There was a call just then for Dr. Holbrook, and leaving his office in
charge of Tom, his chore boy, he went away, feeling slightly
uncomfortable whenever he thought of the girl to whom he felt that
justice had not been done.

"I half wish I had examined her myself," he said. "Of course she was
excited, and could not answer; beside, hanged if I don't believe it
was all humbug tormenting her with Greek and Latin. Yes; I'll question
her when I get back, and if she'll possibly pass, give her the
certificate. Poor child; how white she was, and what a queer look
there was in those great eyes, when she said: 'I shall not take it.'"

Never in his life before had Dr. Holbrook been as much interested in
any female who was not sick as he was in Madeline, and determining to
make his call on Mrs. Briggs as brief as possible, he alighted at her
gate, and knocked impatiently at her door. He found her pretty sick,
while both her children needed a prescription, and so long a time was
he detained that his heart misgave him on his homeward route, lest
Maddy should be gone, and with her the chance to remedy the wrong he
might have done her.

Maddy was gone, and the wheel ruts of the square-boxed wagon were
fresh before the door when he came back. Grandpa Markham had returned,
and Madeline, who recognized old Sorrel's step, had gathered her shawl
around her and gone sadly out to meet him. One look at her face was
sufficient.

"You failed, Maddy?" the old man said, fixing about her feet the warm
buffalo robe, for the night wind was blowing cool.