He had not failed to learn, too, of her reported betrothal to Reginald Hamilton, and if it touched an aching chord in a wounded heart he made no sign; he bore it like a stoic. When he saw the handsome young millionaire he owned to himself that it was a suitable match for Eva. She would be happy at last, and as for him--well, had he not forgotten, or, at least, learned indifference? But after that he stayed away from places where he was likely to see her, and devoted himself with ardor to the hospital work. Not that he needed money, for he was a millionaire now, but he could not be a drone, like Reginald Hamilton, he told himself bitterly. He had been brought up to work and he liked it, having a passion for his profession. He wondered sometimes if Eva, in her fine-lady existence, waited on by obsequious servants, petted, adored, ever recalled the olden days when Patty and Lydia had made her a little drudge, at everybody’s beck and call. It was the little drudge he had loved, not the fine lady, lolling like a little queen on her carriage cushions in her rich attire, with her scornful dark eyes gazing languidly out upon the busy world. He said to himself bitterly that he did not envy Reginald Hamilton now. She had a cold heart, this Eva Somerville, who could put away her promised husband with such cruel words: “I can never forgive you!” He was always telling himself how little he cared, how entirely he despised her now. It never occurred to him to ask himself why, if he were so indifferent, he thought of her so much, and with such bitterness. So the weeks slipped away and brought December snow and the good sleighing that he never could resist. In a dashing little cutter, behind a fine pair of bays, he joined the gay throng in Central Park, getting not a little attention, so that the question became frequent: “Who is that very handsome and distinguished-looking young man? He must be a stranger in New York or we should know him.” Very few could answer the question--only one or two knew that he was a physician just graduated in Paris and temporarily filling a friend’s place at the famous hospital. Meanwhile, Doctor Ludington, exhilarated by the sport and the scene, and by no means unconscious of the admiring glances cast on him from lovely eyes, was enjoying his outing so well that a sudden uproar and confusion, blended with shouts of “Take care! Take care! A runaway!” produced an instant revulsion of feeling in his mind. To the day of his death he would never forget that scene of awful excitement as Reginald Hamilton’s exasperated team dashed wildly forward, spurning his control upon the reins, dragging the rocking sleigh behind them with a force that threatened to overturn it every instant.