Dr. Amboyne mounted the stair and knocked at the door.  A soft and mellow voice bade him enter.  He went in, and a tall lady in black, with plain linen collar and wristbands, rose to receive him.  They confronted each other.  Time and trouble had left their trace, but there were the glorious eyes, and jet black hair, and the face, worn and pensive, but still beautiful.  It was the woman he had loved, the only one.

“Mrs. Little!” said he, in an indescribable tone.

“Dr. Amboyne!”

For a few moments he forgot the task he had undertaken; and could only express his astonishment and pleasure at seeing her once more.

Then he remembered why he was there; and the office he had undertaken so lightly alarmed him now.

His first instinct was to gain time.  Accordingly, he began to chide her gently for having resided in the town and concealed it from him; then, seeing her confused and uncomfortable at that reproach, and in the mood to be relieved by any change of topic, he glided off, with no little address, as follows:—­“Observe the consequences:  here have I been most despotically rusticating a youth who turns out to be your son.”

“My son! is there any thing the matter with my son?  Oh, Dr. Amboyne!”

“He must have been out of sorts, you know, or he would not have consulted me,” replied the doctor, affecting candor.

“Consult!  Why, what has happened?  He was quite well when he left me this morning.”

“I doubt that.  He complained of headache and fever.  But I soon found his mind was worried.  A misunderstanding with the trades!  I was very much pleased with his face and manner; my carriage was at the door; his pulse was high, but there was nothing that country air and quiet will not restore.  So I just drove him away, and landed him in a farm-house.”

Mrs. Little’s brow flushed at this.  She was angry.  But, in a nature so gentle as hers, anger soon gave way.  She turned a glance of tearful and eloquent reproach on Dr. Amboyne.  “The first time we have ever been separated since he was born,” said she, with a sigh.

Dr. Amboyne’s preconceived plan broke down that moment.  He said, hurriedly,

“Take my carriage, and drive to him.  Better do that than torment yourself.”

“Where is he?” asked the widow, brightening up at the proposal.

“At Cairnhope.”

At this word, Mrs. Little’s face betrayed a series of emotions:  first confusion, then astonishment, and at last a sort of superstitious alarm.  “At Cairnhope?” she faltered at last, “My son at Cairnhope?”

“Pray do not torment yourself with fancies,” said the doctor.  “All this is the merest accident—­the simplest thing in the world.  I cured Patty Dence of diphtheria, when it decimated the village.  She and her family are grateful; the air of Cairnhope has a magic effect on people who live in smoke, and Martha and Jael let me send them out an invalid now and then to be reinvigorated.  I took this young man there, not knowing who he was.  Go to him, if you like.  But, frankly, as his physician, I would rather you did not.  Never do a wise thing by halves.  He ought to be entirely separated from all his cares, even from yourself (who are doubtless one of them), for five or six days.  He needs no other medicine but that and the fine air of Cairnhope.”