A very difficult matter to describe, this young lady, as she stood chatting pleasantly with her friend. Not because she was beautiful--for an artist probably would not have called her so--and yet her face was very fair to look upon. Not on account of her dress, for I doubt if any of my lady friends would have envied the plain though neat calico dress and heavy calfskin shoes; but they might well have envied the clear, sunlit complexion and massive coils of golden-brown hair that were wound so tightly over the small, well-set head, and no artist would have endangered his reputation by venturing to praise the contour of her form or the light, willowy grace of every movement. “Oh, doctor,” she cried merrily, “I hope you did not expect to find a patient here. We are dreadfully healthy, I assure you.” “Now, that is just my luck,” answered Conway, with mock gravity. “I have received a new supply of drugs, and I am anxious to try if they are effective. I don’t suppose now you would have any objection to my dosing Jim a little in the cause of science?” “Indeed, sir! Just let me catch you at it. You would be sure to make him dreadfully sick.” “Only to make him well again, I assure you,” replied the doctor. “I have to call at Higgins’, however, and shall probably get some practice there.” “I should think they gave you practice enough,” returned Norine gravely. “It is dreadful the way they live. What is it now--an accident or the fever again?” “Only the fever this time,” said Conway cheerfully. “Do you know, I feel quite grateful to that family. They are worth a great deal to me in the way of experience.” “If you could only teach them to derive some benefit from experience, you would have some cause for gratitude,” replied the girl gravely. “But I suppose there is no hope for that. I will go over this afternoon and give them a lecture.” “I don’t imagine your lecture will hurt them much,” retorted the doctor. “It is generally in the nature of jelly, isn’t it, or chickens? I wouldn’t mind being lectured that way myself. But you must not rob Jim and yourself for those people.” “Oh, no,” laughed Norine; “I never do that. Of course we send them little things sometimes, when they are ill, if only to offset the nasty medicine you give them. They are so poor,” she added--“poorer even than we are,” this with a little sigh. “Well,” said the doctor, throwing his old-fashioned saddlebags over his shoulder, “I will walk over through the woods, and perhaps you will be charitable enough to give me some dinner when I return?” “You know you are welcome,” said Norine quietly. “I am only sorry that Jim will not be here--he has gone to the village.” Doctor Conway was not at all sorry that she would be alone, but he did not say so. “Has Jim gone to the village on business?” he inquired.