With the closing of the door the sound of wheels was heard—­a crisp, crunching sound—­and then the stamping of horses’ feet.  Max Feilding’s drag, drawn by the two grays and attended by the diminutive Bones, had driven up and now stood beside the stone steps of the front door of the hospital.  The coats of the horses shone like satin and every hub and plate glistened in the sunshine.  On the seat, the reins in one pretty gloved hand, a gold-mounted whip in the other, sat Lucy.  She was dressed in her smartest driving toilette—­a short yellow-gray jacket fastened with big pearl buttons and a hat bound about with the breast of a tropical bird.  Her eyes were dancing, her cheeks like ripe peaches with all the bloom belonging to them in evidence, and something more, and her mouth all curves and dimples.

When the doctor reached her side—­he had heard the sound of the wheels, and looking through the window had caught sight of the drag—­she had risen from her perch and was about to spring clear of the equipage without waiting for the helping hand of either Bones or himself.  She was still a girl in her suppleness.

“No, wait until I can give you my hand,” he said, hurrying toward her.

“No—­I don’t want your hand, Sir Esculapius.  Get out of the way, please—­I’m going to jump!  There—­wasn’t that lovely?” And she landed beside him.  “Where’s sister?  I’ve been all the way to Yardley, and Martha tells me she has been here almost all the week.  Oh, what a dreadful, gloomy-looking place!  How many people have you got here anyhow, cooped up in this awful—­ Why, it’s like an almshouse,” she added, looking about her.  “Where did you say sister was?”

“I’ll go and call her,” interpolated the doctor when he could get a chance to speak.

“No, you won’t do anything of the kind; I’ll go myself.  You’ve had her all the week, and now it’s my turn.”

Jane had by this time closed the lid of her desk, had moved out into the hall, and now stood on the top step of the entrance awaiting Lucy’s ascent.  In her gray gown, simple head-dress, and resigned face, the whole framed in the doorway with its connecting background of dull stone, she looked like one of Correggio’s Madonnas illumining some old cloister wall.

“Oh, you dear, dear sister!” Lucy cried, running up the short steps to meet her.  “I’m so glad I’ve found you; I was afraid you were tying up somebody’s broken head or rocking a red-flannelled baby.”  With this she put her arms around Jane’s neck and kissed her rapturously.

“Where can we talk?  Oh, I’ve got such a lot of things to tell you!  You needn’t come, you dear, good doctor.  Please take yourself off, sir—­this way, and out the gate, and don’t you dare come back until I’m gone.”

My Lady of Paris was very happy this morning; bubbling over with merriment—­a condition that set the doctor to thinking.  Indeed, he had been thinking most intently about my lady ever since he had heard of Bart’s resurrection.  He had also been thinking of Jane and Archie.  These last thoughts tightened his throat; they had also kept him awake the past few nights.