A chill November day was drawing near its close. With the evening dusk snowflakes filled the air, and began to whiten the swells and slopes of the Arling farm, and lay the foundation of future drifts beside the doorstep and under the eaves of the Arling homestead. This structure had begun life as a log cabin, but had grown, by the simple and natural process of adding on a room or a wing, as fast as it was required and could be afforded, into a large, and somewhat picturesque, cluster of roofs and gables; beneath which there might easily be not only room for the fullest, heartiest flow of domestic and social life, but also means and influences to a considerable degree of refinement and culture.

Toward it, a stout, broad-shouldered personage was making his way, through the dusk and the snow, with a cheery face and an energetic tread, that plainly minded neither. Tramp, tramp, went the brisk footfalls up the gravel walk, the bright brass knocker was made to send a note of warning through the house, and the wayfarer admitted himself into a lighted hall, through which he strode to the open door of the sitting-room at the farther end.

A pleasant family picture was before him. Bergan Arling, on one side of the crimson-covered centre-table, looked up, smiling, from the book out of which he had been reading aloud. Two of his sisters sat near him, busy with crotchet needles and bright worsteds. Still another was drawing at a side-table; and over her, giving her the benefit of his criticism, leaned her brother Hubert, scarce two years younger than Bergan, and so strikingly like him, that one was often taken for the other, outside the family circle. At one side of the fire-place sat the master of the house, a tall, noble-looking man, with eye undimmed and hair unfrosted by the snows of over sixty years. Opposite him was the home\'s true light and centre, the house-mother. She reclined in a large, low easy chair, the paleness on her face half concealed by the glow of the blazing fire, and her eyes shining with that tender joy and peace which convalescents sometimes bring back from the edge of the grave,—a reflection, perhaps, from the paradise that was already opening before the gaze of the half-freed spirit.

Doctor Trubie paused for a moment in the doorway, to master the details of the scene. He has changed but little since he was introduced to the reader, fourteen years ago, in his medical Alma Mater. His figure has gained in breadth and strength, and his features in character, but it is the same frank, genial face, and the same good-humored smile. No one that knew him then, could fail to recognize him now.

In a moment, he caught sight of Mrs. Arling, and hastened toward her with outstretched hand. "I don\'t know whether to congratulate or to scold you," he began, smiling, yet shaking his head with mild disapproval.

Hubert Arling came forward to Bergan\'s side. "I can settle the question for you," said he. "Congratulate her, and scold us. We brought her down, chair and all; she did not touch foot to the floor in the transit."

"Then I will save my scolding until it is needed. It seems little less than miraculous to see you here," he went on, turning to Mrs. Arling, "when I think how things seemed to be going, a few weeks ago. It has been a hard pull, and a long one."

"And a strong one, and a pull altogether," added Hubert Arling, merrily, by way of arresting the tears that he saw starting into his sisters\' eyes.

"The strong pull," remarked Doctor Trubie, "came from my medical brother, down South."

"You underrate yourself," replied Mr. Arling. "Of what avail would Doctor Remy\'s suggestions have been, without your indefatigable vigilance, and your professional skill and knowledge to carry them out?"

"That is to say," returned Doctor Trubie, "that a good commander-in-chief can do nothing without good generals. At all events, Doctor Remy is a wonderfully talented fellow. He seems to keep not only abreast of medical science, but in advance of it. That very suggestion of his, which proved most valuable to us, was mentioned in my last medical review, as the latest discovery at Paris. There is something about his bold, yet scientific mode of reasoning which reminds me strangely of an old fellow-student. But Doctor Remy, I hope, is a better fellow than he was. By the way," he added, turning to Bergan, "I came near forgetting that I have brought you a letter from him, as I judge from the handwriting."

Bergan tore open the letter, and with an apologetic bow to the company, began eagerly to read it. Doctor Trubie seated himself by the table, picked up the rejected envelope, and gave it a critical examination.

"That\'s what I call a good hand," said he, "a round, clear, energetic hand, that neither tries your eyesight, nor rouses your distrust. There is no crookedness nor meanness in it; yet there is plenty of character; one can see, at a glance, that the writer is bold and sagacious as well as profound, a man of action as well as a man of science."

Bergan had finished the letter, which was short; and he now looked up with a much amused face. "I ought to tell you," said he, "that Doctor Remy possesses the rare accomplishment of being able to write with either hand; he uses the right or the left, at pleasure. But the two handwritings are entirely distinct. That address was written with his left hand, and so, I remember, were the suggestions and prescriptions that I handed over to you. But this letter was written with his right hand; see what you can make of it," and Bergan pushed the open sheet across the table.

The change in Doctor Trubie\'s face was startling. "This!" he exclaimed, his voice trembling with excitement, "who did you say wrote this?"

"Doctor Remy, the same man who wrote that address."

Doctor Trubie glanced back at the letter, and his eyes lit with a strange, stern joy. "At last!" he muttered through his set teeth.

Mrs. Arling leaned forward, and her face grew pale. "What is it, doctor?" she asked, trembling. "What is the matter?"

Doctor Trubie glanced at her excited face, and saw what mischief he was doing. "Nothing," he hastened to answer, "nothing, only an old sore pressed on suddenly. This handwriting reminds me of one that—I never expected to see again."

He gave the letter a long, moody look, then refolded it, and handed it back to Bergan.
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