“I am so glad you are here,” said Mandy to the doctor, as he looked in upon her. “You are sure there is no injury?”
“No, nothing serious. Shock, that's all. A day's quiet will fix him up.”
“I am so thankful,” said Mandy, heaving a deep sigh of relief, “and I am so glad that you are here. And it is so nice that you know Moira.”
“You are not going to the train?” said the doctor.
“No, no, there is no need, and I don't like to leave him. Besides you don't need me.”
“N-o-o, no, not at all—certainly not,” said the doctor with growing confidence. “Good-night. I shall show her to her room.”
“Oh,” cried Mandy, “I shall meet you when you come. Thank you so much. So glad you are here,” she added with a tremulous smile.
The doctor passed down the stairs.
“By Jove, she's a brick!” he said to himself. “She has about all she can stand just now. Glad I am here, eh? Well, I guess I am too. But what about this thing? It's up to me now to do the Wild West welcome act, and I'm scared—plain scared to death. She won't know me from a goat. Let's see. I've got two hours yet to work up my ginger. I'll have a pipe to start with.”
He passed into the bar, where, finding himself alone, he curled up in a big leather chair and gave himself up to his pipe and his dreams. The dingy bar-room gave place to a little sunny glen in the Highlands of Scotland, in which nestled a little cluster of stone-built cottages, moss-grown and rose-covered. Far down in the bottom of the Glen a tiny loch gleamed like a jewel. Up on the hillside above the valley an avenue of ragged pines led to a large manor house, old, quaint, but dignified, and in the doorway a maiden stood, grave of face and wonderfully sweet, in whose brown eyes and over whose brown curls all the glory of the little Glen of the Cup of Gold seemed to gather. Through many pipes he pursued his dreams, but always they led him to that old doorway and the maiden with the grave sweet face and the hair and eyes full of the golden sunlight of the Glen Cuagh Oir.