"Were you?" said Doctor Plunkett, an Irishman, with all the sense of fun of a typical Irishman of the best class; "were you really? You had begun to think you had made a mistake." Then he added, in a more serious tone, "Doctor Jones, it is a very serious matter." "I think it is very serious." "What made you so _determined_ not to see that the unfortunate man was out of his mind?" "How do you know I was determined, sir?" said Doctor Jones, anxiously. "Because Miss Rivers, in stating the case, told me you had made up your mind beforehand!" "I--I thought that Mrs. Drayton was----well, not quite straightforward." "That has nothing whatever to do with it. If we medical men are to judge of a patient's condition because we like or dislike their relations there is an end of everything," Doctor Plunkett said severely; "surely a case must be judged on its own merits?" "Of course, sir, of course. My wife, sir----" Doctor Plunkett looked at him in amazement. "You do not mean to say, sir," he said, in a tone of cutting contempt, "that you allow your _wife_ to dictate to you upon a subject she can know nothing about?" Doctor Jones felt utterly crushed. When Doctor Plunkett was leaving the room the unhappy little man got near him and said, in a tone of abject entreaty, "I do trust, sir, that, if you have conceived an unfavourable opinion of me in this matter, you--will--perhaps, sir, you will not speak of it anywhere. It would ruin me, sir, in the eyes of my wife." "Sir," said Mr. Plunkett, "we medical men are supposed to stand by each other, but a man who is in subjection to his wife has no business to be a doctor, in my opinion." He added, "I think a henpecked man is an error in existence. I do not think he has any right to exist at all," and he left Dr. Jones to digest this speech as best he could. It was getting much warmer, though the spring was not yet far on: That wonderful promise of a coming fulness, which is one of the great charms of spring, made itself felt, but as yet the days were not long, and Grace, impatient and restless, wanted Margaret to know what had passed; she wished her to know she was free. Now that Mr. Drayton was dead, the sister who had been, for a time, bowed with remorse, tried to shake it off. It had been terrible, and the death of the little one, that perhaps might have been saved, was too sad. But now it was all over why should not Margaret revive? why could she not speak and break a silence that was becoming so very terrible? Grace had not much more comprehension now than she had had in old days of the depths of her sister's nature; and she did not know in its entirety what Margaret had suffered in those months of anguish and seclusion. Perhaps the person who best understood her was Jean, whose own deep warm feelings taught her sympathy.