"Allan," Phyllis said, bending closer to him, all rosy and golden in her green hammock, "tell me about--Louise Frey--if you don't mind talking about her? Would it be bad for you, do you think?" Allan's eyes dwelt on his wife pleasurably. She was very real and near and lovable, and Louise Frey seemed far away and shadowy in his thoughts. He had loved her very dearly and passionately, that boisterous, handsome young Louise, but that gay boy-life she had belonged to seemed separated now from this pleasant rose-garden, with its golden-haired, wisely-sweet young chatelaine, by thousands of black years. The blackness came back when he remembered what lay behind it. "There's nothing much to tell, Phyllis," he said, frowning a little. "She was pretty and full of life. She had black hair and eyes and a good deal of color. We were more or less friends all our lives, for our country-places adjoined. She was eighteen when--it happened." "Eighteen," said Phyllis musingly. "She would have been just my age.... We won't talk about it, then, Allan ... Well, Viola?" The pretty Tuskegee chambermaid was holding out a tray with a card on it. "The doctor, ma'am," she said. "The doctor!" echoed Allan, half-vexed, half-laughing. "I _knew_ you had something up your sleeve, Phyllis! What on earth did you have him for?" Phyllis's face was a study of astonishment. "On my honor, I hadn't a notion he was even in existence," she protested. "He's not _my_ doctor!" "He must have 'just growed,' or else Lily-Anna's called him in," suggested Allan sunnily. "Bring him along, Viola." Viola produced him so promptly that nobody had time to remember the professional doctor's visits don't usually have cards, or thought to look at the card for enlightenment. So the surprise was complete when the doctor appeared. "Johnny Hewitt!" ejaculated Allan, throwing out both hands in greeting. "Of all people! Well, you old fraud, pretending to be a doctor! The last I heard about you, you were trying to prove that you weren't the man that tied a mule into old Sumerley's chair at college." "I never did prove it," responded Johnny Hewitt, shaking hands vigorously, "but the fellows said afterwards that I ought to apologize--to the mule. He was a perfectly good mule. But I'm a doctor all right. I live here in Wallraven. I wondered if it might be you by any chance, Allan, when I heard some Harringtons had bought here. But this is the first chance a promising young chickenpox epidemic has given me to find out." "It's what's left of me," said Allan, smiling ruefully. "And--Phyllis, this doctor-person turns out to be an old friend of mine. This is Mrs. Harrington, Johnny."