"The butcher's wife, my dear mother, a most delightful old person, who has brought up three sons, and each one a credit to her."
Mrs. Cavendish let go her hold on the doctor's sleeve and settled back in her chair.
"And you won't even write to Dr. Pencoyd?" she asked in a disheartened way, as if she knew he would refuse.
"Oh, with pleasure, and thank him most kindly, but I couldn't leave Barnegat; not now. Not at any time, so far as I can see."
"And I suppose when Jane Cobden comes home in a year or so she will work with you in the hospital. She wanted to turn nurse the last time I talked to her." This special arrow in her maternal quiver, poisoned with her jealousy, was always ready.
"I hope so," he replied, with a smile that lighted up his whole face; "only it will not be a year. Miss Jane will be here on the next steamer."
Mrs. Cavendish put down her tea-cup and looked at her son in astonishment. The doctor still kept his eyes on her face.
"Be here by the next steamer! How do you know?"
The doctor held up the letter.
"Lucy will remain," he added. "She is going to Germany to continue her studies."