or
the first time in her life, Phebe McAlister had become self-conscious
in the presence of a young man. He dropped her hand and raised his cap
once more.

"Good-by, doctor," he said; and, turning, he walked away and left
her alone.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

"Mel-chisedek!"

As who should say "What, ma'am?" Melchisedek lifted his snubby little
nose and gazed inquiringly at Theodora. Then he went back to his assaults
on the corner of the rug. Melchisedek's mother had been a thrifty soul;
in her young son's puppyhood, she had impressed upon him the fact that
well-trained dogs should bury superfluous food supplies, to be held in
reserve for the hour of need. Cicely had been too lavish, that morning,
in her allowance. Melchisedek had eaten until his small legs stuck out
stiffly from his distended little body, and now he was endeavoring to
bury the remainder of his meal in the folds of the rug. The room was a
large one, and it took a perceptible time for Theodora to reach the scene
of action. Melchisedek's efforts increased in vigor as she came nearer,
and, just as she stooped to catch him, he succeeded in folding the end
of her ancient Persian rug above an overturned Chelsea saucer and a
widening pool of oatmeal and cream. Then he retired under the table and
smiled suavely up at her, while she removed the debris.

It was now two weeks since they had returned from Quantuck, and the year
was at the fall of the leaf. The Savins was covered with a thick carpet
of golden brown, and the birches and hickories were blazing with gold,
while the corner house was set in a nest of crimson and yellow and
scarlet maples. For the hour, earth was almost as radiant as the sun; but
the quiet drop, drop, drop of the yellow leaves through the golden, hazy
air told that the end was not far distant, that too soon the gold would
give place to the grey and the brown.

This autumn season had brought a new break into the McAlister family
circle. Phebe had gone away to Philadelphia, almost immediately after
their return from the seashore. If her interest in medical science were
on the wane, at least she was too proud to confess the fact, and the
doctor, with some misgivings, had consented to her departure.

"There's no especial reason Babe shouldn't make a good doctor," he said
to his wife, the night after the matter was finally decided; "the
trouble is, there seems to be no especial reason that she should. I can't
discover that she's any m