All silent still as I crossed the stony causeway of the yard.  Not a face looked out from door or window.  Mam’zelle’s casement stood a little way open, and the breeze played with the curtains, fluttering them like banners in a procession.  I dared not try to look in.  The house-door was ajar, and I approached it cautiously.  “Thank God!” I cried within myself as I gazed eagerly into the cottage.

She was lying there upon the fern-bed, half asleep, her head fallen back upon the pillow, and the book she had been reading dropped from her hand.  Her dress was of some coarse, dark-green stuff, which made a charming contrast to her delicate face and bright hair.  The whole interior of the cottage formed a picture.  The old furniture of oak, almost black with age, the neutral tints of the wall and ceiling, and the deep tone of her green dress, threw out into strong relief the graceful, shining head, and pale face.

I suppose she became subtly conscious, as women always are, that somebody’s eyes were fixed upon her, for she awoke fully, and looked up as I lingered on the door-sill.

“O Dr. Martin!” she cried, “I am so glad!”

She looked pleased enough to be upon the point of trying to raise herself up in order to welcome me, but I interposed quickly.  It was more difficult than I had expected to assume a grave, professional tone, but by an effort I did so.  I bade her lie still, and took a chair at some little distance.

“Tardif is gone out fishing,” she said, “and his mother is gone away too, to a christening-feast somewhere; but Mrs. Renouf is to be here in an hour or two.  I told them I could manage very well as long as that.”

“They ought not to have left you alone,” I replied.

“And I shall not be left alone,” she said, smiling, “for you are come, you see.  I am rather glad they are away; for I wanted to tell you how much I felt your goodness to me all through that dreadful week.  You are the first doctor I ever had about me, the very first.  Perhaps you thought I did not know what care you were taking of me; but, somehow or other, I knew every thing.  My mind did not quite go.  You were very, very good to me.”

“Never mind that,” I said; “I am come to see how my work is going on.  How is the arm, first of all?”

I almost wished that Mother Renouf or Suzanne Tardif had been at hand.  But Miss Ollivier seemed perfectly composed, as much so as a child.  She looked like one with her cropped head of hair, and frank, open face.  My own momentary embarrassment passed away.  The arm was going on all right, and so was Mother Renouf’s charge, the sprained ankle.

“We must take care you are not lame,” I said, while I was feeling carefully the complicated joint of her ankle.

“Lame!” she repeated, in an alarmed voice, “is there any fear of that?”

“Not much,” I answered, “but we must be careful, mam’zelle.  You must promise me not to set your foot on the ground, or in any way rest your weight upon it, till I give you leave.”