Lloyd Pryor stood dumfounded; in his astonishment he almost laughed.
But at that instant he heard the crunch of wheels drawing up at the
gate. "The stage!" he said to himself, and called out, angrily,
"Helena!"

But it was not the stage; it was William King's shabby old buggy
standing in the shadow of the big locust by the roadside; and there
was the doctor himself coming up the path.

Lloyd Pryor swore under his breath.

The front door was open to the hot June afternoon, and unannounced the
doctor walked into the hall. As he took off his hat, he glanced into
the parlor, and for a second of consternation stood staring with angry
eyes. Then he nodded stiffly. "I will be obliged if you will let Mrs.
Richie know I am here."

"She is with that boy," said Lloyd Pryor. He made no motion of
civility; he stood where Helena had left him, his hands still in his
pockets. "Will you be so good as to tell her to come down here to me?
The stage is due, and I must see her before I go."

William King, red and stolid, nodded again, and went up-stairs without
another look into the parlor.

While he waited Lloyd Pryor's anger slowly rose. The presence of the
doctor froze the tenderness that, for an idle moment, her face and
voice and touch had awakened. The annoyance, the embarrassment, the
danger of that call, returned in a gust of remembrance. When she came