Jacob stood stock-still and regarded what seemed to him the beginning of miracles. Was it possible that Diana was in open rebellion against society? That Diana should be in open rebellion against him was not amazing. She was wont to let him know that he was a mere speck on the horizon, but that he regarded as pretty coquetry, and of no consequence, because he intended to marry Diana. But that Diana should, a second time, prefer Caleb Trench to him was beyond belief, and that she should do it after certain revelations that he had just heard, was adding insult to injury, for Jacob had suddenly found that the poor Yankee shopkeeper lawyer was a foe worthy of his steel. He remained a long time motionless, his heavy lids drooping over his eyes and his brows meditative. He was, after all, a gentleman of resources, and it was merely a question of how to use them. XIII IT was midnight and storming hard when Dr. Cheyney stopped at Caleb’s door. Trench heard the wheels and opened it as the old man climbed down from his high buggy. “Caleb, I’ve come for brandy; got any?” the doctor said briefly, coming in with his head bent in the rain; his rubber coat was drawn up to his ears, and the tails of it flapped against his thin legs. Trench had been reading late, and there was a fire in the stove in the kitchen. “Go in and get dry a moment, Doctor,” he said, “while I get brandy. It’s no night for you, and at this hour too; your friends must remonstrate.” “Damn it, sir, am I not the doctor?” said the old man, lowering. “You’re that and something more, I take it,” Caleb replied, smiling. “More?” Dr. Cheyney was out of temper. “Nay, nay, I’m just a plain doctor, and I can take care of both your big toes. These new-fangled ones can’t, sir, that’s all! It’s the fashion now to have a doctor for your nose and another for your toes and a third for your stomach. Very good, let ’em! I do it all and don’t get paid for it; that’s the difference.” “They do,” said Caleb, producing a flask of brandy. The doctor took it and thrust it deep into his big outside pocket. “I’ll pay you when I get ready,” he said dryly. Trench laughed. He heard the swirl of the rain against the window-panes; it was nearly as bad as the day he had sheltered Diana. He looked keenly at the worn little old man and saw the streams of water that had streaked his coat. “I have a great mind to shut you up and keep you all night,” he remarked. “For a ransom?” said the doctor grimly; “you wouldn’t get it. Caleb, that poor girl, Jean Bartlett, is dying.” Trench was startled. “I didn’t know she was ill,” he replied; “Zeb came here and whined for money when the grandmother died so suddenly, but he said nothing of Jean.” “He never does,” said Dr. Cheyney, “the young brute!” “Are you going there now?” Caleb asked.