“If Dad allows Sally so much, he ought to do the same for the rest of us,” Constance suggested.  Julia, foreseeing a scene, slipped out of the room.

In the hallway she encountered Doctor Studdiford, who was just downstairs after a late sleep.  Jim had the satisfied air of a man who has had a long rest, a shave and a bath, and a satisfactory breakfast.

“Family conference?” he said, nodding toward the sitting-room door.

“Sally and Keith are here,” Julia announced.

“Oh, are they?  Well, I ought to go in.  But I also ought to walk up to the Ridge, and see that poor fellow who ran a shaft into his leg.”  Jim hesitated.  “I suppose you wouldn’t like to go with me?” he asked, with his sudden smile.  Julia’s heart jumped; her eyes answered him.  “Well, wrap up snug,” said Jim, “for there’s the very deuce of a wind!”

So Julia tied herself into the most demure of hats, and buttoned her long coat about her, and Jim shook himself into his heaviest overcoat, and pulled an old cap down over his eyes.  They let themselves out at a side door, and a gust of wet wind howled down upon them, and shook a shower from the madly rippling ivy leaves.  The sky was high and pale, and crossed by hurrying and scattered clouds; a clean, roaring gale tore over the hills, and ruffled the rain pools in the road, and bowed the trees like whips.  The bay was iron colour; choppy waves chased each other against the piers.  Now and then a pale flicker of sunlight brightened the whole scene with blues and greens and shadows spectacularly clear; then the clouds met again, and the wind sang like a snapped wire.

Julia and the doctor climbed the long flights of stairs that cut straight up through the scattered homes on the hill.  These earthen steps were still running with the late rain, and moss lay on them like a green film.  Julia breathed hard, a veil of blown hair crossed her bright eyes, her stinging cheeks glowed.

“I love this kind of a day!” she shouted.  Jim’s gloved hand helped her to cross a wide pool, and his handsome eyes were full of all delight as he shouted back.

Presently, when they were in a more quiet bit of road, he told her of some of his early boyish walks.  “Listen, Julia!” he said, catching her arm.  “D’you hear them?  It’s the peepers!  We used to call them that, little frogs, you know—­sure sign of the spring!”

And as the wind lulled Julia heard the brave little voices of a hundred tiny croakers in some wet bit of meadow.  “We’ll have buttercups next week!” said Jim.

He told her something of the sick man to whom they were going, and spoke of other cases, of his work and his hopes.

“Poor Kearney!” said Jim, “his oldest kid was sick, then his wife had a new baby, and now this!  You’ll like the baby—­he’s a nice little kid.  I took him in my arms last time I was here, and I wish you could have seen the little lip curl up, but he wouldn’t cry!  A kid two months old can be awfully cunning!” He looked a little ashamed of this sentiment, but Julia thought she had never seen anything so bright and simple and lovable as the smile with which he asked her sympathy.