"Good-bye, Mac."

"Good-bye," Mac answered cheerily. "Aren't you glad you ever knew me?"

"Yes, Mac," he replied sincerely, for he felt that his meeting with Mac had been foreordained, that, child as he was, Mac had served his turn in knotting together some of the broken strands of his life.

As the train slowly jogged away across the moorland he felt a sharp regret while he watched the disappearing of the little grey village and the tall white lighthouse beyond. He had enjoyed his solitary month there; he had enjoyed Hope, and the sweet, womanly frankness with which she had taken him quite on his own personal merits. Incense was good; it was far better to be liked as Gifford Barrett than as the composer of the _Alan Breck Overture_, however, and he had a vague consciousness that he had never been more of a man than when he was walking and talking with quiet Hope Holden.

The train rounded the curve at Kidd's Treasure, and Mr. Barrett looked backward to catch one last glimpse of the sea. As he did so, he forgot Hope, and went back to the memory of his last hour on the beach.

Strolling along the sand, that noon, with his eyes fixed on the ground, he had caught sight of an approaching shadow and he looked up to see Phebe standing before him.

"Mr. Barrett," she said abruptly; "I'm sorry I called you a coward."

He rallied from his surprise and raised his cap.

"Oh, that's all right," he said lightly.

"No; it wasn't right. I don't want to abuse people to their faces and behind their backs, when they don't deserve it. That isn't my way."

"But you couldn't be expected to know."

"I ought to have known."

"How?"

Phebe's cheeks grew scarlet. In her contrition, she had walked straight into the trap which she had meant to avoid. She was silent.

"How could you know?" he urged. "I don't think I look in the least like an invalid."

There was another silence, a long one, while he stood looking down at her curiously. Then she raised her eyes with an effort.

"I was the girl that ran into you," she said bluntly.

The young man's face suddenly became somewhat less expressive than the skull which he had kept as a souvenir of the experience they were discussing. That at least expressed a cheery unconcern; his face expressed nothing.

"Oh, I-I-I'm sorry," he remarked blankly.

"So am I. I didn't mean to."

"Have you known it, all the time? Was that what made you so down on me?"

"I wasn't down on you. I didn't think much about you, either way," Phebe said, with unflattering directness.

"But did you know it?"

"Not till last night, when you told the story. Your beard changes you a good deal." She paused. Then she went on, "I didn't mean to let you know it; but I think it is better that I have, for now I can set you right on one point. I didn't go off to leave you. I did what I could, and then went for help. When I came back, you were gone."

"How came you there, anyway?"

"I live there."

"Oh! And the skull?"

"I don't want it."

"No; but where did you get it?"

"I bought it."

"Miss McAlister! Might I ask what for?"

"To study. I'm going to be a doctor."

"Oh, I wouldn't," he urged dispa.s.sionately. "You'll find it very messy."

"But I like it. I worked with my father, all the spring, and now I am going to Philadelphia to study there. Didn't you know I set your arm?"

"No." He looked at her, with frank admiration shining in his eyes. "Did you, honestly? Dr. Starr said it was a wonder that it hadn't slipped out of place any more."

"I'm glad if I did any good," she said with sudden humility. "I must go now, for it is past dinner time." She turned to go away. Then she came back again and held out her strong, ringless hand. "I'm so sorry," she said hurriedly; "sorry for all I have made you ache, and sorry for all the hateful things I have said to you."

"Don't think about that any more," he said heartily, as he took her hand. "Have you told your father, Miss McAlister?"

"Not yet."

"Please don't. There's no use in saying anything more about it, And now promise me that you will forget it,--as a favor to me, please." As he spoke, he looked steadily into Phebe's eyes, and her eyes drooped. For the first time in her life, Phebe McAlister had become self-conscious in the presence of a young man. He dropped her hand and raised his cap once more.

"Good-by, doctor," he said; and, turning, he walked away and left her alone.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

"Mel-chisedek!"

As who should say "What, ma'am?" Melchisedek lifted his snubby little nose and gazed inquiringly at Theodora. Then he went back to his a.s.saults on the corner of the rug. Melchisedek's mother had been a thrifty soul; in her young son's puppyhood, she had impressed upon him the fact that well-trained dogs should bury superfluous food supplies, to be held in reserve for the hour of need. Cicely had been too lavish, that morning, in her allowance. Melchisedek had eaten until his small legs stuck out stiffly from his distended little body, and now he was endeavoring to bury the remainder of his meal in the folds of the rug. The room was a large one, and it took a perceptible time for Theodora to reach the scene of action. Melchisedek's efforts increased in vigor as she came nearer, and, just as she stooped to catch him, he succeeded in folding the end of her ancient Persian rug above an overturned Chelsea saucer and a widening pool of oatmeal and cream. Then he retired under the table and smiled suavely up at her, while she removed the debris.

It was now two weeks since they had returned from Quantuck, and the year was at the fall of the leaf. The Savins was covered with a thick carpet of golden brown, and the birches and hickories were blazing with gold, while the corner house was set in a nest of crimson and yellow and scarlet maples. For the hour, earth was almost as radiant as the sun; but the quiet drop, drop, drop of the yellow leaves through the golden, hazy air told that the end was not far distant, that too soon the gold would give place to the grey and the brown.

This autumn season had brought a new break into the McAlister family circle. Phebe had gone away to Philadelphia, almost immediately after their return from the seash.o.r.e. If her interest in medical science were on the wane, at least she was too proud to confess the fact, and the doctor, with some misgivings, had consented to her departure.

"There's no especial reason Babe shouldn't make a good doctor," he said to his wife, the night after the matter was finally decided; "the trouble is, there seems to be no especial reason that she should. I can't discover that she's any more in love with that profession than with a dozen others. She simply took it up because it was the most obvious one, and because she was restless for some sort of an occupation."

"Wait and see," his wife counselled him. "For the present, she is contented with this choice, and she may as well try it for a year. By that time, she will be able to decide whether she wants to go on. One year of it, at her age, can't do any harm, and it may do her some good, if only to steady her down a little."

"Then you don't think she will carry it through?"

"No," she said honestly; "I don't. Babe hasn't the make-up for a professional woman in any line. She is too self-centred, too impetuous.