Mr. Hamn responded at once to the widow’s call, his adjacence giving him the advantage of Dr. Hamilton, of whom he was a trifle jealous.  He was an old bachelor and had proposed to Mistress Fawcett—­a captivating woman till her last hour—­twice a year since her husband’s death.  But matrimony had been a bitter medicine for Mary after her imagination had ceased to sweeten it, and her invariable answer to her several suitors was the disquieting assertion that if ever she was so rash as to take another husband, she certainly should kill him.  Archibald was not the man to conquer her prejudices, although she loved the sterling in him and attached him to her by every hook of friendship.  He was a dark nervous little man, spare as most West Indians, used a deal of snuff, and had a habit of pushing back his wig with a jerking forearm when in heated controversy with Dr. Hamilton, or expounding matrimony to the widow.

Dr. Hamilton, for whose arrival Mr. Hamn was kept waiting,—­Mistress Fawcett tarried until her daughter fell asleep,—­was a large square man, albeit lean, and only less nervous than the widow’s suitor.  His white locks were worn in a queue, a few escaping to soften his big powerful face.  Both men wore white linen, but Dr. Hamilton was rarely seen without his riding-boots, his advent, except in Mistress Fawcett’s house, heralded by the clanking of spurs.  Mary would have none of his spurs on her mahogany floors, and the doctor never yet had been able to dodge the darkey who stood guard at her doorstep.

The two men exchanged mild surmises as to the cause of the summons; but as similar summons occurred when newly wedded blacks were pounding each other’s heads, provoked thereto by the galling chain of decency, or an obeah doctor had tied a sinister warning to Mistress Fawcett’s knocker, neither of the gentlemen anticipated serious work.  When Mary Fawcett entered the long room, however, both forgot the dignity of their years and position, and ran forward.

Dr. Hamilton lifted her as if she had been a palm leaf, and laid her on the sofa.  He despatched Mr. Hamn for a glass of Spanish port, and forbade her to speak until he gave permission.

But Mary Fawcett made brief concessions to the weakness of the flesh.  She drank the wine, then sat up and told her story.

“Oh, Mary,” said Dr. Hamilton, sadly, “why do you ask our advice?  Your ear may listen, but never your mind.  If it were a matter of business, we might even be allowed to act for you; but in a domestic—­”

“What?” cried Mistress Fawcett; “have I not asked your advice a thousand times about Rachael, and have I not always taken it?”

“I recall many of the conversations, but I doubt if you could recall the advice.  However, if you want it this time, I will give it to you.  Don’t force the girl to marry against her will—­assuredly not if the man is repulsive to her.  For all your brains you are a baby about men and women.  Rachael knows more by instinct.  She is an extraordinary girl, and should be allowed time to make her own choice.  If you are afraid of death, leave her to me.  I will legally adopt her now, if you choose—­”