If it had not been for her poor people, as she called them, Kate Layard’s life would have been utterly dull and idle. She had no household duties to see after; her aunt, who had taken the management of all such matters whilst she was still a little girl, would not brook any interference with her rule; and preferred to have Kate sitting in the drawing-room, idly busy over fancy work, or practising music to which no one listened, and painting water-colour sketches, at which no one looked. There were three boys younger than herself, but they were all away, either at school or college; and the long days passed by listlessly, for want of something to do that was really worth the doing. But for her father’s poor patients, and he had a good many of them, she would have felt her life to be quite lost. It was on a dull, dark day, near the end of November, with a thick yellow fog pressing close against the windows, which prevented her from going out, that she felt particularly disconsolate and weary. Aunt Brooks was busy about the house, making arrangements for a thorough cleaning down before Christmas; but she steadily refused Kate’s offers of help. Secretly Aunt Brooks was fearful of Dr. Layard finding out that Kate would make quite as good a housekeeper as herself; and she shrank from the idea of going into some little lonely house of her own, where she could have no more than one little maid to order about, and no scope at all for her own powers. She did not think of Kate having no scope for hers. If she had, it is quite possible that she would have laid down her command, and heroically withdrawn to leave Kate her proper post. ‘I wish, something would happen to me!’ sighed Kate, on that dull November morning. At the very moment a servant brought in a letter, just delivered by the postman. Kate was not quite sure of the handwriting; not quite sure. But all at once a vision of her father’s surgery flashed across her mind, with a frank, noble, pleasant-looking young man in her father’s place, giving advice and prescription, and good-tempered, cheery words to her poor people. It was Philip Carey, her father’s assistant, who had left them some months ago. It seemed to Kate that she had never been dull while he was there. Yes! the letter was from Philip Carey; it bore his name. A bright colour flushed up in Kate’s face. If there had been any one in the room, she would have carried it away to read it in solitude, although she did not yet know a single word in it. But she was quite alone, and no one could see the colour in her cheeks, or the ready tears that sprang into her eyes, and made the lines look dim.