“Who is he?” she asked.

“He is the teacher of the school over the Ridge—­what is known as the Ridge College,” said the Doctor, with a smile.

Just at this moment Mrs. Yorke bustled in.

“Alice, I thought the Doctor said you were not to talk.”

The Doctor’s face wore an amused expression.

“Well, just one more question,” said the girl to him.  “How much does a sack of salt weigh?”

“About two hundred pounds.  To be accurate,—­”

“No wonder he said I was light,” laughed the girl.

“Who is a young man named Keith—­a school-boy, who lives about here?” inquired Mrs. Yorke, suddenly.

“The Keiths do not live about here,” said the Doctor.  “Gordon Keith, to whom you doubtless refer, is the son of General Keith, who lives in an adjoining county below the Ridge.  His father was our minister during the war—­”

At this moment the conversation was interrupted by the appearance of Mrs. Gates with the desired kettle of hot water, and the Doctor, stopping in the midst of his sentence, devoted all of his attention to his patient.

The confidence which he displayed and the deftness with which he worked impressed Mrs. Yorke so much that when he was through she said:  “Doctor, I have been wondering how a man like you could be content to settle down in this mountain wilderness.  I know many fashionable physicians in cities who could not have done for Alice a bit better than you have done—­indeed, nothing like so well—­with such simple appliances.”

Dr. Balsam’s eyes rested on her gravely.  “Well, madam, we could not all be city doctors.  These few sheep in the wilderness need a little shepherding when they get sick.  You must reflect also that if we all went away there would be no one to look after the city people when they come to our mountain wilderness; they, at least, need good attendance.”

By the time Gordon awoke next morning he had determined that he would see his new acquaintance again.  He must see her; he would not allow her to go out of his life so; she should, at least, know who he was, and Mrs. Yorke should know, too.

That afternoon, impelled by some strange motive, he took the path over the Ridge again.  It had been a long day and a wearing one.  He had tried Hannibal once more; but his pupils cared less for Hannibal than for the bumble-bees droning in the window-frame.  For some reason the dull routine of lessons had been duller than usual.  The scholars had never been so stupid.  Again and again the face that he had seen rest on his arm the day before came between him and his page, and when the eyes opened they were as blue as forget-me-nots.  He would rouse himself with a start and plunge back bravely into the mysteries of physical geography or of compound fractions, only to find himself, at the first quiet moment, picking his way through the pines with that white face resting against his shoulder.