Dr Brewer came in upon the girls that same evening somewhat abruptly. He was a busy man, with little time to spare, and he thought his sudden arrival like a gale of wind was a good thing for them in the languor of their grief; but there was no languor about them as he found them. The table was covered with papers, dispatch boxes, and writing materials. Grace had turned out all the contents of her father’s boxes, and was gathering together and examining every scrap of written paper, while Milly, with a pen in her hand, obediently wrote down the description of each. One little pile of business papers had been put by itself; letters were lying open, innocent little account books, memoranda of all kinds. It was like a man’s mind turned inside out, with all its careless thoughts, and those futile recollections of no importance which stick fast in corners when all that is worth remembering fades away. The doctor was astonished by the sight, and alarmed as well. He knew that the scrutiny of a couple of innocent girls innocently spying thus into every recess of the thoughts, even of the most virtuous of men, might not be desirable. “Hallo!” he cried, “you are so very busy, I fear I am an intruder. Is this necessary, do you think? Would it not be better to take all these things home?” “Oh, doctor, you are our only friend--you can never be an intruder,” cried Grace. “Yes, we intended to take everything home; but something has happened since--something that makes every scrap important. We are obliged to do it. It is for the sake of the children!” “You are giving yourselves a great deal of pain, and you have had enough already,” he said, seating himself at the table between them. “My dear young ladies, you are sure I don’t want to interfere in your family affairs; but I feel responsible to your poor mother for you.” “What does it matter about us? Dr Brewer, we have made a great discovery to-day!” “I heard you were out,” he said. “I was very glad to hear that you had been out--a little change is what you want. A great discovery! Well, so long as it is a pleasant one----” “I don’t know whether it is a pleasant one or not.” “You shall have my opinion if you will trust me with this important secret,” said the doctor, smiling. He was a man with daughters of his own. He knew the exaggerations, the excitements of youth; and he was very tender of these fatherless children. His friendly countenance, the very breadth and size of the man was a support to them, as they sat slim and slight on either side of him. But when he said this, they looked at each other with that look of consultation which had amused him so often. The doctor thought it was an unnecessary formula on the part of Grace, who always had her own way; but he liked her the better for thus consulting the silent member of their co-partnership before she spoke. To his surprise, however, that silent member returned a glance of meaning--a sort of unspoken veto upon the intended disclosure.