"Well, I declare, if it ain't Dr. John Cavendish
and Rex!" Martha exclaimed, raising both hands
in welcome as the horse stopped beside her. "Good-
mornin' to ye, Doctor John. I thought it was you,
but the sun blinded me, and I couldn't see. And
ye never saw a better nor a brighter mornin'. These
spring days is all blossoms, and they ought to be.
Where ye goin', anyway, that ye're in such a hurry?
Ain't nobody sick up to Cap'n Holt's, be there?"
she added, a shade of anxiety crossing her face.

"No, Martha; it's the dressmaker," answered the
doctor, tightening the reins on the restless sorrel as
he spoke. The voice was low and kindly and had a
ring of sincerity through it.

"What dressmaker?"

"Why, Miss Gossaway!" His hand was extended
now--that fine, delicately wrought, sympathetic hand
that had soothed so many aching heads.

"You've said it," laughed Martha, leaning over
the wheel so as to press his fingers in her warm
palm. "There ain't no doubt 'bout that skinny
fright being 'Miss,' and there ain't no doubt 'bout
her stayin' so. Ann Gossaway she is, and Ann Gossaway
she'll die. Is she took bad?" she continued, a
merry, questioning look lighting up her kindly face,
her lips pursed knowingly.