While he was still dressing he saw a man in livery ride up to the door and hand in a note, which was sent up to him at once. He opened it and read:
"The Castle, Tuesday.
"Dear Doctor Brunton: Bell is much worse to-day. Could you make it convenient to see her at five o'clock, when I shall be at the lodge? I am glad I can write so that you will at least be able to read this.
"I am yours sincerely,
"Louisa Moor."
He read this, and read it again, and yet again: it was frank, friendly and familiar. Did it mean merely what the words stood for, or was it possible—was it in the least degree possible—that she really cared for him? It might mean everything or it might mean nothing. "But I shall see when we meet," he thought as he laid it down.
He was at the lodge before five, and found the peasant-girl with the amber beads there before him. He merely bowed to her, and went direct to his patient, whom he examined closely: then he turned round and said somewhat sharply, "She is not worse than when I saw her last."
"She appeared to me to be much worse," said the rustic maiden, coloring ever so little.
"That may be," said the doctor, going to the window out of hearing of the old woman. "Do you know," he said to the girl standing before him in her short-gown and amber beads—"do you know that my visits here are of no real use? I can do nothing. I can't fight with death, which is certain to be the end before long. I shall make my visits very much more seldom than I have done."
"Will you?" she said softly.
"Yes, I will."