The quiet of that very peaceful evening was for a short time interrupted by a call from Dr. Harrison. The doctor came, he said, to see how Mr. Linden felt after his day's work; and to tell Faith that his exhibition was in readiness for her and only waited a sunny day and her presence. It was agreed that if the sun did not fail of shewing himself the next afternoon, Faith should not.
Tuesday was fair, and the afternoon came on brilliant with sunbeams. But the doctor's steps did not reach Mrs. Derrick's door by some minutes so soon as he had purposed they should.
Passing down the main street of Pattaquasset, Dr. Harrison descried before him the well known figure of Squire Stoutenburgh, and the less familiar outlines of Squire Deacon. And the doctor's near approach procured him the favour of an introduction to the latter gentleman,—either because the Squire desired it, or because the other Squire was tired of his companion and wanted to be off—which he was, as soon as the introduction was over. For in Mr. Stoutenburgh's eyes the buttonhole of Dr. Harrison's soft coat was no more precious (to say the least) than that of his own grey Rough and Ready.
"Squire Deacon is anxious about the state of Mr. Linden's health, doctor," he said,—"I refer him to you."
The doctor made a slight inclination, graceful as all his inclinations were, but also slight; intimating that he would have the honour of satisfying Mr. Deacon's inquiries but desired nothing more of him.
"How's he getting along?" said Squire Deacon—feeling the social duty thus imposed upon him.
"There is hope that he will be restored to his pristine state of strength in the course of a few weeks, sir."
"A few weeks!" said Squire Deacon. "Why he's in school again, ain't he?"
"He has gone in a carriage," said the doctor, who for some unaccountable reason had taken a fit of perversity,—"I understand he was in school yesterday."
"Did you know him afore he come here, doctor?"