“Now I must talk with your mother,” said he; “for you have better company than mine; and I hear her just coming in.”

He settled little matters for his patient’s comfort with the farmer’s wife.  When he returned to bid her good-bye Grace was gone.

“I hope I have not driven her away.”

“Oh no; she had been here an hour, and she must go back now, to get her mother’s supper.”

“That is a good girl,” said Tom, looking after her as she went down the field.

“She’s an angel from heaven, sir.  Not a three days go over without her walking up here all this way after her work, to comfort my poor maid—­and all of us as well.  It’s like the dew of heaven upon us.  Pity, sir, you didn’t see her home.”

“I should have liked it well enough; but folks might talk, if two young people were seen walking together Sunday evening.”

“Oh, sir, they know her too well by now, for miles round:  and you too, sir, I’ll make bold to say.”

“Well, at least I’ll go after her.”

So Tom went, and kept Grace in sight, till she had crossed the little moor, and disappeared in the wood below.

He had gone about a hundred yards into the wood, when he heard voices and laughter—­then a loud shriek.  He hurried forward.  In another minute, Grace rushed up to him, her eyes wide with terror and indignation.

“What is it?” cried he, trying to stop her:  but, not seeming to see him, she dashed past him, and ran on.  Another moment, and a man appeared in full pursuit.

It was Trebooze of Trebooze, an evil laugh upon his face.

Tom planted himself across the narrow path in an attitude which there was no mistaking.

Not a word passed between them.  Silently and instinctively, like two fierce dogs, the two men flew upon each other; Tom full of righteous wrath, and Trebooze of half-drunken passion, turned to fury by the interruption.

He was a far taller and heavier man than Thurnall, and, as the bully of the neighbourhood, counted on an easy victory.  But he was mistaken.  After the first rush was over, he found it impossible to close with his foe, and saw in the doctor’s face, now grown cool and business-like as usual, the wily smile of superior science and expected triumph.

“Brandy-and-water in the morning ought not to improve the wind,” said Tom to himself, as his left hand countered provokingly, while his right rattled again and again upon Trebooze’s watch-chain.  “Justice will overtake you in the offending part, which I take to be the epigastric region.”

In a few minutes more the scuffle ended shamefully enough for the sottish squireen.

Tom stood over him for a minute, as he sat grovelling and groaning among the long grass.  “I may as well see that I have not killed him.  No, he will do as well as ever—­which is not saying much....  Now, sir!  Go home quietly, and ask Mrs. Trebooze for a little rhubarb and salvolatile.  I’ll call up in the course of to-morrow to see how you are.”