“Then I’ll just go in and prepare her myself. I’m a pretty good hand at preparing people to meet me. You’ve a beautiful location here, Dr. Breen; and your town has a chance to grow. I like to see a town have some chance,” he added, with a sadness past tears in his melancholy eyes. “Bella can show me the way to the room, I reckon,” he said, setting the little one down on the piazza, and following her indoors; and when Grace ventured, later, to knock at the door, Maynard’s voice bade her come in. He sat beside his wife’s pillow, with her hand in his left; on his right arm perched the little girl, and rested her head on his shoulder. They did not seem to have been talking, and they did not move when Grace entered the room. But, apparently, Mrs. Maynard had known how to behave to George Maynard, and peace was visibly between them. “Now, you tell me about the medicines, Dr. Breen, and then you go and get some rest,” said Maynard in his mild, soothing voice. “I used to understand Mrs. Maynard’s ways pretty well, and I can take care of her. Libby told me all about _you_ and your doings, and I know you must feel as pale as you look.” “But you can’t have had any sleep on the way,” Grace began. “Sleep?” Maynard repeated, looking wanly at her. “_I_ never sleep. I’d as soon think of digesting.” After she had given him the needed instructions he rose from the rocking-chair in-which he had been softly swinging to and fro, and followed her out into the corridor, caressing with his large hand the child that lay on his shoulder. “Of course,” she said, “Mrs. Maynard is still very sick, and needs the greatest care and attention.” “Yes, I understand that. But I reckon it will come out all right in the end,” he said, with the optimistic fatalism which is the real religion of our orientalizing West. “Good-night, doctor.” She went away, feeling suddenly alone in this exclusion from the cares that had absorbed her. There was no one on the piazza, which the moonlight printed with the shadows of the posts and the fanciful jigsaw work of the arches between them. She heard a step on the sandy walk round the corner, and waited wistfully. It was Barlow who came in sight, as she knew at once, but she asked, “Mr. Barlow?” “Yes’m,” said Barlow. “What can I do for _you?_” “Nothing. I thought it might be Mr. Libby at first. Do you know where he is?” “Well, I know where he _ain’t_,” said Barlow; and having ineffectually waited to be questioned further, he added, “He ain’t _here_, for _one_ place. He’s gone back to Leyden. He had to take that horse back.” “Oh!” she said. “N’ I guess he’s goin’ to stay.” “To stay? Where?” “Well, there you’ve got me again. All I know is I’ve got to drive that mare of his’n over to-morrow, if I can git off, and next day if I can’t. Didn’t you know he was goin’?” asked Barlow, willing to recompense himself for the information he had given. “Well!” he added sympathetically, at a little hesitation of hers: