“He’s not in.  He will be here from two till five this afternoon.  Could you come then?” Miss Mathewson regarded the young stranger at the door with more than ordinary interest.  The face which was lifted to her was one of quite unusual beauty, with astonishing eyes under resolute dark brows, though the hair which showed from under the small and close-fitting hat of black was of a wonderful and contradictory colour.  It was almost the shade, it occurred to Amy Mathewson, of that which thatched the head of Red Pepper Burns himself, but it was more picturesque hair than his, finer of texture, with a hint of curl.  The mass of it which showed at the back as the stranger turned her head away for a moment, evidently hesitating over her next course of action, had in it tints of bronze which were more beautiful than Burns’s coppery hues.

“Would you care to wait?” inquired Miss Mathewson, entirely against her own principles.

It was not quite one o’clock, and Burns always lunched in the city, after his morning at the hospital, and reached home barely in time for those afternoon village office hours which began at two.  His assistant did not as a rule encourage the arrival of patients in the office as early as this, knowing that they were apt to become impatient and aggrieved by their long wait.  But something about the slightly drooping figure of the girl before her, in her black clothes, with a small handbag on her arm, and a look of appeal on her face, suggested to the experienced nurse that here was a patient who must not be turned away.

The girl looked up eagerly.  “If I might,” she said in a tone of relief.  “I really have nowhere to go until I have seen the Doctor.”

Miss Mathewson led her in and gave her the most comfortable chair in the room, a big, half shabby leather armchair, near the fireplace and close beside a broad table whereon the latest current magazines were arranged in orderly piles.  The girl sank into the chair as if its wide arms were welcome after a weary morning.  She looked up at Miss Mathewson with a faint little smile.

“I haven’t been sitting much to-day,” she said.

“This first spring weather makes every one feel rather tired,” replied Amy, noting how heavy were the shadows under the brown eyes with their almost black lashes—­an unusual combination with the undeniably russet hair.

From her seat at the desk, where she was posting Burns’s day book, the nurse observed without seeming to do so that the slim figure in the old armchair sat absolutely without moving, except once when the head resting against the worn leather turned so that the cheek lay next it.  And after a very short time Miss Mathewson realized that the waiting patient had fallen asleep.  She studied her then, for something about the young stranger had aroused her interest.

The girl was obviously poor, for the black suit, though carefully pressed, was of cheap material, the velvet on the small black hat had been caught in more than one shower, and the black gloves had been many times painstakingly mended.  The small feet alone showed that their owner had allowed herself one luxury, that of good shoes—­and the daintiness of those feet made a strong appeal to the observer.