“If you please, Dr. Martin,” she said, “I’m very sorry, but Mrs. Lihou’s baby is taken with convulsion-fits; and they want you to go as fast as ever you can, please, sir.”

“Was I sorry or glad?  I could not tell.  It was a reprieve; but then I knew positively it was nothing more than a reprieve.  The sentence must be executed.  Julia came to me, bent her cheek toward me, and I kissed it.  That was our usual salutation when our morning’s interview was ended.

“I am going down to the new house,” she said.  “I lost a good deal of time yesterday, and I must make up for it to-day.  Shall you be passing by at any time, Martin?”

“Yes—­no—­I cannot tell exactly,” I stammered.

“If you are passing, come in for a few minutes,” she answered; “I have a thousand things to speak to you about.”

“Shall you come in to lunch?” I asked.

“No, I shall take something with me,” she replied; “it hinders so; coming back here.”

I was not overworked that morning.  The convulsions of Mrs. Lihou’s baby were not at all serious; and, as I have before stated, the practice which my father and I shared between us was a very limited one.  My part of it naturally fell among our poorer patients, who did not expect me to waste their time and my own, by making numerous or prolonged visits.  So I had plenty of time to call upon Julia at the new house; but I could not summon sufficient courage.  The morning slipped away while I was loitering about Fort George, and chatting carelessly with the officers quartered there.

I went to lunch, pretty sure of finding no one but my mother at home.  There was no fear of losing her love, if every other friend turned me the cold shoulder, as I was morally certain they would, with no blame to themselves.  But the very depth and constancy of her affection made it the more difficult and the more terrible for me to wound her.  She had endured so much, poor mother! and was looking so wan and pale.  If it had not been for Johanna’s threat, I should have resolved to say nothing about Olivia, and to run my chance of matrimonial happiness.

What a cruel turn Fate had done me when it sent me across the sea to Sark ten weeks ago!

My mother was full of melancholy merriment that morning, making pathetic little jokes about Julia and me, and laughing at them heartily herself—­short bursts of laughter which left her paler than she had been before.

I tried to laugh myself, in order to encourage her brief playfulness, though the effort almost choked me.  Before I went out again, I sat beside her for a few minutes, with my head, which ached awfully by this time, resting on her dear shoulder.

“Mother,” I said, “you are very fond of Julia?”

“I love her just the same as if she were my daughter, Martin—­as she will be soon,” she answered.

“Do you love her as much as me?” I asked.

“Jealous boy!” she said, laying her hand on my hot forehead, “no, not half as much; not a quarter, not a tenth part as much!  Does that content you?”