To drive to the Cunard company's office and make the transfer took some little time, but was not this my wedding holiday? I sighed as I again took my seat in the car at Jersey City. On this golden Monday afternoon I should have been slowly coming down the Housatonic Valley, with my dear little wife beside me. Instead, the unfamiliar train, and the fat man at my side reading a campaign newspaper, and shaking his huge sides over some broad burlesque. The celebrated surgeon, Dr. R----, was not at home in answer to my ring on Monday evening. "How soon will he be in? I will wait." "He can see no patients to-night sir," said the man; "and he may not be home until midnight." "But I am an _im_patient," I might have urged, when a carriage dashed up to the door. A slight little man descended, and came slowly up the steps. "Dr. R----?" I said inquiringly. "Yes, sir." "Just one minute, doctor, if you please. I only want to get an address from you." He scanned me from head to foot: "Walk into my office, young man." I might have wondered at the brusqueness of his manner had I not caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror over the mantelshelf. Dusty and worn, and with a keen look of anxiety showing out of every feature, I should scarcely have recognized myself. I explained as collectedly as possible that I wanted the address of one of his patients, a dear old friend of mine, whom I had missed as she passed through New York, and that, as I was about to sail for Europe in a few days, I had rushed over to bid her good-bye. "Mrs. Antoinette Sloman, it is, doctor." The doctor eyed me keenly: he put out his hand to the little silver bell that stood on the table and tapped it sharply. The servant appeared at the door: "Let the carriage wait, James." Again the watchful, keen expression. Did he think me an escaped lunatic, or that I had an intent to rob the old lady? Apparently the scrutiny was satisfactory, for he took out a little black book from his pocket, and turning over the leaves, said, "Certainly, here it is--No. 30 Elm street, West Philadelphia." Over the river, then, again: no wonder I had not seen them in the Sunday's search. "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.