rselves and I had replied to her question
when the door opened and a slim figure in deep black entered and
mechanically took the empty chair. She crossed the room, looking
straight before her, and did not notice my presence until she had
seated herself face to face with me.

Of a sudden her thin wan face lit up with a smile of recognition, and
she cried:

"Why, Doctor! Wherever did you come from? No one told me you were
here," and across the table she stretched out her hand in greeting.

"I thought you were reposing after your long walk this morning, dear;
so I did not disturb you," her mother explained.

But, heedless of the explanation, she continued putting to me
questions as to when I had left town, and the reason of my visit
there. To the latter I returned an evasive answer, declaring that I
had run down because I had heard that her mother was not altogether
well.

"Yes, that's true," she said. "Poor mother has been very queer of
late. She seems so distracted, and worries quite unnecessarily over
me. I wish you'd give her advice. Her state causes me considerable
anxiety."

"Very well," I said, feigning to laugh, "I must diagnose the ailment
and see what can be done."

The soup had been served, and as I carried my spoon to my mouth I
examined her furtively. My hostess had excused me from dressing, but
her daughter, neat in her widow's collar and cuffs, sat prim and
upright, her eyes now and then raised to mine in undisguised
inquisitiveness.

She was a trifle paler than heretofore, but her pallor was probably
rendered the more noticeable by the dead black she wore. Her hands
seemed thin, and her fingers toyed nervously with her spoon in a
manner that betrayed concealed agitation. Outwardly, however, I
detected no extraordinary signs of either grief or anxiety. She spoke
calmly, it was true, in the tone of one upon whom a great calamity had
fallen, but that was only natural. I did not expect to find her
bright, laughing, and light-hearted, like her old self in Richmond
Road.

As dinner proceeded I began to believe that, with a fond mother's
solicitude for her daughter's welfare, Mrs. Mivart had slightly
exaggerated Mary's symptoms. They certainly were not those of a woman
plunged in inconsolable grief, for she was neither mopish nor
artificially gay. As far as I could detect, not even a single sigh
escaped her.

She inquired of Ethelwynn and of the Hennikers, remarking that she had
seen nothing of the