speeding along the causeway that stretched across the salt
marshes leading past his own home to the inner beach beyond. As he
drove slowly through his own gate, so as to make as little noise as
possible, the cottage, blanketed under its clinging vines, seemed in
the soft light of the low-lying moon to be fast asleep. Only one eye
was open; this was the window of his office, through which streamed the
glow of a lamp, its light falling on the gravel path and lilac bushes
beyond.

Rex gave a bark of welcome and raced beside the wheels.

"Keep still, old dog! Down, Rex! Been lonely, old fellow?"

The dog in answer leaped in the air as his master drew rein, and with
eager springs tried to reach his hands, barking all the while in short
and joyful yelps.

Doctor John threw the lines across the dash-board, jumped from the gig,
and pushing open the hall door--it was never locked--stepped quickly
into his office, and turning up the lamp, threw himself into a chair at
his desk. The sorrel made no attempt to go to the stable--both horse
and man were accustomed to delays--sometimes of long hours and
sometimes of whole nights.

The appointments and fittings of the office--old-fashioned and
practical as they were--reflected in a marked degree the aims and
tastes of the occupant. While low bookcases stood against the walls
surmounted by rows of test-tubes, mortars and pestles, cases of
instruments, and a line of bottles labelled with names of various
mixtures (in those days doctors were chemists as well as physicians),
there could also be found a bust of the young Augustus; one or two
lithographs of Heidelberg, where he had studied; and some line
engravings in black frames--one a view of Oxford with the Thames
wandering by, another a portrait of the Duke of Wellington, and still
another of Nell Gwynn. Scattered about the room were easy-chairs and
small tables piled high with books, a copy of Tacitus and an early
edition of Milton being among them, while under the wide, low window
stood a narrow bench crowded with flowering plants in earthen pots, the
remnants of the winter's bloom. There were also souvenirs of his
earlier student life--a life which few of his friends in Warehold,
except Jane Cobden, knew or cared anything about--including a pair of
crossed foils and two boxing-gloves; these last hung over a portrait of
Macaulay.

What the place lacked was the touch of a woman's hand in vase, flower,
or ornament--a touch that h