“Not at all, not at all!” he protested as he swung through the door and hurried to the low-pitched sheds in which his horse and cow were stabled. “Be thar in no time!”
When Mary returned, Nance was still busy in the kitchen. She had built a fire and put the turkey in the oven.
Mary was counting the minutes now until the doctor should come. The old woman's prattle about the return of her lost boy, so big and strong and handsome, had become unendurable. She felt that she should scream and collapse unless help came at once. She looked at her watch. It was just thirty-five minutes from the time she had left the cabin in the valley below.
She sprang to her feet with a smothered cry of joy. The beat of a horse's hoof at full gallop was ringing down the road.
In two minutes the Doctor's firm footstep was heard at the kitchen door.
Nance turned with a look of glad surprise.
“Well, fur the land sake, ef hit ain't Doctor Mulford! Come right in!” she cried.
The Doctor seized her hand.
“And how is my good friend, Mrs. Owens, this morning?” he asked cheerfully.
Mary was studying him with deep interest. She had asked herself the question a hundred times how much she could tell him—what to say and what to leave unsaid. One glance at his calm, intellectual face was enough. He was a man of striking appearance, six feet tall, forty-five years of age, hair prematurely gray and a slight stoop to his broad shoulders. His brown eyes seemed to enfold the old woman in their sympathy.