"Urquhart of ours?" cried young Treherne. "Why, he told me he should not come, or should not stay ten minutes if he came. Much too solid for this kind of thing--eh, you see? Yet a capital fellow. The best fellow in all the world. Where is he?" But the "best fellow in all the world" had entirely disappeared. I enjoyed the rest of the evening extremely,--that is, pretty well. Not altogether, now I come to think of it, for though I danced to my heart's content, Captain Treherne seeming eager to bring up his whole regiment, successively, for my patronage and Penelope's (N.B. _not_ Lisabel's), whenever I caught a distant glimpse of Dr. Urquhart's brown beard, conscience stung me for my folly and want of tact. Dear me! What a thing it is that one can so seldom utter an honest opinion without offending somebody. Was he really offended? He must have seen that I did not mean any harm; nor does he look like one of those touchy people who are always wincing as if they trod on the tails of imaginary adders. Yet he made no attempt to come and talk to me again; for which I was sorry; partly because I would have liked to make him some amends, and partly because he seemed the only man present worth talking to. I do wonder more and more what my sisters can find in the young men they dance and chatter with. To me they are inane, conceited, absolutely unendurable. Yet there may be good in some of them. May? Nay, there _must_ be good in every human being. Alas, me! Well might Dr. Urquhart say last night that there are no judgments so harsh as those of the erring, the inexperienced, and the young. I ought to add, that when we were wearily waiting for our fly to draw up to the hall-door, Dr. Urquhart suddenly appeared. Papa had Penelope on his arm, Lisabel was whispering with Captain Treherne. Yes, depend upon it, that young man will be my brother-in-law. I stood by myself in the doorway, looking out on the pitch-dark night, when some one behind me said:-- "Pray stand within shelter. You young ladies are never half careful enough of your health. Allow me." And with a grave professional air, my medical friend wrapped me closely up in my shawl. "A plaid, I see. That is sensible. There is nothing for warmth like a good plaid," he said, with a smile, which, even had it not been for his name, and a slight strengthening and broadening of his English, scarcely amounting to an accent, would have pretty well showed what part of the kingdom Dr. Urquhart came from. I was going, in my bluntness, to put the direct question, but felt as if I had committed myself quite enough for one night. Just then was shouted out "Mr. Johnson's,"--(oh dear, shall we never get the aristocratic 't' into our plebeian name!)--"carriage," and I was hurried into the fly. Not by the Doctor, though; he stood like a bear on the doorstep, and never attempted to stir. That's all. CHAPTER II. HIS STORY. Hospital Memoranda, Sept. 21st.