Chris was much puzzled. Was he the doctor who attended Mr. Richard, or an old friend who had come to see him? This seemed the more probable of the two suppositions; for if the portrait had been that of the madman’s doctor, Mr. Bradfield would scarcely have said that he did not know him. But then the date on the portrait, 1847? The painting was that of a young man in the very prime of life. In spite of the lines in his face and the silver in his hair, it was impossible that the face behind the barred window could be that of a man at least seventy years of age. Chris began to feel herself blushing, ashamed of the unseen watch she was keeping upon a strange man. The sun of a very bright December morning was upon his face, and upon a gold watch which he held in his hand and looked at intently. This fact, together with the intense seriousness of his face, caused Chris to revert to her idea that he must be a physician. She had not heard that Mr. Richard was ill, but that was nothing, for his name, as far as she knew, was very little mentioned in the household, and he might be ill without her ever hearing of it. She thought it probable that he was not only ill, but that his malady had reached some grave crisis; for the face at the window was quite serious enough to warrant the supposition that he was counting the minutes in a case of life and death. This idea seized upon her so strongly that she found herself watching for a change in his face, thinking she should be able to tell whether the expression altered to one of hope or to one of despair. Presently the expression did change. A look of eager expectancy appeared in it as the dark eyes looked up. The unknown man put his watch back in in his pocket, and disappeared quickly from the window. Chris, who was surprised to find that she had been standing still long enough to grow cold and stiff, moved quickly away from her hiding-place with a flush of shame in her cheeks. A few steps further along the winding path under the trees, on which the decaying leaves lay thickly, brought her out into the kitchen garden. Johnson had finished with his celery and was going into one of the houses to look at his cuttings. He glanced up at her, and she thought she would ask him a question. “Is Mr. Richard ill, Johnson, do you know?” she said. “Not as I knows on, miss. At least, not worse nor ordinary,” he said, with a slight gesture of the head to denote where his weakness lay. “Then why has he got a doctor with him?” “He ain’t got no doctor with him, not as fur as I knows on, miss.” “The gentleman with the long grey hair; isn’t he a doctor?” “Why, no, Miss,” answered Johnson, with a grin; “the gentleman with the long hair is Mr. Richard himself.” Chris was so much astonished that for a moment she stared at the man and said nothing. Then she repeated, slowly: “Mr. Richard! Why, he looks sane!” Johnson shook his head.