outed, looking back over his shoulder,
as he raced on to overtake his goats. "Bo Tantibba."

"Some old French name I suppose," thought Dr. Eben: "but, it is very odd
about the herbs; the two growing together, so exactly as Hetty used
to have them;" and he walked reluctantly away, carrying the bruised
lavender blossoms in his hand, and breathing in their delicious
fragrance. As he drew near the inn, he observed on the other side of
the way a woman hurrying in the opposite direction. She had a sturdy
thick-set figure, and her step, although rapid, was not the step of a
young person. She wore on her head only a close white cap; and her gray
gown was straight and scant: on her arm she carried a basket of scarlet
plaited straw, which made a fine bit of color against the gray and
white of her costume. It was just growing dusk, and the doctor could not
distinguish her features. At that moment, a lad came running from the
inn, and darted across the road, calling aloud, "Tantibba! Tantibba!"
The woman turned her head, at the name, and waited till the lad came
to her. Dr. Eben stood still, watching them. "So that is Tantibba?"
he thought, "what can the name be?" Presently the lad came back with a
bunch of long drooping balm-stalks in his hand.

"Who was that you spoke to then?" asked the doctor.

"Tantibba!" replied the lad, hurrying on. Dr. Eben caught him by the
shoulder. "Look here!" he exclaimed, "just tell me that name again. This
is the fourth time I've heard it tonight. Is it the woman's first name
or what?" The lad was a stupid English lad, who had but recently come
to service in St. Mary's, and had never even thought to wonder what the
name "Tantibba," meant. He stared vacantly for a moment, and then said:

"Indeed, sir, and I don't know. She's never called any thing else that
I've heard."

"Who is she? what does she do?" asked the doctor.

"Oh, sir! she's a great nurse, from foreign parts: she has a power of
healing-herbs in her garden, and she goes each day to the English House
to heal the sick. There's nobody like her. If she do but lay her hand on
one, they do say it is a cure."

"She is French, I suppose," said the doctor; thinking to himself, "Some
adventuress, doubtless."

"Ay, sir, I think so," answered the lad; "but I must not stay to speak
any more, for the mistress waits for this balm to make tea for the cook
Jean, who is like to have a fever;" and the lad disappeared under the
low archway of the base