a better advantage. You will repay
me by-and-by with compound interest; so just consider all that I may be
able to do for you as a loan to be repaid when you shall have achieved
success."

"I am afraid, sir, that that time will never----"

"No, you are not!" interrupted the doctor, "and so don't let modesty run
into hypocrisy. Now put up your books and go and tell your good little
mother to get your clothes all ready for you to go to Washington, for
you shall start by the next coach."

Much surprise was created in the little household by the news that
Traverse was going immediately to Washington to attend the medical
lectures. There were but two days to prepare his wardrobe for the
journey. Mrs. Rocke went cheerfully to work; Clara lent her willing and
skilful aid, and at the end of the second day his clothes, in perfect
order, were all neatly packed in his trunk.

And on the morning of the third day Traverse took leave of his mother
and Clara, and for the first time left home to go into the great world.
Doctor Day accompanied him in the old green gig as far as Staunton,
where he took the stage.

As soon as they had left the house Marah Rocke went away to her own room
to drop a few natural tears over this first parting with her son. Very
lonely and desolate the mother felt as she stood weeping by the window,
and straining her eyes to catch a distant view of the old green gig that
had already rolled out of sight.

While she stood thus in her loneliness and desolation, the door silently
opened, a footstep softly crossed the floor, a pair of arms was put
around her neck, and Clara Day dropped her head upon the mother's bosom
and wept softly.

Marah Rocke pressed that beautiful form to her breast, and felt with
dismay that the doctor's sweet daughter already returned her boy's
silent love!

CHAPTER XXIV.

CAPITOLA'S MOTHER.

A woman like a dew-drop she was purer than the purest,
And her noble heart the noblest, yes, and her sure faith the surest;
And her eyes were dark and humid like the depth in depth of lustre
Hid i' the harebell, while her tresses, sunnier than the wild
grape's cluster,
Gushed in raven-tinted plenty down her cheeks' rose-tinted marble;
Then her voice's music--call it the well's bubbling, the bird's warble.
--Browning.

"Cap?"

"Sir!"

"What the blazes is the matter with you?"

"What the blazes! You better