“It is his love of his profession,” said Mary quietly.
“Too enthusiastic,” said the curate. “Why doesn’t he, a man with his income, make himself happy by doing what good he can to his patients, and have his game of chess here when his work is done?”
“It is his desire to do good to his patients which makes him so earnest about scientific matters, dear,” said Mary, smiling at her brother.
“Very kind of you to do battle for him, my child; but Horace North works far too hard, and he’ll end by going mad.”
“Or becoming one of the ornaments of his profession,” said Mary, smiling.
“Ornaments be hanged! One of the useful corners, if you like.”
“Does he say when he is coming home?” said Mary quietly.
“Yes; day after to-morrow. Good news for Mrs Berens.”
The curate burst into a hearty laugh, and a very, very faint flush of colour came into Mary’s cheek.
“Saw her yesterday, and with a face as innocent of guile as could be she told me that she was very poorly, and should not feel safe to live long in a village where there was no medical man. Glad old Horace is coming back, though. What have we here? Oh, I see. Letter about the horse—no, it’s a mare.”