Rue was lying on her bed, propped up by pillows into a half-sitting posture. Her breath came raspingly and painfully, and she had the dingy pallor wherewith disease is wont to write itself on the African face.

"Is it death?" she asked, hoarsely, when the doctor had finished his examination. "Because, if it is, I should be glad to know in time to send for Master Bergan,—I mean, Mr. Arling."

Doctor Remy looked down upon the blind woman with a grave,—almost a frowning, face—which she could not see.

"So you are attached to Mr. Arling," said he.

"Certainly, sir," replied Rue, simply. "He is Miss Eleanor\'s son, you know."

If Doctor Remy did not know, he could easily understand. He was aware that the daughter of a Southern house remains "Miss Eleanor" (or whatever the Christian name might be) to the end of her days, with the dusky home population, although, in the meantime, she may have become a great-grandmother. Moreover, various scattered shreds of rumor came to his recollection, enough to afford a tolerably accurate explanation of the blind woman\'s reason for desiring to see Bergan Arling at her bedside. And though the matter would seem to be no concern of his, it is certain that he gave it a moment or two of profound study, ere he answered the question which Rue had addressed to him. Indeed, it was very much Doctor Remy\'s habit—as it is that of selfish natures in general—to consider all events mainly with reference to their bearing upon his own interests, and to hold them important or trivial, according to the degree of favorable or adverse influence which they would be likely to exert upon his fortunes.

The doctor\'s reflections were short and swift. To the bystanders, there seemed to be only the natural, deliberate pause of the careful physician, before deciding upon the case presented to him. Nor was Rue\'s patience greatly tried, ere his answer to her question was ready for her.

"Your case is not desperate, this time," said he, "though I can see that it is painful. Your cold, being unwisely left to run its own course, has resulted in inflammation of the throat, and, partially, of the lungs. But it is not beyond present relief, nor permanent cure, I think. At least, we shall soon see."

There was no question of Doctor Remy\'s professional skill. In Berganton, his scientific superiority had early been recognized by the community, and tacitly conceded by his medical brethren. Yet he could hardly be said to be popular, even with his patients. There was no affection mingled with the respect accorded to his talent. It was intuitively felt, if not clearly understood and expressed, that, though he brought every resource of science to the sick-chamber, he brought nothing else. He was as cold and pitiless as his own steel probe or lance. And there are times when a deep, human sympathy, on the part of the physician, is as real a medicament to the sufferer, as any set down in the pharmacopeia; in which fact many a genial quack finds his account. It had come, therefore, to be very much the Berganton habit to reserve Doctor Remy\'s skill for severe accidents, for consultations, for the awful conflict of life and death over wasted forms writhing with sharp pain, or locked in moveless stupor. But the thousand pettier ills of life, which asked for tender consideration almost as imperatively as for medicine, preferred to commit themselves to the fatherly kindness of good old Doctor Harris, or the warm-hearted enthusiasm of the last medical arrival,—Doctor Gerrish, whose scientific attainments had, as yet, to be taken for granted, but whose smile was a veritable cordial.

It was Doctor Remy\'s fate, therefore, to stand by many deathbeds,—where he comported himself much more like a baffled and beaten general than a sympathetic, sorrow-stricken friend. It was also his frequent privilege to see the life-forces rally and stand fast, under his generalship, to begin anew the fight that seemed wellnigh over, to win back, inch by inch, the ground that had been lost, and finally to stand a conqueror on the field. Even then, those most indebted to his skill were often chilled to see how little the cold triumph of his face had to do with their deep heart gladness. Nevertheless, this was the position wherein the doctor appeared at his best,—as now at Rue\'s bedside.

For some reason,—probably as a step to Major Bergan\'s favor,—he was putting forth all his skill. In one respect, he was always admirable: he never hesitated to put his professional hand to any business that might seem to belong more properly to the nurse. Rue\'s attendants were ignorant and awkward; if Doctor Remy had not helped to carry his orders into effect, progress would have been slow. As it was, the treatment was prompt and effective. In about an hour, the acute pains had ceased, respiration had become less difficult, and Rue having devoutly thanked the doctor, under God, for relief so speedy and so grateful, had turned on her side for a complete self-surrender to the delightful drowsiness that was stealing over her.

