Martha continued her talk to Meg.  While she had been studying the landscape he had taken the opportunity to wallow in whatever came first, and his wet hair was bristling with sand and matted with burrs.

“Come here, Meg—­you measly rascal!” she cried, stamping her foot.  “Come here, I tell ye!”

The dog crouched close to the ground, waited until Martha was near enough to lay her hand upon him, and then, with a backward spring, darted under a bush in full blossom.

“Look at ye now!” she shouted in a commanding tone. “‘Tain’t no use o’ my washin’ ye.  Ye’re full o’ thistles and jest as dirty as when I throwed ye in the water.  Come out o’ that, I tell ye!  Now, Meg, darlin’”—­this came in a coaxing tone—­“come out like a good dog—­sure I’m not goin’ in them brambles to hunt ye!”

A clatter of hoofs rang out on the morning air.  A two-wheeled gig drawn by a well-groomed sorrel horse and followed by a brown-haired Irish setter was approaching.  In it sat a man of thirty, dressed in a long, mouse-colored surtout with a wide cape falling to the shoulders.  On his head was a soft gray hat and about his neck a white scarf showing above the lapels of his coat.  He had thin, shapely legs, a flat waist, and square shoulders, above which rose a clean-shaven face of singular sweetness and refinement.

At the sound of the wheels the tattered cur poked his head from between the blossoms, twisted his one ear to catch the sound, and with a side-spring bounded up the road toward the setter.

“Well, I declare, if it ain’t Dr. John Cavendish and Rex!” Martha exclaimed, raising both hands in welcome as the horse stopped beside her.  “Good-mornin’ to ye, Doctor John.  I thought it was you, but the sun blinded me, and I couldn’t see.  And ye never saw a better nor a brighter mornin’.  These spring days is all blossoms, and they ought to be.  Where ye goin’, anyway, that ye’re in such a hurry?  Ain’t nobody sick up to Cap’n Holt’s, be there?” she added, a shade of anxiety crossing her face.

“No, Martha; it’s the dressmaker,” answered the doctor, tightening the reins on the restless sorrel as he spoke.  The voice was low and kindly and had a ring of sincerity through it.

“What dressmaker?”

“Why, Miss Gossaway!” His hand was extended now—­that fine, delicately wrought, sympathetic hand that had soothed so many aching heads.

“You’ve said it,” laughed Martha, leaning over the wheel so as to press his fingers in her warm palm.  “There ain’t no doubt ’bout that skinny fright being ‘Miss,’ and there ain’t no doubt ’bout her stayin’ so.  Ann Gossaway she is, and Ann Gossaway she’ll die.  Is she took bad?” she continued, a merry, questioning look lighting up her kindly face, her lips pursed knowingly.

“No, only a sore throat” the doctor replied, loosening his coat.

“Throat!” she rejoined, with a wry look on her face.  “Too bad ’twarn’t her tongue.  If ye could snip off a bit o’ that some day it would help folks considerable ’round here.”