Willard stood leaning with one arm on the mantel-piece, gazing thoughtfully into the fire.
"What did you say her name was?" inquired Mrs. Tom, sitting down, and beginning to reel off yarn.
"Mrs. Edgar Courtney, now; she was Laura Britton when I last met her," he said, as if half speaking to himself.
"S'pose you've known her a long time?" continued Mrs. Tom.
"Yes, we were children together," he replied, in the same dreamy tone.
"And her husband—known him long?" pursued Mrs. Tom.
"Yes, I know him for a cruel, jealous, passionate tyrant!" said Willard, starting up so suddenly and fiercely that Mrs. Tom dropped the ball she was winding, and sprang back.
"Well, you needn't make such a fuss about it!" she exclaimed, recovering herself, and indignantly resuming her work. "Scaring a body out o' their wits for nothin'. I s'pose she knowed all that afore she took him."
"Pray, pardon my vehemence, Mrs. Tom," said Willard, recovering himself by an effort, as he saw Christie's troubled gaze fixed on his face; "I forgot myself for a moment. But this patient of yours, this Mr. Courtney, may need a doctor. I am going over to Westport to-night, and if you wish, I will bring one to-morrow."
"It would be better," said Mrs. Tom, thoughtfully. "He's got a temenjous cut right in his head. I did what I could for him; but, of course, a body would feel more satisfied if they had a reg'lar doctor.'