoke.

“How about the pain through your side and shoulder?”

“It may have been a little easier.”

“You slept?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What of the night sweats?”

“I don’t think they have diminished any.”

The doctor beat his eyes to the floor, and sat in silence for some time. The heart of Mrs. Carleton was opening towards–the baby and it was a baby to make its way into any heart. She had forgotten her own weakness–forgotten, in the presence of this wan and wasted mother, with a sleeping cherub on her lap, all about her own invalid state.

“I will send you a new medicine,” said the doctor, looking up; then speaking to Mrs. Carleton, he added,–

“Will you sit here until I visit two or three patients in the block?”

“O, certainly,” and she reached out her arms for the baby, and removed it so gently from its mother’s lap that its soft slumber was not broken. When the doctor returned he noticed that there had been tears in Mrs. Carleton’s eyes. She was still holding the baby, but now resigned the quiet sleeper to its mother, kissing it as she did so. He saw her look with a tender, meaning interest at the white, patient face of the sick woman, and heard her say, as she spoke a word or two in parting,–

“I shall not forget you.”

“That’s a sad case, doctor,” remarked the lady, as she took her place in the carriage.

“It is. But she is sweet and patient.”

“I saw that, and it filled me with surprise. She tells me that her husband died a year ago.”

“Yes.”

“And that she has supported herself by shirt-making.”

“Yes.”

“But that she had become too feeble for work, and is dependent on a younger sister, who earns a few dollars, weekly, at book-folding.”

“The simple story, I believe,” said the doctor.

Mrs. Carleton was silent for most of the way home; but thought was busy. She had seen a phase of life that touched her deeply.

“You are better for this ride,” remarked the doctor, as he handed her from the carriage.

“I think so,” replied Mrs. Carleton.

“There has not been so fine a color on your face for months.”

They had entered Mrs. Carleton’s elegant residence, and were sitting in one of her luxurious parlors.

“Shall I tell you why?” added the doctor.

Mrs. Carleton bowed.

“You have had some healthy heart-beats.”

She did not answer.

“And I pray you, dear madam, let the strokes go on,” continued Dr. Farleigh. “Let your mind become interested in some good work, and your hands obey your thoughts, and you will be a healthy woman, in body and soul. Your disease is mental inaction.”

Mrs. Carleton looked steadily at the doctor.

“You are in earnest,” she said, in a calm, firm way.

“Wholly in earnest, ma’am. I found you, an hour ago, in so weak a state that to lift your hand was an exhausting effort. You are sitting erect now, with every muscle taughtly strung. When will your carriage be home?”

He asked the closing question abruptly.

“To-morrow,” was replied.

“Then I will not call for you, but–“

He hesitated.

“Say on, doctor.”

“Will you take my prescription?”

“Yes.” There was no hesitation.

“You must give that sick woman a ride into the country. The fresh, pure, blossom-sweet air will do her good–may, indeed, turn the balance of health in her favor. Don’t be afraid of Mrs. McFlimsey.”

“For shame, doctor! But you are too late in your suggestion. I’m quite ahead of you.”

“Ah! in what respect?”

“That drive into the country is already a settled thing. Do you know, I’m in love with that baby?”

“Othello’s occupation’s gone, I see!” returned the doctor, rising. “But I may visit you occasionally as a friend, I presume, if not as a medical adviser?”

“As my best friend, always,” said Mrs. Carleton, with feeling. “You have led me out of myself, and showed me the way to health and happiness; and I have settled the question as to my future. It shall not be as the past.”

And it was not.