“Oh, dear me, yes!  She’s quite comfortable,” Miss Smith said cheerfully.  “Doctor thinks there’s no question of internal trouble.  Her arm is broken and her ankle badly wrenched, but that’s all.  And she’s so grateful to you, Mrs. Fairfax.  It seems she has a perfect horror of hospitals, and she feels that you’ve done such a remarkably kind thing—­taking her in.  She asked to see you, and then we’re going to try to make her sleep.  Oh, and may I telephone her husband?”

“Oh, she could give you his name then!” cried Susanna, in relief.  “Oh, I am glad!  Indeed, you may telephone.  Who is she?”

Miss Smith repeated the name and address.

Susanna, stared at her blankly.  Then the most radiant of all her ready smiles lighted her face.

“Well, this is really the most extraordinary day!” she said softly, after a pause.  “I’ll come right up, Miss Smith, but perhaps you might let me telephone for you first.  I can get her husband easily.  I know just where he is.  He and my own husband are dining together this evening, as it happens—­”

THE LAST CAROLAN

A blazing afternoon of mid-July lay warmly over the old Carolan house, and over the dusty, neglected gardens that enclosed it.  The heavy wooden railing of the porch, half smothered in dry vines, was hot to the touch, as were the brick walks that wound between parched lawns and the ruins of old flowerbeds.  The house, despite the charm of its simple, unpretentious lines, looked shabby and desolate.  Only the great surrounding trees kept, after long years of neglect, their beauty and dignity.

At the end of one of the winding paths was an old fountain.  Its wide stone basin was chipped, and the marble figure above it was discolored by storm and sun.  Weeds—­such weeds as could catch a foothold in the shallow layer of earth—­had grown rank and high where once water had brimmed clear and cool, and great lazy bees boomed among them.  Cut in the granite brim, had any one cared to push back the dry leaves and sifted earth that obscured them, might have been found the words: 

     Over land and water blown,
     Come back to find your own.

A stone bench, sunk unevenly in the loose soil, stood near the fountain in the shade of the great elms, and here two women were sitting.  One of them was Mary Moore, the doctor’s wife, from the village, a charming little figure in her gingham gown and wide hat.  The other was Jean Carolan, wife of the estate’s owner, and mother of Peter, the last Carolan.

Jean was a beautiful woman, glowing with the bloom of her early thirties.  Her eyes were moving contentedly over house and garden.  She gave Mrs. Moore’s hand a sudden impulsive pressure.  “Well, here we are, Mary!” she said, smiling, “just as we always used to plan at St. Mary’s—­keeping house in the country near each other, and bringing up our children together!”