"I will take you over," said Dr. R----, replacing the book in his pocket again. "Mrs. Sloman is on my list. Wait till I eat a biscuit, and I'll drive you over in my carriage." Shrewd little man! thought I: if I am a convict or a lunatic with designs on Mrs. Sloman, he is going to be there to see. "Till he ate a biscuit?" I should think so. To his invitation, most courteously urged, that I should come and share his supper--"You've just come from the train, and you won't get back to your hotel for two hours, at least"--I yielded a ready acceptance, for I was really very hungry: I forget whether I had eaten anything all day. But the biscuit proved to be an elegant little supper served in glittering plate, and the doctor lounged over the tempting bivalves until I could scarce conceal my impatience. "Do you chance to know," he said carelessly, as at last we rose from the table and he flung his napkin down, "Mrs. Sloman's niece, Miss Stewart?" "Excellently well," I said smiling: "in fact, I believe I am engaged to be married to her." "My dear fellow," said the doctor, bursting out laughing, "I am delighted to hear it! Take my carriage and go. I saw you were a lawyer, and you looked anxious and hurried; and I made up my mind that you had come over to badger the old lady into making her will. I congratulate you with all my soul--and myself, too," he added, shaking my hand. "Only think! Had it not been for your frankness, I should have taken a five-mile ride to watch you and keep you from doing my patient an injury." The good doctor quite hurried me into the carriage in the effusion of his discovery; and I was soon rolling away in that luxurious vehicle over the bridge, and toward Bessie at last. I cannot record that interview in words, nor can I now set down any but the mere outline of our talk. My darling came down to meet me with a quick flush of joy that she did not try to conceal. She was natural, was herself, and only too glad, after the _contretemps_ in New York, to see me again. She pitied me as though I had been a tired child when I told her pathetically of my two journeys to Philadelphia, and laughed outright at my interview with Dr. R----. I was so sure of my ground. When I came to speak of the journey--_our_ journey--I knew I should prevail. It was a deep wound, and she shrank from any talk about it. I had to be very gentle and tender before she would listen to me at all. But there was something else at work against me--what was it?--something that I could neither see nor divine. And it was not altogether made up of Aunt Sloman, I was sure. "I cannot leave her now, Charlie. Dr. R---- wishes her to remain in Philadelphia, so that he can watch her case. That settles it, Charlie: I must stay with her." What was there to be said? "Is there no one else, no one to take your place?" "Nobody; and I would not leave her even if there were."