The doctor bowed with one of his Sir Roger bows, lifted his hat first to Jane in all dignity and reverence, and then to Lucy with a flourish—­keeping up outwardly the gayety of the occasion and seconding her play of humor—­walked to the shed where his horse was tied and drove off.  He knew these moods of Lucy’s; knew they were generally assumed and that they always concealed some purpose—­one which neither a frown nor a cutting word nor an outbreak of temper would accomplish; but that fact rarely disturbed him.  Then, again, he was never anything but courteous to her—­always remembering Jane’s sacrifice and her pride in her.

“And now, you dear, let us go somewhere where we can be quiet,” Lucy cried, slipping her arm around Jane’s slender waist and moving toward the hall.

With the entering of the bare room lined with bottles and cases of instruments her enthusiasm began to cool.  Up to this time she had done all the talking.  Was Jane tired out nursing? she asked herself; or did she still feel hurt over her refusal to take Ellen with her for the summer?  She had remembered for days afterward the expression on her face when she told of her plans for the summer and of her leaving Ellen at Yardley; but she knew this had all passed out of her sister’s mind.  This was confirmed by Jane’s continued devotion to Ellen and her many kindnesses to the child.  It was true that whenever she referred to her separation from Ellen, which she never failed to do as a sort of probe to be assured of the condition of Jane’s mind, there was no direct reply—­merely a changing of the topic, but this had only proved Jane’s devotion in avoiding a subject which might give her beautiful sister pain.  What, then, was disturbing her to-day? she asked herself with a slight chill at her heart.  Then she raised her head and assumed a certain defiant air.  Better not notice anything Jane said or did; if she was tired she would get rested and if she was provoked with her she would get pleased again.  It was through her affections and her conscience that she could hold and mould her sister Jane—­never through opposition or fault-finding.  Besides, the sun was too bright and the air too delicious, and she herself too blissfully happy to worry over anything.  In time all these adverse moods would pass out of Jane’s heart as they had done a thousand times before.

“Oh, you dear, precious thing!” Lucy began again, all these matters having been reviewed, settled, and dismissed from her mind in the time it took her to cross the room.  “I’m so sorry for you when I think of you shut up here with these dreadful people; but I know you wouldn’t be happy anywhere else,” she laughed in a meaning way. (The bringing in of the doctor even by implication was always a good move.) “And Martha looks so desolate.  Dear, you really ought to be more with her; but for my darling Ellen I don’t know what Martha would do.  I miss the child so, and yet I couldn’t bear to take her from the dear old woman.”