Soon after breakfast they separated as was their wont. Roger and the doctor came and went as usual, but the November afternoon had grown to darkness before Michael returned, looking pale and fagged from his long ride and hard day’s work. Taken as a whole, the patients in and around Bradstane were not a very profitable set. For one rich old lady like Miss Strangforth, said Dr. Rowntree, lingering on as a chronic invalid for years—always wanting attention, and always profoundly grateful for all that her physicians either did or failed to do for her, and paying her bills with a cheque by return of post—for one treasure like this there were a dozen farmers’ wives and daughters, or sordid, unlovely poor in Bridge Street, calling upon the doctor with a frequency and persistency which they would never have dreamed of if they had possessed either the means or the intention of paying him. Others there were, cottagers, labourers, living at immense distances over bad roads, and expecting a great deal of attention in return for very small fees—anything but a profitable _clientèle_—and some of these Michael had been visiting to-day. He came in, picked up a note which lay on the hall table waiting for him, which he looked for as if he expected it—his dark face lighted for a moment as he took it, for the handwriting was that of Magdalen Wynter—put his head in at the library door, remarking, ‘I’m wet through—change my things—down directly,’ and ran upstairs, shutting his bedroom door after him. ‘What a spirit!’ cried the doctor, enthusiastically. ‘What a spirit he has! He’ll get over it yet.’ ‘Better than his brother will, I think,’ said Roger, half to himself; and then, gazing into the fire, he wondered what Gilbert was doing, and wished, as he had caught himself wishing more than once that day, that Michael could have seen his way to answer that note of Gilbert’s differently. By and by the gong sounded. Roger and the doctor went into the dining-room. Michael was still upstairs. The soup had been served, and he came not. ‘Go to Mr. Langstroth’s door and say everything will be cold, and we are waiting for him,’ said Dr. Rowntree to the serving-maid, who did as she was told, and presently returned, speedily followed by Michael. Roger gave a sharp glance at him, and thought he carried his head very high—higher than usual. ‘Sorry to keep you waiting,’ he said, with an affected, jaunty air, not in the least like his usual manner. ‘I quite forgot how time was going on.’ He laughed as he spoke, and said he was ravenously hungry, but offended the doctor greatly by scarcely touching what was set before him. ‘What do you mean by saying you are ravenous, and then not eating anything?’ he asked, crossly. Michael laughed a nervous, forced laugh, and replied— ‘Oh, I must have thought I was hungrier than I really am. I can’t eat anything now. These long rides take it out of a fellow in such a way.’ ‘Did you have lunch at the Brydges?’