When Hiram received the summons to attend Dr. Chellis in his study, he was in the midst of a calculation as to the profit and loss of a certain operation, which I do not propose to explain to the reader. He had intended to call on the Doctor immediately on his return from Hampton, but was too much occupied. When, however, he came to a sudden break with Mrs. Tenant (_he_ did not intend it should be sudden), he felt the necessity of fortifying himself in the church, for he was well aware of the deservedly high character Mr. Tenant enjoyed in it. He did not know the intimate relations which existed between him and the Doctor. Although the weather was exceedingly warm, Hiram wore his complete suit of black cloth, and as he came with downcast eyes and mincing steps into the Doctor's room, the latter, who had taken his accustomed seat before his table, looked at him as he would at some strange, extraordinary apparition. He returned Hiram's salutation so gravely that it checked any further advance toward shaking hands. He proceeded, however, to take a seat without waiting to be asked. 'Something wrong,' he said to himself. 'It can't be he has heard of it so soon--only this very afternoon; impossible. Perhaps he is at work on his sermon. I must apologize.' Thereupon Hiram took courage, and said, in a bland tone: 'I fear I am interrupting you in your valuable labors; shall I not call another time?' 'No; I am quite at liberty;' and the Doctor looked as if he would ask, 'What do you want?' 'You have without doubt heard of my affliction,' groaned Hiram, producing his pocket handkerchief. 'Your mother died lately, I understand.' Hiram's answer was inaudible; his face was buried in his handkerchief. The Doctor was becoming impatient. 'What is the object of your visit?' he asked. The handkerchief was instantly removed from Hiram's face. He cast his eyes reproachfully on the Doctor, and exclaimed, quite in a natural tone: 'Object! are you not my pastor; am I not suffering? Have I not been watching for weeks at my mother's dying bed? And now she has gone, I feel unhappy, very unhappy. I want your advice and sympathy, and spiritual direction.' The Doctor was staggered--I say staggered, not convinced, not persuaded, not in any sense inclined to change his opinion of the young man before him. But a blow had been well put in, and he felt it. For Hiram, not imagining the Doctor could have heard of the affair with Miss Tenant, thought his treatment owing to some sort of caprice, and he seized the opportunity to act on the offensive, and dealt so genuine a retort that the former was taken by surprise. For a moment he seemed to be in a revery.