“That was bad,” I said, for the good fellow’s voice failed him—­“very bad.  A fall like that might have killed her.”

We went on, he carrying his oars, and I my little portmanteau.  I heard Tardif muttering.  “Killed her!” in a tone of terror; but his face brightened a little when we reached the gate of the farm-yard.  He laid down the oars noiselessly upon the narrow stone causeway before the door, and lifted the latch as cautiously as if he were afraid to disturb some sleeping baby.

He had given me no information with regard to my patient; and the sole idea I had formed of her was of a strong, sturdy Sark woman, whose constitution would be tough, and her temperament of a stolid, phlegmatic tone.  There was not ordinarily much sickness among them, and this case was evidently one of pure accident.  I expected to find a nut-brown, sunburnt woman, with a rustic face, who would very probably be impatient and unreasonable under the pain I should be compelled to inflict upon her.

It had been my theory that a medical man, being admitted to the highest degree of intimacy with his patients, was bound to be as insensible as an anchorite to any beauty or homeliness in those whom he was attending professionally; he should have eyes only for the malady he came to consider and relieve.  Dr. Dobree had often sneered and made merry at my high-flown notions of honor and duty; but in our practice at home he had given me no opportunities of trying them.  He had attended all our younger and more attractive patients himself, and had handed over to my care all the old people and children—­on Julia’s account, he had said, laughing.

Tardif’s mother came to us as we entered the house.  She was a little, ugly woman, stone deaf, as I knew of old.  Yet in some mysterious way she could make out her son’s deep voice, when he shouted into her ear.  He did not speak now, however, but made dumb signs as if to ask how all was going on.  She answered by a silent nod, and beckoned me to follow her into an inner room, which opened out of the kitchen.

It was a small, crowded room, with a ceiling so low, it seemed to rest upon the four posts of the bedstead.  There were of course none of the little dainty luxuries about it with which I was familiar in my mother’s bedroom.  A long, low window opposite the head of the bed threw a strong light upon it.  There were check curtains drawn round it, and a patchwork-quilt, and rough, homespun linen.  Every thing was clean, but coarse and frugal—­such as I expected to find about my Sark patient, in the home of a fisherman.

But when my eye fell upon the face resting on the rough pillow I paused involuntarily, only just controlling an explanation of surprise.  There was absolutely nothing in the surroundings to mark her as a lady, yet I felt in a moment that she was one.  There lay a delicate, refined face, white as the linen, with beautiful lips almost as white; and a mass of light, shining, silky hair tossed about the pillow; and large dark-gray eyes gazing at me beseechingly, with an expression that made my heart leap as it had never leaped before.