The old man's back was towards the window, but the Doctor could hear that papers were rustling and crackling in his trembling hands, and could see that an old casket of very solid oak, bound with iron, stood on the table at his elbow. Thereupon he stealthily retraced his steps to the gate, shut it with a sharp snap, cleared his throat, and mounted the porch with slow, loud, deliberate steps. When he reached the open door, he knocked upon the jamb without looking into the room. There was a jerking, dragging sound for a moment, and then the old man's snarl was heard: “Who's there?” Dr. Deane entered, smiling, and redolent of sweet-marjoram. “Well, Friend Barton,” he said, “let's have a look at thee now!” Thereupon he took a chair, placed it in front of the old man, and sat down upon it, with his legs spread wide apart, and his ivory-headed cane (which he also used as a riding-whip) bolt upright between them. He was very careful not to seem to see that a short quilt, which the old man usually wore over his knees, now lay in a somewhat angular heap upon the table. “Better, I should say,--yes, decidedly better,” he remarked, nodding his head gravely. “I had nothing to do this afternoon,--the neighborhood is very healthy,--and thought I would ride down and see how thee's getting on. Only a friendly visit, thee knows.” The old man had laid one shaking arm and crooked hand upon the edge of the quilt, while with the other he grasped his hickory staff. His face had a strange, ashy color, through which the dark, corded veins on his temples showed with singular distinctness. But his eye was unusually bright and keen, and its cunning, suspicious expression did not escape the Doctor's notice. “A friendly visit--ay!” he growled--“not like Doctors' visits generally, eh? Better?--of course I'm better. It's no harm to tap one of a full-blooded breed. At our age, Doctor, a little blood goes a great way.” “No doubt, no doubt!” the Doctor assented. “Especially in thy case. I often speak of thy wonderful constitution.” “Neighborly, you say, Doctor--only neighborly?” asked the old man. The Doctor smiled, nodded, and seemed to exhale a more powerful herbaceous odor. “Mayhap, then, you'll take a bit of a dram?--a thimble-full won't come amiss. You know the shelf where it's kep'--reach to, and help yourself, and then help me to a drop.” Dr. Deane rose and took down the square black bottle and the diminutive wine-glass beside it. Half-filling the latter,--a thimble-full in verity,--he drank it in two or three delicate little sips, puckering his large under-lip to receive them. “It's right to have the best, Friend Barton,” he said, “there's more life in it!” as he filled the glass to the brim and held it to the slit in the old man's face. The latter eagerly drew off the top fulness, and then seized the glass in his shaky hand. “Can help myself,” he croaked--“don't need waitin' on; not so bad as that!”