"I shan't run any risk of missing Dr. Kincaid by going out; I needn't be afraid of that!" she added. Her voice had in it so much more of pathos than of testiness, that after the instant's dismay her companion felt acutely sorry for her. "A doctor's time is scarcely his own, is it?" she murmured, turning. Mrs. Kincaid did not reply immediately, and the delay seemed to Mary to accentuate the feebleness of her answer. "I mean," she said, "that it isn't as if he were able to leave the hospital whenever he liked. There may be cases----" "He used to be able to come often; why shouldn't he be able now?" "Yes----" faltered Mary. "I haven't asked him; it is a good reason that keeps him from me, of course. But it's hard, when you're living in the same town as your son, not to have him with you more than an hour in a month. I don't see much more of him than that, lately. The last time he came, he stayed twenty minutes. The time before, he said he was in a hurry before he said, 'How do you do?' He never put his hat down--you may have; noticed it?" "Yes, I noticed it," Mary admitted. "You know; oh, you do know!" she cried inwardly, with a sinking of the heart. "_Now_, what am I to do?" "Don't imagine I am blaming him," went on Mrs. Kincaid, "I am not blaming anybody; the reason may be very strong indeed. Only it seems rather unfair that I should have to suffer for it, considering that I don't hear what it is." "Then why not speak to Dr. Kincaid? If he understood that you felt his absence so keenly, you may be sure he'd try to come oftener. Why don't you tell him that you miss him?" "I shall never sue to my son for his visits," said the old lady with a touch of dignity, "nor shall I ask him why he stays away. That is quite his own affair. At my age we begin to see that our children have rights we mustn't intrude into--secrets that must be told to us freely, or not told at all. We begin to see it, only we are old to learn. There, my dear, don't let us talk about it; it's not a pleasant subject. I think we had better go and dress." Mary looked at her helplessly; there was a finality in her tone which precluded the possibility of any advance. It was more than ever manifest that the task of remonstrating with him devolved upon Mary herself, and she decided to write to him that afternoon. Shortly after dinner Mrs. Kincaid went into the garden, and, left to her own devices in the parlour, Mary drew her chair to the escritoire. She would write a few lines, she thought, however clumsy, and send them at once. Still, they were not easy lines to produce, and she nibbled her pen a good deal in the course of their composition; the self-consciousness that invaded some of the sentences was too glaring. When the note was finished at last, she slipped it into her pocket, and told Mrs. Kincaid she would like to go for a walk. "Oh, by all means; why not?" "I thought perhaps you might want me."