What woman,--I will go farther,--what human being could withstand
this? Miss Phoebe was a firm woman, but she was clay in the hands
of the young doctor,--the more so that he certainly did help her
rheumatism wonderfully.

More than this, their views ran together in other directions. Both
disapproved of matrimony, not in the abstract, but in the concrete
and personal view. They had long talks together on the subject,
after Miss Vesta had gone to bed, sitting in the quaint parlour,
which both considered the pleasantest room in the world. The young
doctor, tongs in hand (he was allowed to pick up the brands and to
poke the fire, a fire only less sacred than that of Miss Vesta's lamp),
would hold forth at length, to the great edification of Miss Phoebe,
as she sat by her little work-table knitting complacently.

"It's all right for most men," he would say. "It steadies them, and
does them good in a hundred ways. Oh, yes, I approve highly of
marriage, as I am sure you do, Miss Blyth; but not for a physician,
at least a young physician. A young physician must be able to give
his whole thought, his whole being, so to speak, to his profession.
There's too much of it for him to divide himself up. Why, take a
single specialty; take rheumatism. If I gave my lifetime, or twenty
lifetimes, to the study of that one malady, I should not begin to
learn the A B C of it."

"One learns a good deal when one has it!" said poor Miss Phoebe.

"Yes, of course, and I am speaking the simple truth when I say that
I wish I could have it for you, Miss Blyth. I should have--it would
be most instructive, most illuminating. Some day we shall have all