Mrs. Meeker knew better than to stop Dr. Leslie if he were going anywhere in a hurry; she had been taught this lesson years ago; but when she saw him journeying in such a leisurely way some instinct assured her of safety, and she came out of her door like a Jack-in-the-box, while old Major, only too ready for a halt, stood still in spite of a desperate twitch of the reins, which had as much effect as pulling at a fish-hook which has made fast to an anchor.  Mrs. Meeker feigned a great excitement.

“I won’t keep you but a moment,” she said, “but I want to hear what you think about Mis’ Thacher’s chances.”

“Mrs. Thacher’s?” repeated the doctor, wonderingly.

“She’s doing well, isn’t she?  I don’t suppose that she will ever be a young woman again.”

“I don’t know why, but I took it for granted that you was goin’ there,” explained Mrs. Meeker, humbly.  “She has seemed to me as if she was failing all summer.  I was up there last night, and I never said so to her, but she had aged dreadfully.  I wonder if it’s likely she’s had a light shock?  Sometimes the fust one’s kind o’ hidden; comes by night or somethin’, and folks don’t know till they begins to feel the damage of it.”

“She hasn’t looked very well of late,” said the doctor.  For once in his life he was willing to have a friendly talk, Mrs. Meeker thought, and she proceeded to make the most of her opportunity.

“I think the care of that girl of Ad’line’s has been too much for her all along,” she announced, “she’s wild as a hawk, and a perfect torment.  One day she’ll come strollin’ in and beseechin’ me for a bunch o’ flowers, and the next she’ll be here after dark scarin’ me out o’ my seven senses.  She rigged a tick-tack here the other night against the window, and my heart was in my mouth.  I thought ’twas a warnin’ much as ever I thought anything in my life; the night before my mother died ’twas in that same room and against that same winder there came two or three raps, and my sister Drew and me we looked at each other, and turned cold all over, and mother set right up in bed the next night and looked at that winder and then laid back dead.  I was all sole alone the other evenin’,—­Wednesday it was,—­and when I heard them raps I mustered up, and went and put my head out o’ the door, and I couldn’t see nothing, and when I went back, knock—­knock, it begun again, and I went to the door and harked.  I hoped I should hear somebody or ‘nother comin’ along the road, and then I heard somethin’ a rus’lin’ amongst the sunflowers and hollyhocks, and then there was a titterin’, and come to find out ’twas that young one.  I chased her up the road till my wind give out, and I had to go and set on the stone wall, and come to.  She won’t go to bed till she’s a mind to.  One night I was up there this spring, and she never come in until after nine o’clock, a dark night, too; and the pore old lady was in distress, and thought she’d got into the river.  I says to myself