He was coming slowly down the path as wheels stopped at the gate just out of sight from the window, where little Miss Rosebury sat with her head once more bent down over her work; but she could hear a quick, well-known voice speaking to the driver of the station fly; then there was the click of the latch as the gate swung to, and the little lady’s heart began to go pat, pat—pat, pat—much faster than the quick, decided step that she heard coming down the long gravel path.
Her hearing seemed to be abnormally quickened, and she listened to the wheels as the fly drove off, and then heard every word as the doctor’s quick, decided voice saluted his old friend.
“Been horribly busy, Arthur,” he cried; “but I’m down at last. Where’s Mary?”
Hiding behind the curtain, for she had drawn back to place her hand upon her side to try and control the agitated beating of her foolish little heart.
“Oh, it is dreadful! How can I be so weak?” she cried angrily, as she made a brave effort to be calm—a calmness swept away by the entrance of the doctor, who rushed in boisterously to seize her hands, and before she could repel him, he had kissed her heartily.
“Eureka! my dear Mary! Eureka!” he cried. “I have it—I have it!”
“Henry—Dr Bolter!” she cried, with a decidedly dignified look in her pleasant face.
“Don’t be angry with me, my dear,” he cried; “the news is so good. You couldn’t leave poor Arthur, could you?”
“No!” she cried, with an angry little stamp, as she mentally upbraided him for tearing open the throbbing wound she was striving to heal. “You know I will not leave him.”
“I love and honour you for it more and more, my dear,” he cried. “But what do you think of this? Suppose we take him with us?”