In all the world there was hardly a more accomplished and fascinating hypocrite than Dr. Matthewson, and so well did he use his powers and art that if Rossie had had any distrust of him or his sincerity it would have been entirely swept away during the half hour he spent with her, now talking of himself as he used to be with great regret, and of himself as he was now with great humility; now telling how glad he was to find his little sister, and then complimenting her in a way which could not fail to be gratifying to any woman. Then he spoke of her health, and was sorry to find her so frail and delicate, and asked her many questions about herself, while he held her hand and felt her pulse professionally. “Had she ever thought her heart at all diseased, or that her lungs were affected?” he asked; adding, quickly, as he saw the sudden start she gave: “Oh, don’t be frightened, and conclude you have either consumption or heart disease. I only asked because some members of our family far back died with a heart difficulty, and if I remember right your mother had consumption. But we must not let _you_ have either of them. You do not seem to have a great amount of vitality. Are you never stronger than now, and do these headaches occur very often?” He had her hand in one of his, and with the other was stroking her head and hair, while she answered that nothing ailed her except the headache to which she had been subject all her life, and a predisposition to sore throat whenever she took cold. “Ah, yes, I see,” and the doctor looked very wise. “Bronchial trouble, no doubt, aggravated by our dreadful American climate. Excuse me, _mignonne_, if I confess to being more than half a European. I have lived abroad so much that I greatly prefer being there, and know the climate is better for me. Some day not far distant we must go there together, you and I, and I’ll take such care of you that people will hardly know you when you come back. I’ll have some color in these white cheeks, though I don’t believe I could improve the eyes.” It was the great desire of Rossie’s life to go to Europe some day, and she assented to all her brother said, and wrote to Everard immediately after her interview with the doctor, and told him of her brother, and what a good, noble man he had become. Then, as carefully and gently as possible, she spoke of the wrong he had done to Everard, and for which he was so very sorry. “I do not suppose you can ever like him as I do,” she wrote, “but I hope you will try to be friends with him for my sake.” Accompanying this letter was one from the doctor himself, couched in the most conciliatory terms, full of regret for the past and strong in good intentions for the future.