At the sound of his voice Dora started, while there came into her face a rational expression, and as he continued to caress her, her lip quivered, her eyes filled with tears, and she said, pleadingly, as a child would beg forgiveness of an injured parent: “Dear John, don’t be angry, I could not help it. I tried to come to you last night when everybody was asleep and the clock was striking twelve. I tried to come, but I could not find the way for the light on the wall. I can’t, I can’t. The trunks are all packed too, and the people are coming. Tell them I can’t.” “Poor little girl, never mind. I know you can’t, and it don’t make one bit of difference, for I can wait, and I will tell the folks how sick my Dora is,” John said, kissing her softly. Then in an aside to Jessie, he added, “She thinks I’ll be disappointed because the wedding is deferred, and it troubles her. There’s the door-bell now. I must go down to explain,” and he hurried away to meet the guests, who were arriving rapidly, and who, as they turned their steps homeward, seemed more disappointed than the bridegroom himself. Blessed Squire John! He was wholly unselfish, and as in his handsome wedding-suit he stood bowing out his departing guests, he was not thinking of himself, but of Dora and how she might be served. “Margaret believed fully in homœopathy,” he said to the last lady, who asked what doctor he would call; “but Dr. West is sick, and what can I do?” “He might prescribe,” returned the lady, who was also one of Dr. West’s adherents. “You can tell him her symptoms, and he can order medicine.” “Thank you; I never thought of that. I’ll go at once,” John said; and bareheaded as he was, he crossed the street, and was soon knocking at Mrs. Markham’s door. “The doctor’s worse,” she said, in reply to his inquiry. “He seems terribly excited, and acts as if he was possessed.” “But I must see him,” Squire John continued. “Miss Freeman is very sick, and he must prescribe.” “Ain’t there no wedding after all? Wall, if that don’t beat me!” was Mrs. Markham’s response, as she carried to Dr. West the message which roused him from the hopeless, despairing mood into which he had fallen. He had insisted upon sitting up by the window, where he could watch the proceedings across the street, and as Robert did not return, while one after another the invited guests went up the walk into the house, he gave up all as lost, and sick with the crushing belief, went back to his bed, whispering sadly: “Dora is not for me. But God knows best!” He did not see the bridegroom coming to his door, but when the message was delivered it diffused new life at once.