James obeyed without a word.  When he reached the head of the stairs he felt a sudden draught of cold wind.  Mrs. Blair came out of the sick-room, closing the door behind her.  Her face looked as stern as fate itself.  James knew what had happened the moment he saw her.

James began to speak stammeringly, but she stopped him.  “Call Doctor Gordon,” she said shortly.  “She is dead.”

CHAPTER XIII

About two weeks after the death of Doctor Gordon’s wife James went to the post office before beginning his round of calls.  Lately nearly all the practice had devolved upon him.  Gordon seemed sunken in a gloomy apathy, from which he could rouse himself only for the most urgent necessities.  Once aroused he was fully himself, but for the most part he sat in his office smoking or seemingly half-asleep.  Once in a while a very sick patient acted upon him as a momentary stimulus, but Alton was unusually healthy just then.  After an open and, for the most part, snowless winter, which had occasioned much sickness, the spring brought frost and light falls of snow, which seemed to give new life to people in spite of unseasonableness.  James had had little difficulty in attending to most of the practice, although he was necessarily away from home the greater part of the time.  However, he often took Clemency with him, and she would sit well wrapped up in the buggy reading a book while he made calls.  Then there were the long drives over solitary roads, which, though rough, causing the wheels to jolt heavily in deep ridges of frozen soil, or sink into the red mud almost to the hubs, as the case might be, seemed like roads of Paradise to the young man.  Although he himself grieved for Gordon’s wife, and Gordon himself filled him with covert anxiety, yet he was young and the girl was young, and they were both released from a miserable sense of insecurity and mystery, which had irritated and saddened them; their thoughts now turned toward their own springtime, as naturally and innocently as flowers bloom.  There was grief, and the shadow of trouble, but of past trouble; their eyes looked upon life and love and joy instead of death, as helplessly as a flower looks toward the sun.  They were happy, although half-ashamed of their happiness; but, after all, perhaps, being happy after bereavement and trouble means simply that the soul has turned to God for consolation.

James’s face was beaming with his joyful thoughts as he drew up before the village store, got out of the buggy, and tied the horse.  When he entered he said “good morning!” in a sort of general fashion.  There were many men lounging about.  The morning mail had been distributed, and although Alton people got very few letters, still there was a wide interest in the post office, a little boxed-off space in a corner of the store.  The store-keeper, Henry Graves, was the postmaster.  He felt the importance of his position.  When he sorted and