A few days later Harry Fairfield rode from Wyvern into the picturesque little town of Wykeford, and passing the steep, narrow bridge, pulled up near the church, at the door of Dr. Willett. Harry had something to say to the doctor, but, like a good diplomatist, that shrewd dealer in horses preferred letting the doctor talk a bit on his own account first.
He found him in slippers and dressing-gown, clipping the evergreens that grew in front of his house, the hour of his forenoon excursion not having yet arrived.
“Woodman, spare that tree,” said Harry, quoting a popular song, facetiously.
The doctor looked up.
“And how is Doctor Willett this morning?” said Harry.
“Oh! oh! Is that you?” said the doctor, straightening his back with a little effort, for he had been stooping to his task, and old backs don’t unbend in a moment.
“Quite well, thank you—so are you, I see.”
“Can’t complain.”
“And how’s the old Squire?” said the doctor.
“How’s the old house?” answered Harry; “staunch and straight, and like to stand for ever. I see no change in him. And all well over at Carwell?”