The way was opened in an unexpected fashion, for Doctor Ralph Dexter answered Miss Hitty’s frantic ring at his door.

“I’d clean forgotten you,” she stammered, wholly taken aback.  “I don’t believe you’re anything but a play doctor, but, as things is, I reckon you’ll have to do.”

Doctor Ralph Dexter threw back his head and laughed—­a clear, ringing boyish laugh which was very good to hear.

“‘Play doctor’ is good,” he said, “when anybody’s worked as much like a yellow dog as I have.  Anyhow, I’ll have to do, for father’s not at home.  Who’s dead?”

“It’s Araminta,” explained Miss Hitty, already greatly relieved.  “She fell off a step-ladder and ain’t come to yet.”

Doctor Ralph’s face grew grave.  “Wait a minute.”  He went into the office and returned almost immediately.  As luck would have it, the doctor’s carriage was at the door, waiting for a hurry call.

“Jump in,” commanded Doctor Ralph.  “You can tell me about it on the way.  Where do we go?”

Miss Hitty issued directions to the driver and climbed in.  In spite of her trouble, she was not insensible of the comfort of the cushions nor the comparative luxury of the conveyance.  She was also mindful of the excitement her presence in the doctor’s carriage produced in her acquaintances as they rushed past.

By dint of much questioning, Doctor Ralph obtained a full account of the accident, all immaterial circumstances being brutally eliminated as they cropped up in the course of her speech.  “It’s God’s own mercy,” said Miss Hitty, as they stopped at the gate, “that we’d cleaned that room.  We couldn’t have got it any cleaner if ‘t was for a layin’ out instead of a sickness.  Oh, Ralph,” she pleaded, “don’t let Minty die!”

“Hush!” said Doctor Ralph, sternly.  He spoke with an authority new to Miss Hitty, who, in earlier days, had been wont to drive Ralph out of her incipient orchard with a bed slat, sharpened at one end into a formidable weapon of offence.

Araminta was still unconscious, but she was undressed, and in bed, clad in one of Miss Evelina’s dainty but yellowed nightgowns.  Doctor Ralph worked with incredible quickness and Miss Hitty watched him, wondering, frightened, yet with a certain sneaking confidence in him.

“Fracture of the ankle,” he announced, briefly, “and one or two bad bruises.  Plaster cast and no moving.”

When Araminta returned to consciousness, she thought she was dead and had gone to Heaven.  The room was heavy with soothing antiseptic odours, and she seemed to be suspended in a vapoury cloud.  On the edge of the cloud hovered Miss Evelina, veiled, and Aunt Hitty, who was most assuredly crying.  There was a stranger, too, and Araminta gazed at him questioningly.

Doctor Ralph’s hand, firm and cool, closed over hers.  “Don’t you remember me, Araminta?” he asked, much as one would speak to a child.  “The last time I saw you, you were hanging out a basket of clothes.  The grass was very green and the sky was a bright blue, and the petals of apple blossoms were drifting all round your feet.  I called to you, and you ran into the house.  Now I’ve got you where you can’t get away.”