"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,

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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.




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