"Oh!" said North quietly; and then to himself: "I can't bear that girl!" Just as he spoke he saw Leo Salis enter the meadow gate after her walk, and soon after she came into the room, looking perfectly quiet and composed. "What does the London doctor say?" she asked, after shaking hands with North. "Don't ask, Leo," said the curate, with a groan. "Poor Mary!" said Leo, with a sigh, but she did not seem stirred. There were no tears in her eyes, and she might have been making inquiry about the health of some parishioner. So North thought. "I'll go up and sit with her now, Hartley," she said quickly, and turned to leave the room, when Horace North's eyes became fixed upon a white mark at the back of the young girl's sleeve--a mark which looked exactly as if her arm had been held by some one wearing a well pipe-clayed glove. The next moment the young girl, the dark sleeve, and the white mark had passed from Horace North's sight, and soon after from his mind. CHAPTER TEN. THE DOCTOR PRESCRIBES. "There, my dear, I shall give you up now," said North one day, about three months after the accident. "Ah! you look bad!" Mary was downstairs, lying back in an easy-chair, and she coloured slightly, and there was a faint gathering of wrinkles on her white forehead at his easy-going, paternal way. "Yes," said Mary. "Do advise him, doctor. He is far from well." "Yes; he's a bad colour," said North bluffly. "Hadn't you better suggest that I should be painted?" said the curate tartly. "Another bad sign," said North, with a good-tempered look at Mary. "He talks to his old friend in that way. Bile, Miss Salis--bile." "It's bother, not bile," cried the curate sharply. "I beg your pardon, old fellow." "Granted. But what's the matter?" "Everything. I'm troubled about the church matters. The squire is rector's churchwarden, and somehow we don't get on." "That's a wonder," said the doctor drily. "Then, I'm in trouble with the rector." "Why, what's he got to say for himself? He's nearly always in London, so as to be within reach of his club. It isn't time for him to come down and give us another of his sermons, is it?" "No. It isn't about that." "What then?" "Oh! nothing." "Come, out with it!" The curate glanced at Mary, who shook her head slightly, but he went on. "The fact is, old fellow, May takes upon himself to write me most unpleasant, insolent letters. He learns from some mischief-making body that Leo hunts, and I never hear the last of it." "Humph! Why not put a stop to it, and sell the mare?" The curate shook his head. "I don't like her," said the doctor. "She'll be getting your sister into some fresh scrape." "Don't talk like that, man. She has done mischief enough. What nonsense! Leo can do anything she likes with her now." "Glad to hear it; and now I want to do what I like with you." "So you do," said the curate good-humouredly.