“Hush!” cried Minima, who was standing beside Dr. John, “hush!  I believe it is—­yes, I am sure it is Dr. Martin!”

She sprang to the door just as it was opened, and flung her arms round him in a transport of delight.  I did not dare to lift my eyes again, to see them all smiling at me.  He could not come at once to speak to me, while that child was clinging to him and kissing him.

“I’m so glad,” she said, almost sobbing; “come and see my auntie, who was so ill when you were in Ville-en-bois.  You did not see her, you know; but she is quite well now, and very, very rich.  We are never going to be poor again.  Come; she is here.  Auntie, this is that nice Dr. Martin, who made me promise not to tell you he was at Ville-en-bois, while you were so ill.”

She dragged him eagerly toward me, and I put my hand in his; but I did not look at him.  That I did some minutes afterward, when he was talking to Miss Carey.  It was many months since I had seen him last in Sark.  There was a great change in his face, and he looked several years older.  It was grave, and almost mournful, as if he did not smile very often, and his voice was lower in tone than it had been then.  Dr. John, who was standing beside him, was certainly much gayer and handsomer than he was.  He caught my eye, and came back to me, sitting near enough to talk with me in an undertone.

“Are you satisfied with the arrangements we have made for you?” he inquired.

“Quite,” I said, not daring either to thank him, or to tell him how oppressed I was by my sudden change.  Both of us spoke as quietly, and with as much outward calm, as if we were in the habit of seeing each other every day.  A chill came across me.

“At one time,” he continued, “I asked Johanna to open her home to you; but that was when I thought you would be safer and happier in a quiet place like hers than anywhere else.  Now you are your own mistress, and can choose your own residence.  But you could not have a better home than this.  It would not be well for you, so young and friendless, to live in a house of your own.”

“No,” I said, somewhat sadly.

“Dr. Senior is delighted to have you here,” he went on; “you will see very good society in this house, and that is what you should do.  You ought to see more and better people than you have yet known.  Does it seem strange to you that we have assumed a sort of authority over you and your affairs?  You do not yet know how we have been involved in them.”

“How?” I asked, looking up into his face with a growing curiosity.

“Olivia,” he said, “Foster was my patient for some months, and I knew all his affairs intimately.  He had married that person—­”

“Married her!” I ejaculated.

“Yes.  You want to know how he could do that?  Well, he produced two papers, one a medical certificate of your death, the other a letter purporting to be from some clergyman.  He had, too, a few lines in your own handwriting, which stated you had sent him your ring, the only valuable thing left to you, as you had sufficient for your last necessities.  Even I believed for a few hours that you were dead.  But I must tell you all about it another time.”