some think he is making a show to get into practice.”
“Is he clever—Mr. Carlton?”
“There are those here who’ll tell you he is cleverer than the two Greys put together; but, ma'am, I don’t forget the old saying, New brooms sweep clean. Mr. Carlton, being new in the place, and having a practice to make, naturally puts out his best skill to make it.”
The remark drew forth a laugh from Mrs. Crane. “But unless a doctor has the skill within him, he cannot put it out,” she said.
“Well, of course there’s something in that,” returned the Widow, reflectively. “Any ways, Mr. Carlton is getting into practice, and it’s said he is liked. There’s a family on the Rise where he attends constantly, and I’ve heard they think a great deal of him. It’s a Captain Chesney, an old gentleman, who has the gout perpetual. They came strangers to the place from a distance, and settled here; very proud, exclusive people, it’s said. There’s three Miss Chesneys; one of them beautiful: t’other’s older; and the little one, she’s but a child. Mr. Carlton attends there a great deal, for the old gentlemanGood heart alive! what’s the matter?”
Mrs. Gould might well cry out. The invalid—and an invalid she evidently was-had turned of a ghastly whiteness, and was sinking back motionless in her chair.
Mrs. Gould was timid by nature, nervous by habit. Very much frightened, she raised the lady’s head, but it fell back unconscious. In the excitement induced by the moment’s terror, she flew down the stairs, shrieking out in the empty house, burst out at her own back door, ran through the yard, and burst into the back door of the adjoining house. Two young women were in the kitchen; the one ironing, the other sitting by the fire and not doing anything.
“For the love of Heaven, come back with me, one of you!” called out the widow, in a tremor. “The new lady lodger I told you of this afternoon has gone and died right off in her chair.”
Without waiting for assent or response, she flew back again. The young woman at the fire started from her seat, alarm depicted on her countenance. The other calmly continued her ironing.
“Don’t be frightened, Judith,” said she. “You are not so well used to Dame Gould as I am. If a blackbeetle falls on the floor, she’ll cry out for aid. I used to think it was put on, but I have come at last to the belief that she can’t help it. You may as well go in, however, and see what it is.”
Judith hastened away. She was a sensible-looking young woman, pale, with black hair and eyes, and was dressed in new and good mourning. Mrs. Gould was already in her lodger’s sitting-room. She had torn a feather from the small feather-duster hanging by the mantelpiece, had scorched the end, and was holding it to the unhappy lady’s nose. Judith dashed the feather to the ground.
“Don’t be so stupid, Mrs. Gould! What good do you suppose that will do? Get some water.”
The water was procured, and Judith applied it to the face and hands, the widow looking timidly on. As the lady revived, Mrs. Gould burst into tears.
“It’s my feelings that overcomes me, Judith,” said she. “I can’t abear the sight of illness.”
“You need not have been alarmed,” the invalid faintly said, as soon as she could speak. “For the last few months, since my health has been delicate, I have been subject to these attacks of faintness; they come on at any moment. I ought to have warned you.”
When fully restored they left her to herself, Mrs. Gould carrying away the tea-things; having first of all unlocked the lady’s trunk by her desire, and brought to her from it a small writing-case.
“Don’t go away, Judith,” the widow implored, when they reached the kitchen. “She may have another of those fits, for what we can tell—you heard her say she was subject to them—and you know what a one I am to be left with illness. It would be a charity to stop with me; and you are a lady at large just now.”
“I’ll go and get my work, then, and tell Margaret. But where’s the sense of your calling it a fit, as if you were speaking of apoplexy?” added Judith.
“When the girl came back—though, indeed, she was not much of a girl, being past thirty—Mrs. Gould had lighted a candle, for it was growing dark, and was washing the tea-things. Judith sat down to her sewing, her thoughts intent upon the lady upstairs.
“Who is she, I wonder?” she said aloud.
“Some stranger. Mrs. Fitch sent her down to me—I told Margaret about it this afternoon when you were out. I say, isn’t she young?”
Judith nodded. “I wonder if she is married?”
“Married!” angrily retorted Mrs. Gould. “If the wedding-ring upon her finger had been a bear it would have bit you. Where were your eyes?”
“All wedding-rings have not been put on