“There’s been a lady waiting to see you for two hours,” she whispered, pointing mysteriously at the study door. The doctor sighed as he slipped off his overcoat. It was some belated patient, of course, and a stranger, or Miss Lucinda would have named her. He looked pale and worn, and his white head was bowed a little with care, and the thought of old David, whom he loved, as he opened the study door and came into the circle of light from the student’s lamp on the table. A fire burned on the hearth, and a woman sat in the great old-fashioned winged chair before it. As he entered she rose and stood facing him. There was a certain grace and ease in the tall figure and the black gown, but she wore a thick veil covering both her large hat and her face and throat. She made a movement, an involuntary one, it seemed, as the old man came toward her, and she saw the pallor and age in his face, a face which was full of a rare sweetness and strength. But, whatever her first impulse was, the sight of him seemed to arrest it, to turn it aside, and she drew back, laying her hand on the high chair and saying nothing. “I am sorry that you had to wait so long, madam,” Dr. Cheyney said, “but I was with a very sick man. What can I do for you? Will you be seated?” he added, drawing forward another chair. “Thank you,” she replied in a low voice, sinking into the chair by which she stood. “I wanted to speak to you--about--about--some old friends.” “Ah?” The doctor looked curiously at the veil. He could not distinguish a feature under it, but he seemed to be aware of the feverish brightness of her eyes. “I--I used to know people here,” she began and stopped, hesitating. He did not offer to help her. “I was born near here; I used to know you.” She leaned forward, clasping her hands on her knee, and he noticed that her fingers trembled. “I am an old man and forgetful,” he said pleasantly; “you must jog my memory. Who are the friends you wish to ask for?” “Friends?” she repeated in a strange voice. “You said friends,” he replied mildly. She turned her face toward him, lifting her veil. “Don’t you know me?” she asked abruptly. Dr. Cheyney, looking over the tops of his spectacles, eyed her gravely. It was a handsome face, slightly pale, with large eyes and full red lips, beautiful, no doubt, in its first youth, but lined now and hardened, with an indefinable expression which was elusive, fluttering, passionate, and most of all unhappy. The old man shook his head. She rose from her seat and crossing the room quickly, laid her large white hand on his arm. She was close to him now; he could see her breathing stir the laces on her bosom, and was sharply conscious of the agitation that possessed her and seemed to thrill her very touch upon his sleeve. She looked into his eyes, her own wild and sorrowful. “Is it possible? Don’t you know me?” He returned her gaze sorrowfully, his face changing sharply. “Yes,” he said soberly, after a moment, “I do now, Letty.”