"Ted, the chap that has traveled and come home so changed. They do say
he's actually taken to visiting all the rheumatic old women in town,
applying sticking-plasters to their backs and administering squills to
their children, all free gratis."
Poor doctor! How he fidgeted, moving so often that his tormentor
demurely asked him if he were sitting on a thistle or what!
"Does Miss Johnson remain here?" the doctor asked at last, and Mr.
Liston replied by telling what he knew of the arrangements.
At the mention of Worthington the doctor looked up quickly. Whom had he
known by that name, or where had he heard it before? "Mrs. Worthington,
Mrs. Worthington," he repeated, unpleasant memories of something, he
knew not what, rising to his mind. "Is he living in this vicinity?"
"In Elmwood. It's a widow and her daughter," Mr. Liston answered, wisely
resolving to say nothing of a young man, lest the doctor should feel
anxious.
"A widow and her daughter! I must be mistaken in thinking I ever knew
any one by that name, though it seems strangely familiar," said the
doctor, and as by this time he had heard all he wished to hear, he
arose, and bidding Mr. Liston good-morning walked away in no enviable
frame of mind.
Looking at his watch the doctor found that it lacked several hours yet
ere the express from Boston was due. But this did not discourage him. He
would stay in the fields or anywhere, and turning backward he followed
the course of the river winding under the hill until he reached the
friendly woods which shielded him from observation. How he hated himself
hiding there among the trees, and how he longed for the downward train,
which came at last, and when the village bell tolled out its summons to
the house of mourning, he sat in a corner of the car returning to New
York even faster than he had come.
Gradually the Riverside cottage filled with people assembling to pay the
last tribute of respect to the deceased, who during her short stay among
them had endeared herself to many hearts.
Slowly, sadly, they bore her to the grave. Reverently they laid her down
to rest, and from the carriage window Alice's white face looked
wistfully out as "earth to earth, ashes to ashes," broke the solemn
stillness. Oh, how she longed to lay there, too, beside her mother! How
the sunshine, flecking the bright June grass with gleams of gold, seemed
to mock her misery as the gravelly earth rattled heavily down upon the
coffin lid, and she knew they were covering up her mother. "If I, too,
could die!" she murmured, sinking back in the carriage corner and
covering her face with her veil. But not so easily could life be shaken
off by her, the young and strong. She must live yet longer. She had a
work to do--a work whose import she knew not; and the mother's death,
for which she then could see no reason, though she knew well that one
existed, was the entrance to that work. She must live and she must
listen while Mr. Liston talked to her that night on business, arranging
about the letter, which was forwarded immediately to Kentucky, and
advising her what to do until an answer was received, when he would come
up again and do whatever was necessary.