Coming out, Dr. Remy found Brick waiting for him, on the bench where he had left the Major.

"Is gramma goin\' to get well?" he asked, anxiously.

"Certainly,—in a few days," returned the doctor. "Where is your master?"

The negro pointed to the Major\'s cottage. "Ole massa is thar," he answered. "He tole me, when you\'s t\'rough, to ax you to come an\' see him."

The doctor turned in the direction indicated, but was plainly in no hurry to reach the goal. He walked very leisurely, stopping, now and then, to look round on the moonlit landscape. Not till he seemed to have settled some knotty point to his satisfaction, did he enter the cottage.

The Major was seated at the table, with his bottle and glass before him. He did not need to ask Doctor Remy how the case had gone; that had already been made known to him by the mouths of half-a-dozen eager messengers. He merely said, in a tone that was half a protest;—

"I never expected to be so much obliged to you, Doctor Remy. I should be sorry to lose my faithful old nurse. She is the last link between me and my early days. Is she out of danger?"

"For the present, yes. And in the morning, I will look in to see how she goes on,—that is, if you wish."

"I shall take it as a favor," returned the Major, in a tone that was almost courteous. "Sit down, before you go, and take a drink."

Doctor Remy quietly took a chair, but shook his head at the proffered glass. "No, thank you," said he. "We physicians need to keep our heads clear and our nerves steady; and brandy does not conduce to either."

"It never hurt mine," answered Major Bergan, rather surlily, as if he suspected a covert insinuation in the doctor\'s words.

"Perhaps not," replied Dr. Remy, indifferently. And, glancing out of the open window, he added, "A fine place you have here."

"The finest in the county," replied the Major, with frank pride. "That is, as far as soil and crops are concerned. The old Hall is out of repair, to be sure, but it can be restored to its former grandeur, whenever I see fit."

Dr. Remy gave his host a long, penetrating, comprehensive look. "I should advise you not to neglect the work too long," he observed, gravely, "if you have it much at heart."

Major Bergan set down the glass that was on its way to his lips, and looked wonderingly at his guest.

"Why?" he asked.

"Because a man of your age, with your habits, breaks down soon, when once he begins."

"My habits!" growled the Major, drawing his eyebrows into a heavy frown, "what do you mean, you insolent scamp?"

"I mean," replied Doctor Remy, composedly, "habits at once active, careless, and self-indulgent; such as riding or walking in the heat of the day, spending hours in the rice fields, rising early and sitting up late, eating ad libitum, and drinking ad infinitum."

The summary was too truthful, and the tone too professional, for the Major to retain his unreasonable anger. He merely asked,—"How do you know that I do these things?"

"By your looks."

"Pshaw!" exclaimed Major Bergan, with a scornful curl of the lip.

Doctor Remy smiled, with the calm unconcern of a man who knows his ground. "Your looks tell me more than that," said he.

"If they tell you anything but that I am well,—perfectly well,—they lie," answered the Major, bluntly.

"I am glad to hear it," replied Doctor Remy. "Doubtless, then, you sleep sound and soft."

"No, I don\'t," grumbled the Major, with unsuspecting frankness, "I sleep like a man tossed in a blanket."

"And probably you have pleasant dreams."

"On the contrary, a perfect Bedlam of furies and horrors."

"And I suppose that you never have headaches, or dizziness, or vagueness and loss of sight."

"I have them all," growled the Major, with an oath, "every miserable item of them. I had an attack, about a fortnight ago, that actually laid me up in bed for a day! I wonder what it all means!"

Doctor Remy forebore to signalize his victory by so much as a triumphant look. "It means," he answered, quietly, "that you will be none the worse for a little medicine in the house, as a provision for future attacks of the sort."

And opening his pocket medicine-case, Doctor Remy selected three or four small phials, and began to measure, mix, and fold up powders, with a dexterity that it pleased the Major to witness. He noticed, too, that the doctor\'s brow was deeply knit as he prosecuted his task, and that he held one of the phials suspended, for a moment, over the small square of paper, before discharging its contents. All this looked as if his case was getting due consideration, and the Major was proportion ably gratified.

Doctor Remy ended by pushing a dozen or more of ............