“Certainly not; then shall we say Monday? Dolly will be rested by that time, and Tony talks of leaving me so soon.” “I 'll just, wi' your good leave--I 'll just wait till I see Dolly; for maybe she 'll no be ower-strong when she comes. There's nothing I can do for you in Derry, is there?” “Nothing, sir,--nothing that I think of at this moment,” said she, coldly; for the doctor's refusal of her second invitation had piqued her pride, and whether it was from his depression or some other cause, the doctor himself seemed less cordial than was his wont, and took his leave with more ceremony than usual. The old lady watched him till he was out of sight, sorely perplexed to divine whether he had really unburdened his conscience of all he had to say, or had yet something on his mind unrevealed. Her kindly nature, however, in the end, mastered all other thoughts; and as she sat down once more to her knitting, she muttered, “Poor man! it's a sore stroke of poverty when the sight of one's only child coming back to them brings the sense of distress and want with it.” The words were not well uttered when she saw Tony coming up the little pathway; he was striding along at his own strong pace, but his hat was drawn down over his brows, and be neither looked right nor left as he went. “Did you meet the doctor, Tony?” said she, as she opened the door for him. “No; how should I meet him? I've not been to the Burn Bide.” “But he has only left the house this minute,--you must have passed each other.” “I came down the cliff. I was taking a short cut,” said he, as he threw himself into a seat, evidently tired and weary. “He has been here to say that he's off for Derry to-night with the mail to meet Dolly.” “To meet Dolly!” “Yes, she's coming back; and the doctor cannot say why, for she's over that fever she had, and getting stronger every day; and yet she writes, 'You must come and fetch me from Derry, father, for I 'm coming home to you.' And the old man is sore distressed to make out whether she's ill again, or what's the meaning of it. And he thought, if he saw you, it was just possible you could tell him something.” “What could I tell him? Why should he imagine I could tell him?” said Tony, as a deep crimson flush covered his face. “Only how she was looking, Tony, and whether you thought she seemed happy where she was living, and if the folk looked kind to her.” “I thought she looked very sickly, and the people about her--the woman at least--not over-kind. I'm not very sure, too, that Dolly herself was n't of my mind, though she did n't say so. Poor girl!” “It's the poor old father I pity the most, Tony; he's not far off seventy, if he 's not over it; and sore work he finds it keeping body and soul together; and now he has the poor sick lassie come back to him, wanting many a little comfort, belike, that he can't afford her. Ah, dear! is n't there a deal of misery in this life?”