"The butcher's wife, my dear mother, a most
delightful old person, who has brought up three
sons, and each one a credit to her."

Mrs. Cavendish let go her hold on the doctor's
sleeve and settled back in her chair.

"And you won't even write to Dr. Pencoyd?"
she asked in a disheartened way, as if she knew he
would refuse.

"Oh, with pleasure, and thank him most kindly,
but I couldn't leave Barnegat; not now. Not at
any time, so far as I can see."

"And I suppose when Jane Cobden comes home
in a year or so she will work with you in the hospital.
She wanted to turn nurse the last time I
talked to her." This special arrow in her maternal
quiver, poisoned with her jealousy, was always
ready.

"I hope so," he replied, with a smile that lighted
up his whole face; "only it will not be a year. Miss
Jane will be here on the next steamer."

Mrs. Cavendish put down her tea-cup and looked
at her son in astonishment. The doctor still kept
his eyes on her face.