an overwhelming shyness fell upon her.

"There isn't much to tell," she hesitated. "I don't know's anything'd
happened to me for years, till father had his ill-turn in the spring,
and we called you in. He don't seem to realize his sickness was
anything much. I've told the neighbors not to dwell on it when they're
with him. Phoebe won't; she's got some sense."

"Has she?" said the doctor, still eagerly. "I'm glad of that, for your
sake!" He rose to go, but stood a moment near the steps, dallying with
a reaching branch of jessamine; it seemed persuading him to stay. He
had always a cheery manner, but to-night it was brightened by a dash of
something warm and reckless. He had the air of one awaiting good news,
in confidence of its coming. Dorcas was alive to the rapt contagion,
and her own blood thrilled. She felt young.

"Well!" said he, "well, Miss Dorcas!" He took a step, and then turned
back. "Well, Miss Dorcas," he said again, with an embarrassed laugh,
"perhaps you'd like to gather in one more church-goer. If I have time
tomorrow, I'll drop in to your service, and then I'll come round here,
and tell your father I went."

Dorcas rose impulsively. She could have stretched out her hands to him,
in the warmth of her gratitude.

"Oh, if you would! Oh, how pleased he'd be!"

"All right!" Now he turned away with decision. "Thank you, Miss Dorcas,
for staying out. It's a beautiful evening. I never knew such a June.
Good-night!" He strode down the walk, and gave a quick word to his