“Good-by, doctor,” he said; and, turning, he walked away and left her alone.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

“Mel-chisedek!”

As who should say “What, ma’am?” Melchisedek lifted his snubby little nose and gazed inquiringly at Theodora.  Then he went back to his assaults on the corner of the rug.  Melchisedek’s mother had been a thrifty soul; in her young son’s puppyhood, she had impressed upon him the fact that well-trained dogs should bury superfluous food supplies, to be held in reserve for the hour of need.  Cicely had been too lavish, that morning, in her allowance.  Melchisedek had eaten until his small legs stuck out stiffly from his distended little body, and now he was endeavoring to bury the remainder of his meal in the folds of the rug.  The room was a large one, and it took a perceptible time for Theodora to reach the scene of action.  Melchisedek’s efforts increased in vigor as she came nearer, and, just as she stooped to catch him, he succeeded in folding the end of her ancient Persian rug above an overturned Chelsea saucer and a widening pool of oatmeal and cream.  Then he retired under the table and smiled suavely up at her, while she removed the debris.

It was now two weeks since they had returned from Quantuck, and the year was at the fall of the leaf.  The Savins was covered with a thick carpet of golden brown, and the birches and hickories were blazing with gold, while the corner house was set in a nest of crimson and yellow and scarlet maples.  For the hour, earth was almost as radiant as the sun; but the quiet drop, drop, drop of the yellow leaves through the golden, hazy air told that the end was not far distant, that too soon the gold would give place to the grey and the brown.

This autumn season had brought a new break into the McAlister family circle.  Phebe had gone away to Philadelphia, almost immediately after their return from the seashore.  If her interest in medical science were on the wane, at least she was too proud to confess the fact, and the doctor, with some misgivings, had consented to her departure.

“There’s no especial reason Babe shouldn’t make a good doctor,” he said to his wife, the night after the matter was finally decided; “the trouble is, there seems to be no especial reason that she should.  I can’t discover that she’s any more in love with that profession than with a dozen others.  She simply took it up because it was the most obvious one, and because she was restless for some sort of an occupation.”

“Wait and see,” his wife counselled him.  “For the present, she is contented with this choice, and she may as well try it for a year.  By that time, she will be able to decide whether she wants to go on.  One year of it, at her age, can’t do any harm, and it may do her some good, if only to steady her down a little.”

“Then you don’t think she will carry it through?”