The doctor thought her upturned face very adorable, but restrained his feelings heroically, and contented himself with replying to the pathetic half of her smile. “You look as if you had been suffering,” he said gravely, “and I never saw you look so before. You seem as if you had experienced some great shock. Do you know,” he went on, in a lower tone and with a half-embarrassed smile, “that when I saw you just now in the garden, you looked as I imagined you might have looked in the first days of your widowhood--when your husband's death was fresh in your heart.” A strange expression crossed her face. Her eyelids dropped instantly, and with both hands she caught up her frilled apron as if to meet them and covered her face. A little shudder seemed to pass over her shoulders, and then a cry that ended in an uncontrollable and half-hysterical laugh followed from the depths of that apron, until shaking her sides, and with her head still enveloped in its covering, she fairly ran into the inner room and closed the door behind her. Amazed, shocked, and at first indignant, Dr. Blair remained fixed to the spot. Then his indignation gave way to a burning mortification as he recalled his speech. He had made a frightful faux pas! He had been fool enough to try to recall the most sacred memories of that dead husband he was trying to succeed--and her quick woman's wit had detected his ridiculous stupidity. Her laugh was hysterical--but that was only natural in her mixed emotions. He mounted his horse in confusion and rode away. For a few days he avoided the house. But when he next saw her she had a charming smile of greeting and an air of entire obliviousness of his past blunder. She said she was better. She had taken his advice and was giving herself some relaxation from business. She had been riding again--oh, so far! Alone?--of course; she was always alone--else what would Laurel Spring say? “True,” said Blair smilingly; “besides, I forgot that you are quite able to take care of yourself in an emergency. And yet,” he added, admiringly looking at her lithe figure and indolent grace, “do you know I never can associate you with the dreadful scenes they say you have gone through.” “Then please don't!” she said quickly; “really, I'd rather you wouldn't. I'm sick and tired of hearing of it!” She was half laughing and yet half in earnest, with a slight color on her cheek. Blair was a little embarrassed. “Of course, I don't mean your heroism--like that story of the intruder and the scissors,” he stammered. “Oh, THAT'S the worst of all! It's too foolish--it's sickening!” she went on almost angrily. “I don't know who started that stuff.” She paused, and then added shyly, “I really am an awful coward and horribly nervous--as you know.”