insistent iteration of an oratorio chorus, fantastic fragments--"If
Thou hadst been here!--If Thou hadst been here!" His fingers ached
towards the responsive strings, and pulling out his watch, he made a
hasty calculation. There should be good fifteen minutes, he
decided--toilet allowed for--and he hurried the coachman again and
leaned forward, looking with bright, eager eyes into the night, and
humming to himself.

One liveried servant opened the house door, another the carriage door,
and a third relieved him of his hat and coat. Out of the warmth and
brightness his wife advanced to meet him, a child in either hand,
their long curls brushed and tied with bright ribbons. Her face was
filled with tender solicitude.

"You must be worn out;--what a long day you have made! Would you like
the dinner sent in at once, or would you rather wait? Children, don't
hang so on papa; he must be dreadfully tired. Oh, and there's a man
been waiting over an hour; he simply _wouldn't go_; but you'll
let him come back to-morrow?--you won't try to see any one else
tonight?"

The Doctor hesitated a moment, letting all the warmth and brightness
sink into him, while his hands played with the soft hair of his little
son and daughter. He smiled at his wife, a bright, tired smile.

"Robin," he said, "run down to the carriage; there are some posies
there for mamma--from Miss Graham, Louise,--you see I did get a
moment's rest."

"Yes," said his wife. She continued to gaze compassionately at the