“Well, he was this kind of a fellow:  When we were in Switzerland, he was always climbing some mountain or other.  They could n’t have hired me to climb one of their mountains if they’d given me all their scenery, and thrown their goitres in.  I used to tell him that the side of a house was good enough for me.  But nothing but the tallest mountains would do him; and one day when he was up there on the comb of the roof somewhere, tied with a rope round his waist to the guide and a Frenchman, the guide’s foot slipped, and he commenced going down.  The Frenchman was just going to cut the rope and let the guide play it alone; but he knocked the knife out of his hand with his long-handled axe, and when the jerk came he was on the other side of the comb, where he could brace himself, and brought them both up standing.  Well, he’s got muscles like bunches of steel wire.  Did n’t he ever tell you about it?”

“No,” said Grace sadly.

“Well, somebody ought to expose Libby.  I don’t suppose I should ever have known about it myself, if I hadn’t happened to see the guide’s friends and relations crying over him next day as if he was the guide’s funeral.  Hello!  There’s the doctor.”  He unlimbered his lank legs, and rose with an effect of opening his person like a pocket-knife.  “As I understand it, this is an unprofessional visit, and the doctor is here among us as a guest.  I don’t know exactly what to do under the circumstances, whether we ought to talk about Mrs. Maynard’s health or the opera; but I reckon if we show our good intentions it will come out all right in the end.”

He went forward to meet the doctor, who came up to shake hands with Grace, and then followed him in-doors to see Mrs. Maynard.  Grace remained in her place, and she was still sitting there when Dr. Mulbridge returned without him.  He came directly to her, and said, “I want to speak with you, Miss Breen.  Can I see you alone?”

“Is—­is Mrs. Maynard worse?” she asked, rising in a little trepidation.

“No; it has nothing to do with her.  She’s practically well now; I can remand the case to you.  I wish to see you—­about yourself.”  She hesitated at this peculiar summons, but some pressure was upon her to obey Dr. Mulbridge, as there was upon most people where he wished to obey him.  “I want to talk with you,” he added, “about what you are going to do,—­about your future.  Will you come?”

“Oh, yes,” she answered; and she suffered him to lead the way down from the piazza, and out upon one of the sandy avenues toward the woods, in which it presently lost itself.  “But there will be very little to talk about,” she continued, as they moved away, “if you confine yourself to my future.  I have none.”

“I don’t see how you’ve got rid of it,” he rejoined.  “You’ve got a future as much as you have a past, and there’s this advantage,—­that you can do something with your future.”

“Do you think so?” she asked, with a little bitterness.  “That has n’t been my experience.”