VII

FOR THE YEARS TO COME

Late one summer afternoon Dr. Leslie was waked from an unusually long after-dinner nap by Marilla’s footsteps along the hall.  She remained standing in the doorway, looking at him for a provoking length of time, and finally sneezed in her most obtrusive and violent manner.  At this he sat up quickly and demanded to be told what was the matter, adding that he had been out half the night before, which was no news to the faithful housekeeper.

“There, I’m sure I didn’t mean to wake you up,” she said, with an apparent lack of self-reproach.  “I never can tell whether you are asleep or only kind of drowsin’.  There was a boy here just now from old Mis’ Cunningham’s over on the b’ilin’ spring road.  They want you to come over quick as convenient.  She don’t know nothin’, the boy said.”

“Never did,” grumbled the doctor.  “I’ll go, toward night, but I can’t do her any good.”

“An’ Mis’ Thacher is out here waitin’ too, but she says if you’re busy she’ll go along to the stores and stop as she comes back.  She looks to me as if she was breakin’ up,” confided Marilla in a lower tone.

“Tell her I’m ready now,” answered the doctor in a more cordial tone, and though he said half to himself and half to Marilla that here was another person who expected him to cure old age, he spoke compassionately, and as if his heart were heavy with the thought of human sorrow and suffering.  But he greeted Mrs. Thacher most cheerfully, and joked about Marilla’s fear of a fly, as he threw open the blinds of the study window which was best shaded from the sun.

Mrs. Thacher did indeed look changed, and the physician’s quick eyes took note of it, and, as he gathered up some letters and newspapers which had been strewn about just after dinner, he said kindly that he hoped she had no need of a doctor.  It was plain that the occasion seemed an uncommon one to her.  She wore her best clothes, which would not have been necessary for one of her usual business trips to the village, and it seemed to be difficult for her to begin her story.  Dr. Leslie, taking a purely professional view of the case, began to consider what form of tonic would be most suitable, whether she had come to ask for one or not.

“I want to have a good talk with you about the little gell; Nanny, you know;” she said at last, and the doctor nodded, and, explaining that there seemed to be a good deal of draught through the room, crossed the floor and gently shut the door which opened into the hall.  He smiled a little as he did it, having heard the long breath outside which was the not unfamiliar signal of Marilla’s presence.  If she were curious, she was a discreet keeper of secrets, and the doctor had more than once indulged her in her sinful listening by way of friendliness and reward.  But this subject promised to concern his own affairs too closely, and he became wary of