Grace met him at a little distance from the house, whither she had walked with Bella, for a breath of the fresh air after her long day in the sick-room, and did not find him the boisterous and jovial Hoosier she had imagined him.  It was, in fact, hardly the moment for the expression of Western humor.  He arrived a sleep-broken, travel-creased figure, with more than the Western man’s usual indifference to dress; with sad, dull eyes, and an untrimmed beard that hung in points and tags, and thinly hid the corners of a large mouth.  He took her hand laxly in his, and bowing over her from his lank height listened to her report of his wife’s state, while he held his little girl on his left arm, and the child fondly pressed her cheek against his bearded face, to which he had quietly lifted her as soon as he alighted from Libby’s buggy.

Libby introduced Grace as Dr. Breen, and drove on, and Maynard gave her the title whenever he addressed her, with a perfect effect of single-mindedness in his gravity, as if it were an every-day thing with him to meet young ladies who were physicians.  He had a certain neighborly manner of having known her a long time, and of being on good terms with her; and somewhere there resided in his loosely knit organism a powerful energy.  She had almost to run in keeping at his side, as he walked on to the house, carrying his little girl on his arm, and glancing about him; and she was not sure at last that she had succeeded in making him understand how serious the case had been.

“I don’t know whether I ought to let you go in,” she said, “without preparing her.”

“She’s been expecting me, has n’t she?” he asked.

“Yes, but”—­

“And she’s awake?”

“Then I’ll just go in and prepare her myself.  I’m a pretty good hand at preparing people to meet me.  You’ve a beautiful location here, Dr. Breen; and your town has a chance to grow.  I like to see a town have some chance,” he added, with a sadness past tears in his melancholy eyes.  “Bella can show me the way to the room, I reckon,” he said, setting the little one down on the piazza, and following her indoors; and when Grace ventured, later, to knock at the door, Maynard’s voice bade her come in.

He sat beside his wife’s pillow, with her hand in his left; on his right arm perched the little girl, and rested her head on his shoulder.  They did not seem to have been talking, and they did not move when Grace entered the room.  But, apparently, Mrs. Maynard had known how to behave to George Maynard, and peace was visibly between them.

“Now, you tell me about the medicines, Dr. Breen, and then you go and get some rest,” said Maynard in his mild, soothing voice.  “I used to understand Mrs. Maynard’s ways pretty well, and I can take care of her.  Libby told me all about you and your doings, and I know you must feel as pale as you look.”

“But you can’t have had any sleep on the way,” Grace began.