"And I was just going to have mine here." I clapped a sudden hand to my pocket; the paper parcel was still luckily intact. "Suppose we were to consider it a picnic? I don't know what Mrs. Searle has put up for me, but I have a recollection that she baked apple-cake yesterday. It's too entirely gorgeous a day to eat indoors." "Oh, as for that----" she began. "As for that, you must admit that lunch indoors doesn't tempt you in the very least." "It doesn't," she said. "I came out here this morning because----" She stopped rather abruptly. I was looking about me for a likely spot in the shade, and when I had found it, at the base of two towering hickories, I pulled Mrs. Searle's parcel out from my pocket. The setter watched my proceedings with a keen interest, intent on the chance of the moment. "I'm convinced," she objected, "that you ought to go home and change your boots." "It's impertinent," I reminded her, untying the pink grocery string from the parcel, "to give medical advice to a doctor. Do you like Uneeda biscuits? Because they seem to have occupied an important place in my housekeeper's mind this morning." We sat down on the moss beneath the hickories, and I divided the single gigantic sandwich with my pocket-knife. Luckily Mrs. Searle had over-estimated my hunger. We ate healthily, with open-air appetites, and what was left over the setter finished at one watchful snap. "When does Doctor Lennox come home?" Mary asked presently. "He's due in another six weeks, unless he finds Europe too fascinating. Then I shall have to go back and grind, I suppose. It won't be an attractive prospect, after this holiday." "You have a practice in New York?" "Not yet. I've been _interne_ up to now. I expect it'll end in the East Side. A friend of mine has a settlement there, and I'd like to join him if I can. There's always plenty to do." "I know," she nodded. "I've seen something of it. Do you know a man named Herrick, there?" "Herrick!" I sat upright. "If you mean Jack Herrick, that's the friend I was speaking of. Then you----" "Then _you_," she corrected, "are the college chum he was always talking about. Why, I've known Jack Herrick ever since I used to play dolls!" "Three and a half years..." I said pensively. "The world's a small place." "You are rude, Doctor Haverill. It's a long enough time, anyway." She was looking at the branches overhead, and in her upturned face I caught fleetingly a likeness that had puzzled me more than once before. I knew now. On Herrick's mantelshelf, in his shabby comfortable room at the settlement, there had stood always a photograph in a silver frame. It was the portrait of a child of perhaps thirteen, in a gingham overall, and with her hair braided in two short tails down her back. Herrick had said once: "That's an old sweetheart of mine." Singularly enough, the recollection did not at this moment greatly please me. But I merely said: "You wore your hair in two pig-tails."