At first he was unconscious of her presence. She was but another human atom, and of no more interest to him than the chair on which she sat. Mechanically he declined one or two things she passed to him, and in an absent manner replied to the few casual remarks by which she sought to engage him in conversation. At last she said, in a voice that was indescribably winning and sympathetic: "Mr. Mayhew, your sultry week in town has wearied you. Our country air will do you good." There was so much more in her tones than in her words that he turned to look at her, and then, for the first time, became aware that he was not sitting at the side of an ordinary, well-bred lady. "Country air is good as far as it goes," he said slowly, scanning her face as he spoke; "but it does not make much difference with me." "There are other remedies," she resumed in her low gentle tone, "which, like the air, are not exactly tangible, and yet are more potent." "Indeed," he said, the dawning interest deepening in his face; "what are they?" "I do not mean to tell you," she replied with a little piquant nod and smile. "I've learned better than those people who have a dozen infallible medicines at their tongues' end for every trouble under heaven. I never name my remedies; for if I did, people would turn away in contempt for such commonplace simples." "I can guess one of them already," he said with a pleased light coming into his eyes. "So quickly, Mr. Mayhew? I doubt it." "Kindness," he said, in a low tone. "Well," she replied with a slight flush, "I can stoutly assert that this remedy did me good when all the long-named drugs in the 'Materia Medica' could not have helped me." He looked at her searchingly a moment, and then said in the same low tone: "And so you are trying to apply your remedy to me? It certainly is very good of you. Most people when they are cured, throw away the medicine, forgetting how many others are sick." "Perhaps we can never exactly say we are cured in this life; but I think we can all get better." "It depends a great deal upon the disease," he replied, with a shrug. "No, Mr. Mayhew," she said; and, although her tone was low, it was almost passionate in its earnestness. "God forbid that there should be a disease without a remedy." He again looked at her with a peculiar expression, and then slowly turned toward his wife and daughter. Mrs. Mayhew was too preoccupied to heed him, and Sibley was just saying: "Miss Ida, I claim you for the first waltz this evening, and only wish that it would last indefinitely." "Pardon me for saying it to one so young and hopeful as yourself, Miss Burton," Mr. Mayhew resumed gloomily, "but that which both God and good-sense forbid seems the thing most sure to take place in this world." Although so dissimilar, deep and sad experiences made them kin, and Miss Burton found she must make an effort not to let their thoughts color their words too darkly for the time and place.