“Some would have put him off with me,” she said to herself, as she returned to her kitchen, “though I didn’t really think it of her that took so much notice of him before.  She’s a real lady, Mrs. Burns is—­and prettier than ever since she married the Doctor, as why shouldn’t she be, with him to look pretty for?”

Left alone Ellen looked about her.  Yes, this was the room in which he had lived the sleeping portion of his bachelor’s life, so long.  It gave her an odd sense of what a change it was for him, this having a woman come into his life, share his privacy,—­he had so little privacy in his busy days and nights,—­and occupy this room of his, this big, square, old-fashioned room with its open windows, the one spot which had been his unassailable place of retreat.  She felt almost as if she ought to go and find some other room at once, ought not to take even temporary possession of this, or strew about it her feminine belongings.

The room was somewhat sparsely furnished, containing but the necessary furniture; no draperies at the open windows, few articles on the high old mahogany bureau, an inadequate number of nearly threadbare rugs on the waxed floor, and but three pictures on the walls.  She studied these pictures, one after another.  One was a little framed photograph of Burns’s father and mother, taken sitting together on their vine-covered porch.  One was a colour drawing of a scene in Edinburgh, showing a view of Princes Street and the Castle,—­one which must have become familiar to him from a residence of some length during the period of his studies abroad.  The third picture—­it surprised and touched her not a little to find it here—­was a fine copy of a famous painting, showing the Christ bending above the couch of a sick man and extending to him his healing touch.  The face was one of the best modern conceptions of the Divine personality.  She realized that the picture might have meant much to him.

She could hear his voice, as she set about her dressing.  He was in his private office, talking with a patient whose deafness caused him to raise his own tones considerably; the closed door between could not keep out all the sound.  She felt her invasion of his life more keenly than ever as she realized afresh how close to him her own life was to be lived.  Marrying a village doctor, whose home contained also his place of business, was a very different matter from marrying a city physician with a downtown office and a home into which only the telephone ever brought the voice of a patient.  It was to be a new and strange experience for them both.

She sat before the dressing-table, having slipped into a little lilac and white negligee.  The half-curling masses of her black hair covered her shoulders as she brushed them out—­slowly, because she was thinking so busily about it all, and had forgotten to make haste.  Suddenly the door leading into the office flew open—­and closed as quickly.  Steps behind her, pausing, made her turn, to meet her husband’s eyes.