as to life, and Miss Meeker was
hardly less settled in her convictions. Long before she had met Bliss,
in default of a real she had builded up in her mind an ideal man, which
at first, second, and even third sight Walter had seemed to her to
represent. But unfortunately there is a fourth sight, and the lover or
the _fiancee_ who can get beyond this is safe--comparatively safe, that
is, for everything in this world has its merits or its demerits,
comparatively speaking, and the comparison is more often than not made
from the point of view of what ought to be rather than of what really
is. Mrs. Upton was a realist--that is, she thought she was; and so was
Miss Meeker. Everybody looks at life from his or her own point of view,
and there must always be, consequently, two points of view, for there
will always be a male way and a female way of looking at things. Walter
was in love with his profession. Molly was in love with him as an
abstract thing. She knew nothing of him as a Washington fighting
measles; she was not aware whether he could combat tonsillitis as
successfully as Napoleon fought the Austrians or not, and it may be
added that she didn't care. He was merely a man in her estimation; a
thing in the abstract, and a most charming thing on the whole. He, on
the other hand, looked upon her not as a woman, but as a soul, and a
purified soul at that: an angel, indeed, without the incumbrance of
wings, was she, and with a rather more comprehensive knowledge of dress
than is attributed to most of angels. But two people cannot go on
forming an ideal of each other continuously without at some time
reaching a point of divergence, and Walter and Molly reached that point
within ten weeks. It happened that while calling upon her one evening
Walter received a professional summons which he admitted was all
nonsense--why should people call in doctors when it is "all nonsense"?

The call came while Walter was turning over the leaves at the piano as
Molly played.

"What is this?" he said, as he opened the note that was addressed to
him. "Humph! Mrs. Hubbard's boy is sick--"

"Must you go?" Molly asked.

"I suppose so," said Walter. "I saw him this afternoon, and there is not
the slightest thing the matter with him, but I must go."

"Why?" asked Molly. "Are you the kind of doctor they call in when
there's nothing the matter?"

She did not mean to be sarcastic, but she seemed to be, and Walter, of
course, like a properly sensiti