"A lonesome place," Mrs. Susan Sharpe said, as if in spite of herself—"an awfully lonesome place!"
Dr. Oleander looked at her suspiciously as he drew up before the frowning gate.
"It is lonely," he said, carelessly. "I told you so, you remember; but, from its very loneliness, all the better for my too excitable patient."
Mrs. Sharpe's face seemed to say she thought it might be more conducive to begetting melancholy madness than curing it, but her tongue said nothing. Two big dogs, barking furiously, came tumbling round the angle of the house. Dr. Oleander struck at them with his whip.
"Down, Tiger! Silence, Nero, you overgrown brute!" he cried, with an angry oath. "Come along, Mrs. Sharpe. There's no occasion to be alarmed; they won't touch you."
Mrs. Sharpe, despite this assurance, looking mortally afraid, kept close to the doctor, and stood gazing around her while waiting to be admitted. Bolts grated, the key creaked, and heavily and warily old Peter opened the door and reconnoitered.
"It is I, Peter, you old fool! Get out of the way, and don't keep us waiting!"
With which rough greeting the young man strode in, followed by the nurse.
"He fetches a woman every time," murmured old Peter, plaintively, "and we've got a great plenty now, Lord knows!"
"This way, ma'am," called Dr. Oleander, striding straight, to the kitchen; "we'll find a fire here, at least. It's worse than Greenland, this frigid-zone!"