Dr. Douglass instantly recovered his suavity.  “Do I appear bitter?  I beg your pardon for exhibiting so ungentlemanly a phase of human nature; yet hypocrisy does move me to—­” And then occurred one of those sudden periods with which Dr. Douglass always seemed to stop himself when any thing not quite courteous was being said.  “Just forget that last sentence,” he added.  “It was unwise and unkind; the trouble between us is not worthy of a thought of yours.  I wish I could forget it.  I believe I could if he would allow me.”

At this particular moment the subject of the above conversation appeared in the door.  Sadie gave a slight start; the thought that Dr. Van Anden had heard the talk was not pleasant.  She need not have feared, he had just come from his room, and from his knees.

He spoke abruptly and with a touch of nervousness:  “Dr. Douglass, may I have a few words with you in private?”

Dr. Douglass’ “Certainly, if Miss Sadie will excuse us,” was both prompt and courteous apparently, though the tone said almost as plainly as words could have done, “To what can I be indebted for this honor?”

Dr. Van Anden led the way into the brightly lighted vacant parlor; and there Dr. Douglass stationed himself directly under the gas light, where he could command a full view of the pale, somewhat anxious face of his companion, and waited with that indescribable air made up of nonchalance and insolence.  Dr. Van Anden dashed into his subject: 

“Dr. Douglass, ten years ago you did what you could to injure me.  I thought then purposely, I think now that perhaps you were sincere.  Be that as it may, I used language to you then, which I, as a Christian man, ought never to have used.  I have repented it long ago, but in my blindness I have never seen that I ought to apologize to you for it until this evening.  God has shown me my duty.  Dr. Douglass, I ask your pardon for the angry words I spoke to you that day.”

The gentleman addressed kept his full bright eyes fixed on Dr. Van Anden, and answered him in the quietest and at the same time iciest of tones: 

“You are certainly very kind, now that your anger has had time to cool during these ten years, to accord to me the merit of being possibly sincere.  Now I was more Christian in my conclusions; I set you down as an honest blunderer.  That I have had occasion since to change my opinion is nothing to the purpose but it would be pleasanter for both of us if apologies could restore our friend, Mrs. Lyons to life.”

During this response Dr. Van Anden’s face was a study.  It had passed in quick succession through so many shades of feeling, anxiety, anger, disgust, and finally surprise, and apparently a dawning sense of a new development, for he made the apparently irrelevant reply: 

“Do you think I administered that chloroform?”

Dr. Douglass’ coolness forsook him for a moment “Who did?” he queried, with flashing eyes.