The doctor had by this time come to understand the daughter of his old friend, Colonel Fronde, or to think that he did, and in his private opinion he set her down as a very eccentric woman, as well as a very rich and beautiful one, who meant to live the life of a philanthropic old maid, like that of the then Miss Burdette Coutts. He knew perfectly well that it would be utterly useless for any one to oppose her in her projects, so he thought the best policy for him to pursue, both in her interest and in that of those whom she wished to benefit, would be to fall in with her plans and give her the advantage of his advice and assistance in all the details of the humane enterprise. The three friends sat down at a table together, with pencils and tablets in hand, and talked “sanitorium” all the evening. “I shall not be able to get off by the boat to-morrow morning, Mr. Merritt. There is so much more to be done here in the city than I had calculated upon that I doubt very much whether I shall be able to go before next week,” said Miss Fronde as she closed her well-filled notebook at the end of the conference. “The longer you may be detained here, Miss Fronde, the better we shall all be pleased,” said Dr. Washburn, striking into the conversation as he rose to take leave. Both gentlemen bade the young lady a cordial good-night and went away. A few minutes later there came a modest tap at the door, and to Miss Fronde’s pleasant “Come in!” Tom entered. He had a broad smile on his good-natured face. He plucked his old hat off his head and bowed, and continued to bow, and smiled, and continued to smile, until Miss Fronde held out her hand and said: “How do you do, Tom? Come here and shake hands with me.” Then he shyly approached the gracious lady, and took the hand she offered him, and showed his love and honor in the best way he knew how, by slowly swaying it up and down, smiling all the while in respectful silence, until Miss Fronde gently withdrew her fingers and inquired: “How have you been since I saw you last, Tom?” “Firs’ yate, mist’ess. Been fetchin’ an’ ca’in’ clo’es back’a’ds an’ fo’a’ds fo’ mammy,” Tom answered. Then he smiled a broader smile than ever, and said: “Soon’s ebber mammy tol’ me how yo’ was come back yere I yunned yight ober yere to pay my ’bed’ence; but Mr. ’Pollyon Syphax tol’ me how yo’ had comp’ny, ma’am, so I didn’ like to ’trude; but I’s moughty p’oud to see yo’, mist’ess, ’deed I is.” “Thank you, Tom. How would you like to go to the Isle of Storms with me?” “I’d des like to go to de een’ ob de worl’ ’long o’ yo’, mist’ess; but I’d yudder go to dat ole p’ace wiv yo’ dan to any yudder p’ace on dis yeth—I would, fo’ a fac’,” said Tom, almost tempted to turn a somersault in his delight. “Then you shall go.” “How is little Miss Cafferine, mist’ess?” “She is well. She is with me here. She will go with us to the Isle of Storms.” “Oh! aine I g’ad! We shall all be so happy, mist’ess.”