Martin Regan laughed bitterly.

“Sure she never belonged to the estate at all,” he said, “but came in the middle of the night on me and the little sister sitting by the little fire of bushes, and me with a little white coat on me.  And we never knew where she came from, and never brought a penny nor a blanket nor a stitch of clothes with her, and our own mother brought seventy pounds and two feather beds.  And now she’s stiffer than a woman that would have a hundred pounds.  And now the old man’s like to die, and maybe he won’t pass the night, and where’ll I be?  Sure if he would keep him living a little longer he might get repentance.”

“Had you not better ask the Doctor to see him?” said Louise.  “He might bring him round for a time, and then we must do our best for you.”

“I was thinking that myself,” said Regan; “and I believe I’d best go look for him now; I might chance to find him at home.  I heard the old woman had the priest sent for; but, sure, he’s wore out anointing him—­he threatened to die so often.  But he’s worse now than ever I saw him.”  And taking off his hat with many expressions of gratitude, he left Louise to finish her walk alone.

An hour or two later she returned, her hands full of sprays and berries as an excuse for her wanderings.  The Colonel was smoking contentedly on the bench outside the door.

“Ah, Louise,” he said, “you have missed your friend the Doctor you were so full of when you wrote to me.  He seemed to want to see you—­I suppose to have a crack about some of your patients; so I asked him to come and dine this evening.”

No escape now!  Louise bit her lip, and proceeded to arrange her berries.

“He seems an intelligent young man,” the Colonel went on; “rather good-looking, if he had a drill-sergeant to teach him to hold himself up; and I hear he doesn’t drink, which can’t often be said of these dispensary doctors.”

The red deepened in the girl’s face.  How could she ever say, “This is the man I have promised to marry?” With much uneasiness she looked forward to dinner-time.  Dr. Quin sent no apology; nay, was worse than punctual.  He came in rather shyly, looking awkward in a new and ill-fitting evening suit, for which he had put aside his usual rough homespun.  Louise, furious with herself for having blushed as he appeared, gave him a cold and formal reception.

Dinner began uncomfortably for all three, as the Colonel, who had trusted to his sister to entertain their guest, found himself obliged to exert his own powers of conversation.  The Doctor’s discomfort was intensified by what seemed to one of his simple habits the unusual variety of courses and dishes.  His fish-knife embarrassed him; he waited to use fork or spoon until he had watched to see which implement was preferred by his host.  He chose “sherry wine” as a beverage; and left a portion of each viand on his plate, in the groundless fear that if he finished it he would be