"Here are books," said the Doctor, "and the evening papers,--'Picayune,' 'Delta,' 'True Delta.'" It seemed for a moment as though the gentleman might sink into his seat again. "And there's the 'New York Herald.'" "No, sir!" said the visitor quickly, rising and smoothing himself out; "nothing from that quarter, if you please." Yet he smiled. The Doctor did not notice that, while so smiling, he took his card from the table. There was something familiar in the stranger's face which the Doctor was trying to make out. They left the house together. Outside the street door the physician made apologetic allusion to their interrupted interview. "Shall I see you at my office to-morrow? I would be happy"-- The stranger had raised his hat. He smiled again, as pleasantly as he could, which was not delightful, and said, after a moment's hesitation:-- "--Possibly." CHAPTER XI. A PANTOMIME. It chanced one evening about this time--the vernal equinox had just passed--that from some small cause Richling, who was generally detained at the desk until a late hour, was home early. The air was soft and warm, and he stood out a little beyond his small front door-step, lifting his head to inhale the universal fragrance, and looking in every moment, through the unlighted front room, toward a part of the diminutive house where a mild rattle of domestic movements could be heard, and whence he had, a little before, been adroitly requested to absent himself. He moved restlessly on his feet, blowing a soft tune. Presently he placed a foot on the step and a hand on the door-post, and gave a low, urgent call. A distant response indicated that his term of suspense was nearly over. He turned about again once or twice, and a moment later Mary appeared in the door, came down upon the sidewalk, looked up into the moonlit sky and down the empty, silent street, then turned and sat down, throwing her wrists across each other in her lap, and lifting her eyes to her husband's with a smile that confessed her fatigue. The moon was regal. It cast its deep contrasts of clear-cut light and shadow among the thin, wooden, unarchitectural forms and weed-grown vacancies of the half-settled neighborhood, investing the matter-of-fact with mystery, and giving an unexpected charm to the unpicturesque. It was--as Richling said, taking his place beside his wife--midspring in March. As he spoke he noticed she had brought with her the odor of flowers. They were pinned at her throat. "Where did you get them?" he asked, touching them with his fingers. Her face lighted up. "Guess." How could he guess? As far as he knew neither she nor he had made an acquaintance in the neighborhood. He shook his head, and she replied:-- "The butcher." "You're a queer girl," he said, when they had laughed. "Why?" "You let these common people take to you so." She smiled, with a faint air of concern. "You don't dislike it, do you?" she asked.