"It's what I have been expectin' ye to do all along, but I didn't care to suggest it to ye before, as yer professional pride might not welcome my interference. It's her poor, thin face an' her smile that kapes yer mind from the rale doctorin'. Ye just git a smart man from the city, an' it'll do ye both a power o' good," she said.

When he was gone Nancy went to the sick-chamber.

"Are ye able to stand good news?" she inquired.

Miss Sophia turned her face towards her, and smiled encouragingly.

"Surely, if it is really bright and hopeful," she replied, weakly.

"Ye may suppose I'm takin' liberties wi' yer privit concerns, but ye will learn to fergive me whin ye are well an' the spring is here again wi' its quiet sunshine, its flowers an' the gra.s.s growin' by the roadside wi' patterns worked in dandelions like a foine carpet."

"I love the spring!" Miss Piper exclaimed, with animation.

It had seemed a wonderful thing to the doctor, the power to rouse the suffering woman contained in the homely phrases of Nancy McVeigh.

"As if that was all to love," Nancy impatiently returned. "Did it ever come right home to yer heart that ye loved a man an' ye didn't recognize the feelin' fer a long time afterwards. Fer instance, one who is makin' piles o' money out o' the ills o' others?" she added, pausing in her dusting to gaze shrewdly at her friend.

"It's all a riddle to me," Miss Sophia answered, although her words betrayed a rising interest.

"Aye, a foine riddle, to be sure, an' one that has its answer in the face of Doctor Dodona."

Sophia Piper's pallid face suddenly changed color, and she frowned irritably. Nancy sat down on the foot of the bed and took the sick woman's hand in her own long, hardened fingers.

"Ye must get well soon, dearie; the doctor's fair beside himself thinkin' he might lose ye, an' he can scarce compose himself long enough to mix his own medicines. He's a lonely man; can't ye see it, child?"

"Do you think so?" Miss Sophia whispered, wonderingly.

"It's not a matter o' thinkin', it's the rale truth, so it is. What is that rhyme I hear the young ones say, 'Somethin' borrowed, somethin'

blue, somethin' old and somethin' new'? May I be somethin' old at yer weddin'?" Nancy asked, tenderly.

Miss Sophia drew the old woman's hand to her cheek and kissed it affectionately.

'Twas after the above conversation that Sophia Piper began to evince a determined desire to recover her health.

"Will the doctor be here this afternoon?" she asked.

"Ye couldn't kape him away. He's bringin' a friend wi' him, too,"

Nancy vouchsafed.

"Then you'll please tidy my hair, and have the curtains drawn back from the windows so that the sun can shine in the room," she ordered, sweetly.

"An' I'll put some fresh flowers on yer table," Nancy agreed.

The specialist came in the afternoon. He was a portly man, with iron-grey hair, clean-shaven face and a habit of emphasizing his remarks by beating time to them with his spectacles. He examined the patient thoroughly, whilst Dr. Dodona stood by deferentially, though impatiently, awaiting his opinion. Then they adjourned to another apartment, and the great man carefully diagnosed the case to his _confrere_. "She has been very ill," he admitted, summing up the loose ends of his notations, "but I see no necessity for a change in your remedies.

"Do you not see a recent improvement?" he asked, shortly.

Dr. Dodona shrugged his shoulders. "Since last night, yes."

"Continue as you have been doing. I will give you a few written suggestions as to diet and tonic," the specialist explained, and then he dropped his professional air and slapped his fellow-pract.i.tioner familiarly on the shoulder.

"You were afraid because you have lost your heart as well as your nerve. Is that a correct diagnosis?" he asked jovially.

"Evidently you have diagnosed symptoms in the wrong party," Dr. Dodona answered, drily.

"You had better settle it while I am here," advised the city medical man, who showed much apt.i.tude for other things than cases of perverse illness.

"By Jove, I will!" the doctor burst out, and in he went with a rash disregard of the noise he was making. He did not heed the warning "Sh-h!" of the widow McVeigh, so engrossed was he in his mission.

Sophia Piper's face lit up with a glad welcome, and she held her hands towards her lover in perfect understanding.

"Hivin bless them! In all me experience I have niver met with such a love-sick pair before. They're old enough to be more discreet," Nancy observed to the specialist, who chatted with her whilst the two were settling their future happiness.

"And you are a judge of human nature, too?" put in the learned man, admiringly.

"The older we git the wiser we grow, sometimes," was Nancy's retort.

CHAPTER VIII.

_A DESERTER FROM THE MONK ROAD._

Father Doyle had just stepped from the white heat of an August day on the Monk Road into the modest parlor of the widow McVeigh. He was growing very stout as his years advanced upon him, and trudging through the dust was warm exercise. But the sultriness without made the cool interior of the tavern (for such the people still called the old place, although Mrs. McVeigh no longer extended hospitality to the public) more appreciable. Wild pea vines clambered over the windows, and the ancient copings protruded outwards far enough to cast a shade, so that the breeze which entered was freshened and sweetened with a gentle aroma of many-colored blossoms.

Nancy McVeigh was unburdening a whole week's gossip whilst the priest helped himself generously to the jug of b.u.t.termilk which she had brought in from her churning.

"I have seen wonderful changes on the Monk Road in my time," he said, reflectively, in answer to Nancy's observations concerning the summer hotel on the Point, now filled to overflowing with people seeking health and pleasure in its picturesque surroundings.

"One would scarcely know the place. What with grand rigs full o'

chatterin' women and children a-drivin' past the door, and the whole Point a picture o' lawns an' pretty dresses," sighed Nancy. "But it does me heart good to see the brown on the cheeks o' the little 'uns after they've been here awhile."

"Doubtless you find some trade with them?" the priest surmised.

"Considerable; first in the mornin' it's someone askin' if I have fresh eggs, then it's milk or b.u.t.ter or home-made bread, and so it keeps agoin' all day long. I'm no needin' much o' their money, now that Corney sends me my allowance once a month as regular as the sun, but I've still quite a family to support, so I just charge 'em enough to make them appreciate what they're gettin'. I've got Mrs. Conors an'

old Donald still on me hands, an' Katie Duncan's at an age whin she wants a little spendin' fer ribbons and fancy things. So many foine people about just p.r.i.c.ks the envy o' the child, an' I wouldn't, fer the sake o' a dollar or two, have her ashamed o' her position. It's different from the old days, as ye say, Father Doyle."

"It is that, sure enough," he agreed.

"I'm thinkin' o' takin' a trip," she remarked, with an air of mystery.

"And where are you going?" he asked, in surprise.

"To Chicago," she vouchsafed, proudly.

"Is that not rather far for your old bones?" he inquired, with a merry twinkle.

"Ye're fergittin', Father Doyle, that I'm only as ould as I feel, an'