she recognized, with a catch of the breath, that she was afraid for
him. She had not time now to ask herself what it might mean; she only
realized the presence of the fact.

She turned instinctively in the direction of Doctor Cockburn's house.
Mrs. Cockburn was a plain little middle-aged woman with parted gray
hair and sweet, faded eyes. In the life of the place she was a
nonentity, and her tastes were homely and commonplace, but Virginia
liked her.

She proved to be at home, the Doctor still at his dispensary, which
was well. Virginia entered a small log room, passed through it
immediately to a larger papered room, and sat down in a musty red
arm-chair. The building was one of the old régime, which meant that
its floor was of wide and rather uneven painted boards, its ceiling
low, its windows small, and its general lines of an irregular and
sagging rule-of-thumb tendency. The white wall-paper evidently
concealed squared logs. The present inhabitants, being possessed at
once of rather homely tastes and limited facilities, had
over-furnished the place with an infinitude of little things--little
rugs, little tables, little knit doilies, little racks of photographs,
little china ornaments, little spidery what-nots, and shelves for
books.

Virginia seated herself, and went directly to the topic.

"Mrs. Cockburn," she said, "you have always been very good to me,
always, ever since I came here as a little girl. I have not always
appreciated it, I am afraid, but I am in great trouble, and I want
your help."