Julia herself shared the common feeling. What was outside of her own knowledge and experience was faithfully and enthusiastically delineated by her mother, to whom there was no person in existence, out of her own family, like Dr. Bilks. It would have been impossible for Julia, thoughtful, kind-hearted as she was, to be unmoved by the attentions bestowed upon her by the physician. He seemed to live for her recovery; to be studying all the time how he could cast a ray of sunlight across her path. In her chamber there was always something to remind her of his devotion--a rare bouquet, a cluster of grapes, a toy, a game, the newest book, the finest engraving. And all these things were only the machinery of the physician’s art; only devices to cheat Death of his intended victim; only offerings on the altar of Hygeia; so they were interpreted by those who blessed the doctor for the boon of that precious life. Julia came down into the drawing-room; she resumed her place in the family, and everything went on as before the shadow dropped down upon Pine Hill. Mary Kingman had been the chamber companion of the invalid: she could not be her drawing-room companion. She declined, not in so many words, but by her actions, to join the family group gathered once more in the brilliant apartment. She felt that she did not belong there. She had come to heal the sick; she had no part or lot in the joys of that reunited household; only in their sorrows. Her mission was done. “Julia, I must leave you to-day,” said she, on the morning of the day after that on which the invalid had spent an hour in the drawing-room. “Why must you leave me?” “I think you do not need me any longer.” “I shall always need you, Mary.” “I have been away a month now.” “But you are not needed at home. Your father is better.” “I feel that I ought not to stay any longer, unless you need me.” “I am not so selfish as to say that I absolutely need you, Mary. I don’t know what mother would have done without you. She was almost worn out. You have spent your days and nights over me when I could not help myself. I am sure I shall miss you very much if you go.” “You sleep well nights now, and I do not think I am really required.” “I should be very glad to have you stay.” “I know you would, Julia.” “Mary, why didn’t you come down into the drawing-room yesterday?” asked Julia. “Eugene inquired for you.” Mary’s pale face flushed a little, and she was embarrassed. Her look was the key to her conduct. “I could not,” she replied, with some hesitation, for she fully intended to avoid the topic to which Julia’s remark must inevitably lead. “Why not?” “It was hardly proper for me to do so.” “Why, Mary?” “You will not ask me, Julia, to say anything more about it,” pleaded Mary. “After all you have done for me,--after the sleepless nights you have spent at my bedside,--I think you ought to regard me as your friend, Mary.” “I do.”