The Doctor was an old bachelor, famed for his rudeness as much as for his skill. Mr. Rayner did not like him, I knew; and on that account I had had at first some doubts about sending for him; but, as he was well known to be by far the best doctor in Beaconsburgh, I had resolved to risk it. Now I began to repent having done so. “Is that young Reade? Is that you, Laurence?” said the Doctor, peering out of the carriage-window into the deep shadow of the trees behind me. Laurence came forward. “Yes, Doctor Lowe.” “Oh, ah! Come to inquire about the sick child, I suppose?” “No, Doctor Lowe. I drove back from Beaconsburgh with my father and this lady, after calling upon you, and I am saying good-by to her, as I am going abroad and shall not see her again until a few days before she becomes my wife,” said he, in a low voice, but very proudly, with his hand on my shoulder. “Wife, eh?”--incredulously. “But it is a secret.” “Oh, ah, of course!”--knowingly. “So this is the Miss Christie I’ve heard so much about!” And he deliberately put on his spectacles and stared at me in the faint moonlight. “Well, she wouldn’t have turned the heads of the men when I was young.” We both laughed at the old man’s rudeness. “I have no doubt heads were harder to turn then, Doctor Lowe,” said Laurence dryly. “Well, take care some one else doesn’t turn hers while you are away!” said the Doctor, glaring at him ferociously; and he told the coachman to drive on, and drew up the window sharply. This last hit struck poor Laurence as an evil omen; and, when I told him that I must go in now, and that I should see him again on the morrow, he flung his arms around me in such distress that I did not know what to say to comfort him. “See what clever Doctor Lowe thinks of your Mr. Rayner, Violet,” said he, looking anxiously into my eyes. “Now listen, my darling. Don’t trust him, don’t trust anybody while I am away, and don’t believe what anybody may tell you about me. What would you do if they showed you the certificate of my marriage to another woman, Violet?” “Oh, Laurence, you are not going away to be married, are you?” “No, child, no; and, if any one tells you so, you will know it is a lie. And, if you get no letters, and they tell you I am dead--” “Oh, Laurence, don’t!” “Why, that will be a lie too! I shall be alive and single all the next six weeks, and at the end of that time I shall come back and marry you; and, if you want me, I shall come back before, my own darling! Good-by, good-by!”