t.

"She does not know of either, Doctor," I said. "Please do not mention
them to her."

He looked as surprised as a medical man ever does.

"I do not know the family," he said, preparing to get into his top
buggy. "Young Walker, down in Casanova, has been attending them. I
understand he is going to marry this young lady."

"You have been misinformed," I said stiffly. "Miss Armstrong is going
to marry my nephew."

The doctor smiled as he picked up the reins.

"Young ladies are changeable these days," he said. "We thought the
wedding was to occur soon. Well, I will stop in this afternoon to see
how my patient is getting along."

He drove away then, and I stood looking after him. He was a doctor of
the old school, of the class of family practitioner that is fast dying
out; a loyal and honorable gentleman who was at once physician and
confidential adviser to his patients. When I was a girl we called in
the doctor alike when we had measles, or when mother's sister died in
the far West. He cut out redundant tonsils and brought the babies with
the same air of inspiring self-confidence. Nowadays it requires a
different specialist for each of these occurrences. When the babies
cried, old Doctor Wainwright gave them peppermint and dropped warm
sweet oil in their ears with sublime faith that if it was not colic it
was earache. When, at the end of a year, father met him driving in his
high side-bar buggy with the white mare ambling along, and asked for a
bill, the doctor used to go home, estimate what his services were worth
for that period, divide it in half--I don't think he kept any
books--and send father a statement, in a cramped hand, on a sheet of
ruled white paper. He was an honored guest at all the weddings,
christenings, and funerals--yes, funerals--for every one knew he had
done his best, and there was no gainsaying the ways of Providence.

Ah, well, Doctor Wainwright is gone, and I am an elderly woman with an
increasing tendency to live in the past. The contrast between my old
doctor at home and the Casanova doctor, Frank Walker, always rouses me
to wrath and digression.

Some time about noon of that day, Wednesday, Mrs. Ogden Fitzhugh
telephoned me. I have the barest acquaintance with her--she managed to
be put on the governing board of the Old Ladies' Home and ruins their
digestions by sending them ice-cream and cake on every holiday. Beyond
that, and her reputation at bridge, which is insuf