so much to hear." But Mr. Carnegie said it was not worth while to
bring Harry out again from his books. How fevered the lad looked! Why
did not Moxon patronize open windows?

The road they were pursuing was a gradual long ascent, which brought
them in sight of the sea and of a vast expanse of rolling heath and
woodland. When they reached the top of the hill they breathed their
horses a few minutes and admired the view, then struck into a
bridle-track across the heath, and regained the high-road about a mile
from Beechhurst. Scudding along in front of them was the familiar figure
of Miss Wort in her work-a-day costume--a drab cloak and poke bonnet,
her back up, and limp petticoats dragging in the dust. She turned
swiftly in at the neat garden-gate that had a green space before it,
where numerous boles of trees, lopt of their branches, lay about in
picturesque confusion. A wheelwright's shed and yard adjoined the
cottage, and Mr. Carnegie, halting without dismounting, whistled loud
and shrill to call attention. A wiry, gray-headed man appeared from the
shed, and came forward with a rueful, humorous twinkle in his shrewd
blue eyes.

"Done again, Mr. Carnegie!" said he. "The old woman's done you again. It
is no good denying her physic, for physic she will have. She went to
Hampton Infirmary last Saturday with a ticket from Miss Wort, and
brought home two bottles o' new mixture. So you see, sir, between 'em,
you're frustrated once more."

"I am not surprised. Drugging is as bad a habit as drinking, and as hard
to leave off. Miss Wort has just gone in to your wife, so I will not
intrude. What is your son doing at present, Christie?"

"He's about somewhere idling with his drawing-book and bits o' colors.
He takes himself off whenever it is a finer day than common. Most likely
he's gone to Great-Ash Ford. He's met with a mate there after his own
mind--an artist chap. Was you wanting him, Mr. Carnegie?"

"There is a job of painting to do at my stable, but it can wait. Only
tell him, and he will suit his convenience."

At this moment Miss Wort reappeared in a sort of furtive hurry. She
gave a timid, sidelong glance at the doctor, and then addressed Bessie.
Mr. Carnegie had his eye upon her: she was the thorn in his professional
flesh. She meddled with his patients--a pious woman for whom other
people's souls and internal complaints supplied the excitement absent
from her own condition and favorite literature. She had some s