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“Dorcas,” he repeated, with all a child’s delight in his own cleverness, “you’ve had somebody here. I heard ye!”

Dorcas folded the sheet back over the quilt, and laid her hand on his hair, with all the tenderness of the strong when they let themselves brood over the weak.

“Only Phoebe, on her way home,” she answered, gently. “The doctor visited her school to-day. She thinks he may drop in to see you to-night. I guess he give her to understand so.”

The minister chuckled.

“Ain’t he a smart one?” he rejoined. “Smart as a trap! Dorcas, I ‘ain’t finished my sermon. I guess I shall have to preach an old one. You lay me out the one on the salt losin’ its savor, an’ I’ll look it over.”

“Yes, father.”

The same demand and the same answer, varied but slightly, had been exchanged between them every Saturday night for years. Dorcas replied now without thinking. Her mind had spread its wings and flown out into the sweet stillness of the garden and the world beyond; it even hastened on into the unknown ways of guesswork, seeking for one who should be coming. She strained her ears to hear the beating of hoofs and the rattle of wheels across the little, bridge. The dusk sifted in about the house, faster and faster; a whippoorwill cried from the woods. So she sat until the twilight had vanished, and another of the invisible genii was at hand, saying, “I am Night.”

“Dorcas!” called the parson again. He had been asleep, and seemed now to be holding himself back from a broken dream. “Dorcas, has your mother come in yet?”

“No, father.”

“Well, you wake me up when you see her down the road; and then you go an’ carry her a shawl. I dunno what to make o’ that cough!” His voice trailed sleepily off, and Dorcas rose and tiptoed out of the room. She felt the blood in her face; her ears thrilled noisily. The doctor’s, wagon, had crossed the bridge; now it was whirling swiftly up the road. She stationed herself in the entry, to lose no step in his familiar progress. The horse came lightly along, beating out a pleasant tune of easy haste. He was drawn up at the gate, and the doctor threw out his weight, and jumped buoyantly to the ground. There was the brief pause of reaching for his medicine-case, and then, with that firm step whose rhythm she knew so well, he was walking up the path. Involuntarily, as Dorcas awaited him, she put her hand to her heart with one of those gestures that seem so melodramatic and are so real; she owned to herself, with a throb of appreciative delight, how the sick must warm at his coming. This new doctor of Tiverton was no younger than Dorcas herself, yet with his erect carriage and merry blue eye she seemed to be not only of another temperament, but another time. It had never struck him that they were contemporaries. Once he had told Phoebe, in a burst of affection and pitying praise, that he should have liked Miss Dorcas for a maiden aunt.

“Good evening,” he said, heartily, one foot on the sill. “How’s the patient?”

At actual sight of him, her tremor vanished, and she answered very quietly,–

“Father’s asleep. I thought you wouldn’t want he should be disturbed; so I came out.”

The doctor took off his hat, and pushed back his thick, unruly hair.

“Yes, that was right,” he said absently, and pinched a spray of southernwood that grew beside the door. “How has he seemed?”

“About as usual.”

“You’ve kept on with the tonic?”

“Yes.”

“That’s good! Miss Dorcas, look up there. See that moon! See that wisp of an old blanket dragging over her face! Do you mind coming out and walking up and down the road while we talk? I may think of one or two directions to give about your father.”

Dorcas stepped forward with the light obedience given to happy tasking. She paused as! quickly.