A Romance of Billy-Goat Hill

								

on the hearth.
After that one dreary week followed another, with the same invasion
of strangers, the same varying reports from the sick room. Gradually,
however, the reports became more favorable, the tension eased, visitors
became less frequent, and Thornwood began to settle down to its normal
state.
Owing to the nature of Doctor Queerington's injury, and the severe shock
he had sustained, it was not thought best to move him to the city until
he was stronger. The quiet country house was an excellent place for
convalescence, and under the direction of his trained nurse he could be
allowed to read and write, free from the annoyance that must beset him
when once he returned home.
This arrangement was listlessly agreed to by Miss Lady, who had no plans
for the future, and dreaded another adjustment. She was singularly alone
in the world, and too dazed for the present to know what her next step
should be. The only thing of which she was certain, was that she would
never leave Thornwood.
On one of the first days that Doctor Queerington was allowed to sit up,
she went in to see him. Her first impression in the darkened room was
the kindly clasp of a hand, and a wonderful low voice that spoke words
of comfort. Then gradually she saw the slender, over-serious face of a
middle-aged man, with small eyes somewhat too close together, a broad
intellectual forehead, and a firm, well-formed mouth that seemed a
stranger to smiles.
From that time on she found his room a refuge. He had been the unknown
object of her admiration since she was a child, he was her father's
friend, the last to be with him before his death, and he talked to her
for hours about the great mysteries of life and death. He was the only
person to whom she talked who never seemed to be in doubt.
It was not the first time that the Doctor had proven a consoling
presence in time of affliction. Where others conjectured, or evaded,
he boldly affirmed. The universe to him was an open book, from which he
enjoyed reading aloud.
One morning, six weeks after the accident, Miss Lady came into his room
with a handful of flowers and found him propped up in bed, his books
about him, and a note in his hand.
“I have a communication from my cousin, Mrs. Sequin,” he said with the
polite formality that was habitual to him. “It seems that she is going
to honor me with a visit.”
“Mrs. Sequin?” Miss Lady wheeled so suddenly that she overturned the
vase in which she was arranging the flowers. “Now see what I've done!
I'll fix it, Miss Wuster; don't bother.”
It apparently required little self-control for the trained nurse to
refrain from bothering. She was sitting with her heels firmly hooked
under the rung of a straight-back chair, crocheting with passionate
abandon. Filling hot-water bottles, taking temperatures, feeding