“Yes,” she said, with lady-like sweetness and a sort of business-like alertness.

“Well,” suggested the driver, “this is for Miss Grace Breen, M. D.”

“For me, thank you,” said the young lady.  “I’m Dr. Breen.”  She put out her hand for the little package from the homoeopathic pharmacy in Boston; and the driver yielded it with a blush that reddened him to his hair.  “Well,” he said slowly, staring at the handsome girl, who did not visibly share his embarrassment, “they told me you was the one; but I could n’t seem to get it through me.  I thought it must be the old lady.”

“My mother is Mrs. Breen,” the young lady briefly explained, and walked rapidly away, leaving the driver stuck in the heavy sand of Sea-Glimpse Avenue.

“Why, get up!” he shouted to his horses.  “Goin’ to stay here all day?” He craned his neck round the side of the wagon for a sight of her.  “Well, dumm ’f I don’t wish I was sick!  Steps along,” he mused, watching the swirl and ripple of her skirt, “like—­I dunno what.”

With her face turned from him Dr. Breen blushed, too; she was not yet so used to her quality of physician that she could coldly bear the confusion to which her being a doctor put men.  She laughed a little to herself at the helplessness of the driver, confronted probably for the first time with a graduate of the New York homoeopathic school; but she believed that she had reasons for taking herself seriously in every way, and she had not entered upon this career without definite purposes.  When she was not yet out of her teens, she had an unhappy love affair, which was always darkly referred to as a disappointment by people who knew of it at the time.  Though the particulars of the case do not directly concern this story, it may be stated that the recreant lover afterwards married her dearest girl-friend, whom he had first met in her company.  It was cruel enough, and the hurt went deep; but it neither crushed nor hardened her.  It benumbed her for a time; she sank out of sight; but when she returned to the knowledge of the world she showed no mark of the blow except what was thought a strange eccentricity in a girl such as she had been.  The world which had known her—­it was that of an inland New England city—­heard of her definitely after several years as a student of medicine in New York.  Those who had more of her intimacy understood that she had chosen this work with the intention of giving her life to it, in the spirit in which other women enter convents, or go out to heathen lands; but probably this conception had its exaggerations.  What was certain was that she was rich enough to have no need of her profession as a means of support, and that its study had cost her more than the usual suffering that it brings to persons of sensitive nerves.  Some details were almost insuperably repugnant; but in schooling herself to them she believed that she was preparing to encounter anything in the application of her science.