"Oh, it's no trouble"--"But I'm glad--I'm glad we've had this
understanding. I'm very glad. It makes me think worse of myself and
better of--others."

Libby gave a laugh. "And you like that? You're easily pleased."

She remained grave. "I ought to be able to tell you what I mean. But it
is n't possible--now. Will you let me beg your pardon?" she urged, with
impulsive earnestness.

"Why, yes," he answered, smiling.

"And not ask me why?"

"Certainly."

"Thank you. Yes," she added hastily, "she is so much worse that some one
of greater experience than I must see her, and I have made up my mind.
Dr. Mulbridge may refuse to consult with me. I know very well that there
is a prejudice against women physicians, and I couldn't especially blame
him for sharing it. I have thought it all over. If he refuses, I shall
know what to do." She had ceased to address Libby, who respected her
soliloquy. He drove on rapidly over the soft road, where the wheels made
no sound, and the track wandered with apparent aimlessness through the
interminable woods of young oak and pine. The low trees were full of the
sunshine, and dappled them with shadow as they dashed along; the fresh,
green ferns springing from the brown carpet of the pine-needles were as if
painted against it. The breath of the pines was heavier for the recent
rain; and the woody smell of the oaks was pungent where the balsam