pity to his friends and relatives. I can see him now, with yellow,
pasty face, drooping lids, and pin-point pupils, all huddled in a
chair, the wreck and ruin of a noble man.
One night it was in June, 89 there came a ring to my bell, about the
hour when a man gives his first yawn and glances at the clock. I sat up
in my chair, and my wife laid her needle-work down in her lap and made
a little face of disappointment.
A patient! said she. You ll have to go out.
I groaned, for I was newly come back from a weary day.
We heard the door open, a few hurried words, and then quick steps upon
the linoleum. Our own door flew open, and a lady, clad in some
dark-coloured stuff, with a black veil, entered the room.
You will excuse my calling so late, she began, and then, suddenly
losing her self-control, she ran forward, threw her arms about my
wife s neck, and sobbed upon her shoulder. Oh, I m in such trouble!
she cried; I do so want a little help.
Why, said my wife, pulling up her veil, it is Kate Whitney. How you
startled me, Kate! I had not an idea who you were when you came in.
I didn t know what to do, so I came straight to you. That was always
the way. Folk who were in grief came to my wife like birds to a
lighthouse.
It was very sweet of you to come. Now, you must have some wine and
water, and sit here comfortably and tell us all about it. Or should you
rather that I sent James off to bed?
Oh, no, no! I want the doctor s advice and help, too. It s about Isa.
He has not been home for two days. I am so frightened about him!
It was not the first time that she had spoken to us of her husband s
trouble, to me as a doctor, to my wife as an old friend and school
companion. We soothed and comforted her by such words as we could find.
Did she know where her husband was? Was it possible that we could bring
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