"Well, forty is not exactly patriarchal," somewhat sarcastically. "On the whole I think I am rather proud of my grey hairs, they make me more important. You ought to have kept younger, Miss Faith, leading this quiet pastoral life of yours; you have not had all the hard hits and thumps that fate has dealt me." "I think inaction is sometimes more trying," she answered faintly, for this absence of sympathy fretted her; and just then they met Cathy walking down the road with free easy gait, and carrying a basket of poppies and wild flowers. She nodded to them hurriedly and passed on. Dr. Stewart looked after her. "That is a fine girl with a fine character, I will be bound," he said, "but I think I admire Miss Marriott more; I like her soft brunette coloring, and then she has such splendid eyes. Is that fine fellow, young Clayton, rather smitten with her?" "I think, I am almost sure, that he cares for some one else; at least, one never knows," putting up her hand to her head. "No, one never knows; there is a fate in these things, I believe. That elder Miss Clayton looks very worn, a story there I expect; most unmarried women have had their story,--one can read it in their faces,--and men too, for that matter. There is a skeleton in every one's cupboard they say. At forty we begin to wonder if life's worth having after all. Well, well, you have a headache, I see; this sunshine is making it worse. If you will allow me I will see you home and call on your sisters." "They are all at home; they will be very glad to see you," she stammered, but her heart sank within her. It was one of Cara's bad days, she might not receive him graciously; and then what would Dr. Stewart think of their humble little household? She was absent and nervous all the rest of the way. No wonder he found her changed. "Cara, Dr. Stewart has come to see you," she said, in a deprecating voice, as though she were committing some solecism. Miss Hope put down her book with a start, and Miss Charity looked up sharply from her knitting. "Whom did you say, Faith?" in an inflexible voice. "An old hospital friend of hers, one of ten years' standing," observed Dr. Stewart, throwing himself into the breach with military promptness. In a moment he recognized the position; his shrewd, observant glance took in the little parlor and the occupants in a trice. It was not a very attractive scene to a man of the world; the details were homely and uninteresting. The bay window with its geraniums and fuchsias; the sharp little bright-eyed woman with her high cheek-bones and thin curls; Miss Hope, vigorous and loud-voiced; and Miss Prudence's ungainly figure hovering in the background. Faith, with her pale face and grey dress, looked like a soft speck of shadow in the sunlight. Dr. Stewart's masculine breadth and freedom of movement seemed to fill up the little room.