“This is the bower she came from,” he thought to himself, gazing around.  “Here is the country garden where the rose grew.”

Miss Brooke was unfeignedly surprised to see Keith.

She greeted him most civilly.  Lois had long since explained everything to her, and she made Keith a more than ample apology for her letter.  “But you must admit,” she said, “that your actions were very suspicious.—­When a New York man is handing dancing-women to their carriages!” A gesture and nod completed the sentence.

“But I am not a New York man,” said Keith.

“Oh, you are getting to be a very fair counterfeit,” said the old lady, half grimly.

Lois was very ill.  She had been under a great strain in New York, and had finally broken down.

Among other items of interest that Keith gleaned was that Dr. Locaman, the resident physician at Brookford, was a suitor of Lois.  Keith asked leave to send for a friend who was a man of large experience and a capital doctor.

“Well, I should be glad to have him sent for.  These men here are dividing her up into separate pieces, and meantime she is going down the hill every day.  Send for any one who will treat her as a whole human being and get her well.”

So Keith telegraphed that day for Dr. Balsam, saying that he wanted him badly, and would be under lasting obligations if he would come to Brookford at once.

Brookford!  The name called up many associations to the old physician.  It was from Brookford that that young girl with her brown eyes and dark hair had walked into his life so long ago.  It was from Brookford that the decree had come that had doomed him to a life of loneliness and exile.  A desire seized him to see the place.  Abby Brooke had been living a few years before.  She might be living now.

As the Doctor descended from the cars, he was met by Keith, who told him that the patient was the daughter of General Huntington—­the little girl he had known so long ago.

“I thought, perhaps, it was your widow,” said the Doctor.

A little dash of color stole into Keith’s grave face, then flickered out.

“No.”  He changed the subject, and went on to say that the other physicians had arranged to meet him at the house.  Then he gave him a little history of the case.

“You are very much interested in her?”

“I have known her a long time, you see.  Yes.  Her aunt is a friend of mine.”

“He is in love with her,” said the old man to himself.  “She has cut the widow out.”

As they entered the hall, Miss Abby came out of a room.  She looked worn and ill.

“Ah!” said Keith.  “Here she is.”  He turned to present the Doctor, but stopped with his lips half opened.  The two stood fronting each, other, their amazed eyes on each other’s faces, as it were across the space of a whole generation.

“Theophilus!”

“Abby!”