white cloth and polished silver,
the mail arrived and two letters were laid at their respective plates,
one for the doctor and the other for his mother.

As Doctor John glanced at the handwriting his face flushed, and his
eyes danced with pleasure. With eager, trembling fingers he broke the
seal and ran his eyes hungrily over the contents. It had been his habit
to turn to the bottom of the last page before he read the preceding
ones, so that he might see the signature and note the final words of
affection or friendship, such as "Ever your friend," or "Affectionately
yours," or simply "Your friend," written above Jane's name. These were
to him the thermometric readings of the warmth of her heart.

Half way down the first page--before he had time to turn the leaf--he
caught his breath in an effort to smother a sudden outburst of joy.
Then with a supreme effort he regained his self-control and read the
letter to the end. (He rarely mentioned Jane's name to his mother, and
he did not want his delight over the contents of the letter to be made
the basis of comment.)

Mrs. Cavendish's outburst over the contents of her own envelope broke
the silence and relieved his tension.

"Oh, how fortunate!" she exclaimed. "Listen, John; now I really have
good news for you. You remember I told you that I met old Dr. Pencoyd
the last time I was in Philadelphia, and had a long talk with him. I
told him how you were buried here and how hard you worked and how
anxious I was that you should leave Barnegat, and he promised to write
to me, and he has. Here's his letter. He says he is getting too old to
continue his practice alone, that his assistant has fallen ill, and
that if you will come to him at once he will take you into partnership
and give you half his practice. I always knew something good would come
out of my last visit to Philadelphia. Aren't you delighted, my son?"

"Yes, perfectly overjoyed," answered the doctor, laughing. He was more
than delighted--brimming over with happiness, in fact--but not over his
mother's news; it was the letter held tight in his grasp that was
sending electric thrills through him. "A fine old fellow is Dr.
Pencoyd--known him for years," he continued; "I attended his lectures
before I went abroad. Lives in a musty old house on Chestnut Street,
stuffed full of family portraits and old mahogany furniture, and not a
comfortable chair or sofa in the place; wears yellow Nankeen
waist-coats, takes snuff, and