“To-morrow morning.  By the way, Mrs. Sharpe,” said the doctor, eying the obnoxious lunettes, “why do you wear green glasses?”

“My eyes are weak, sir.”  Mrs. Sharpe removed the spectacles as she spoke, and displayed a pair of dull gray eyes with very pink rims.  “The light affects them.  I hope my glasses are no objection, sir?”

“Oh, not in the least!  Excuse my question.  Very well, then, Mrs. Sharpe; just give me your address, and I’ll call round for you to-morrow forenoon.”

Mrs. Sharpe gave him the street and number—­a dirty locality near the East River.  Dr. Oleander “made a note of it,” and the new nurse made her best obeisance and departed.

And, to inform Mme. Blanche of his success in this matter, Dr. Guy presented himself at the Walraven mansion just as the misty twilight was creeping out and the stars and street lamps were lighting up.

He found the lady, as usual, beautiful and elegant, and dressed to perfection, and ready to receive him alone in the drawing-room.

“I’ve been seriously anxious about you, Guy,” Mrs. Walraven said.  “Your prolonged absence nearly gave me a nervous fit.  I had serious ideas of calling at your office this afternoon.  Why were you not here sooner?”

“Why wasn’t I?  Because I couldn’t be in half a dozen places at once,” answered her cousin, rather crossly.  “I’ve been badgered within an inch of my life by confounded women in shabby dresses and poky bonnets all day.  Out of two or three bushels of chaff I only found one grain of wheat.”

“And that one?”

“Her earthly name is Susan Sharpe, and she rejoices in red hair and green glasses, and the blood and brawn and muscle of a gladiator—­a treasure who doesn’t object to a howling wilderness or a raving-mad patient.  I clinched her at once.”

“And she goes with you—­when?”

“To-morrow morning.  If Mollie’s still obdurate, I must leave her in this woman’s charge, and return to town.  As soon as I can settle my affairs, I will go back to the farm and be off with my bride to Havana.”

“Always supposing she will not consent to return with you to New York in that character?”

“Of course.  But she never will do that,” the doctor said, despondently.  “You don’t know how she hates me, Blanche.”

Blanche shrugged her graceful shoulders.

“Do you implicitly trust this woman you have hired?”

“I trust no one,” responded Dr. Guy, brusquely.  “My mother and Sally and Peter will watch her.  Although, I dare say, there may be no necessity, it is always best to be on the safe side.”

“How I should like to see her—­to triumph over her—­to exult in her misery!” Blanche cried, her eyes sparkling.

“I dare say,” said Dr. Oleander, with sneering cynicism.  “You would not be a woman, else.  But you will never have the chance.  I don’t hate my poor little captive, remember.  There! is that the dinner-bell?”