When at last Penhallow sat down with McGregor in his office, the doctor knew at once that something serious was troubling his friend.

“Well, Penhallow,” he said, “what can I do for you?”

“I want you to see my wife.  She sleeps badly, tires easily, and worst of all is unwilling to consult you.”

“Yes, that’s serious.  Of course, she does the work of two people, but has it ever occurred to you, Penhallow, that in the isolated life you lead she may be at times bored and want or need society, change?”

“My dear Doctor, if I propose to her to ask our friends from the cities to visit us, she says that entertaining women would only add to her burdens.  How could she amuse them?” The Squire had the helplessness of a strong man who has to deal with the case of a woman who, when a doctor is thought to be necessary, feels that she has a right to an opinion as to whether or not it is worth while.  She did not believe it to be necessary and felt that there was something unpleasant in this medical intrusion upon a life which had been one of unbroken health.  To her husband’s annoyance she begged him to wait, and on one pretext or another put off the consultation—­it would do in a week, or ‘she was better.’  Her postponement and lack of decision added to the Squire’s distress, but it was mid-June before she finally yielded and without a word to Penhallow wrote to ask McGregor to call.

In a week Leila would be at Grey Pine.  The glad prospect of a summer’s leisure filled John with happy anticipations.  He had his boat put in order, looked after Lucy’s condition, and had in mind a dozen plans for distant long-desired rides into the mountains, rides which now his uncle had promised to take with them.  He soon learned that the medical providence which so often interferes with our plans in life had to be considered.

Mrs. Penhallow to John’s surprise had of late gone to bed long before her accustomed hour, and one evening in this June of 1857 Penhallow seeing her go upstairs at nine o’clock called John into the library.

“Mr. Rivers,” he said, “has gone to see some one in Westways, and I have a chance to talk to you.  Sit down.”

John obeyed, missing half consciously the ever-ready smile of the Squire.

“I am troubled about your aunt.  Dr. McGregor assures me that she has no distinct ailment, but is simply so tired that she is sure to become ill if she stays at home.  No one can make her lessen her work if she stays here.  You are young, but you must have been aware of what she does for this town and at the mills—­oh, for every one who is in need or in trouble.  There is the every-day routine of the house, the sick in the village, the sewing class, the Sunday afternoon reading in the small hospital at our mills, letters—­no end of them.  How she has stood it so long, I cannot see.”

“But she seems to like it, sir,” said John.  He couldn’t understand that what was so plainly enjoyed could be hurtful.