ther, doubtless, and
had either of them been in real danger, that danger would have made
the other miserable; but yet it might well be a question whether
either would not be more comfortable without the other.

The doctor, as was his custom, dined at five, and at seven he went
up to the cottage of his old friend Lady Scatcherd. Lady Scatcherd
was not a refined woman, having in her early days been a labourer's
daughter, and having then married a labourer. But her husband had
risen in the world--as has been told in those chronicles before
mentioned,--and his widow was now Lady Scatcherd with a pretty
cottage and a good jointure. She was in all things the very opposite
to Lady Arabella Gresham; nevertheless, under the doctor's auspices,
the two ladies were in some measure acquainted with each other. Of
her married life, also, Dr. Thorne had seen something, and it may
be questioned whether the memory of that was more alluring than the
reality now existing at Greshamsbury. Of the two women Dr. Thorne
much preferred his humbler friend, and to her he made his visits not
in the guise of a doctor, but as a neighbour. "Well, my lady," he
said, as he sat down by her on a broad garden seat--all the world
called Lady Scatcherd "my lady,"--"and how do these long summer days
agree with you? Your roses are twice better out than any I see up at
the big house."

"You may well call them long, doctor. They're long enough surely."

"But not too long. Come, now, I won't have you complaining. You don't
mean to tell me that you have anything to make you wretched? You had
better not, for I won't believe you."

"Eh; well; wretched! I don't know as I'm wretched. It'd be wicked to
say that, and I with such comforts about me."

"I think it would, almost." The doctor did not say this harshly, but
in a soft, friendly tone, and pressing her hand gently as he spoke.

"And I didn't mean to be wicked. I'm very thankful for
everything--leastways, I always try to be. But, doctor, it is so
lonely like."

"Lonely! not more lonely than I am."

"Oh, yes; you're different. You can go everywheres. But what can a
lone woman do? I'll tell you what, doctor; I'd give it all up to have
Roger back with his apron on and his pick in his hand. How well I
mind his look when he'd come home o' nights!"

"And yet it was a hard life you had then, eh, old woman? It would be
better for you to be thankful for what you've got."

"I am thankful. Didn't I tell you so b