He had to wait a minute before his thoughts would come to order; with a little time, the proper answer would be evolved by the slow automatic movement of the rusted mental machinery.

After the silent moment:  “Myrtle Hazard, Myrtle Hazard,—­yes, yes, to be sure!  The old Withers stock,—­good constitutions,—­a little apt to be nervous, one or two of ’em.  I’ve given ’em a good deal of valerian and assafoetida,—­not quite so much since the new blood came in.  There is n’t the change in folks people think,—­same thing over and over again.  I’ve seen six fingers on a child that had a six-fingered great-uncle, and I’ve seen that child’s grandchild born with six fingers.  Does this girl like to have her own way pretty well, like the rest of the family?”

“A little too well, I suspect, father.  You will remember all about her when you come to see her and talk with her.  She would like to talk with you, and her aunt wants to see you too; they think there’s nobody like the ’old Doctor’.”

He was not too old to be pleased with this preference, and said he was willing to go when they were ready.  With no small labor of preparation he was at last got to the house, and crept with his son’s aid up to the little room over the water, where his patient was still lying.

There was a little too much color in Myrtle’s cheeks and a glistening lustre in her eyes that told of unnatural excitement.  It gave a strange brilliancy to her beauty, and might have deceived an unpractised observer.  The old man looked at her long and curiously, his imperfect sight excusing the closeness of his scrutiny.

He laid his trembling hand upon her forehead, and then felt her pulse with his shriveled fingers.  He asked her various questions about herself, which she answered with a tone not quite so calm as natural, but willingly and intelligently.  They thought she seemed to the old Doctor to be doing very well, for he spoke cheerfully to her, and treated her in such a way that neither she nor any of those around her could be alarmed.  The younger physician was disposed to think she was only suffering from temporary excitement, and that it would soon pass off.

They left the room to talk it over.

“It does not amount to much, I suppose, father,” said Dr. Fordyce Hurlbut.  “You made the pulse about ninety,—­a little hard,—­did n’t you; as I did?  Rest, and low diet for a day or two, and all will be right, won’t it?”

Was it the feeling of sympathy, or was it the pride of superior sagacity, that changed the look of the old man’s wrinkled features?  “Not so fast,—­not so fast, Fordyce,” he said.  “I’ve seen that look on another face of the same blood,—­it ’s a great many years ago, and she was dead before you were born, my boy,—­but I’ve seen that look, and it meant trouble then, and I’m afraid it means trouble now.  I see some danger of a brain fever.  And if she doesn’t have that, then look out