She answered quietly:—
“I came out by street-car. Did you drive?”
“Yes,”' he said, abruptly, “but I am not alone. How is the child?” and he went forward at once to his professional duties, leaving her to wonder over his manner.
It was peculiar, certainly. Joy Saunders was used to abruptness from this man, but there was a quality in it to-day that she did not recognize. She went and looked out of the window, and saw Gracie Dennis holding the horses, saw her red, red cheeks, and flashing eyes, and the peculiar, haughty poise of her head, with which the stepmother at home was well acquainted.
She did not know this Gracie Dennis save by reputation. Once Dr. Everett had asked her to call at Mrs. Roberts', and had made her feel as though she were foolishly conventional in declining to do so. “How is she ever to know you, according to the rules which trammel society? There ought to be some way arranged for Christians to be free from trammels.” This had been his comment; but he had not asked her again, and she had never met Mrs. Roberts, nor yet Gracie Dennis. Yet she knew her very well, and had watched her often as she passed. She knew instantly who she was now, as she sat there in her haughty beauty, checking with determined hand the impatience of those horses. Oh, she knew more than this! It was very apparent now why Dr. Everett was peculiarly abrupt, and—well, yes—embarrassed. She had almost thought that was the name of the feeling, only it had seemed so absurd. And then Joy Saunders held her meek little head high, and told herself that he need not fear her presence; she could go as she had come, in the street-car.
The doctor came towards her now, speaking rapidly, as usual:—
“Joy, the child is very sick. There ought to be an experienced person here to-night. Not you; I am sorry you came up. Do you think your mother would come? Will you ride down with me? I have Miss Dennis in the carriage, but it is quite large enough for three, you know.”
Then Joy had turned away her head, holding it high, and said:—
“No, thank you; I am going down in the street-car.”
And that blundering doctor drew on his gloves, saying to himself, “I don't know but that is best,” and went out, only waiting to say to Joy:—