"Well, doctor, and where are you off to now?" The speaker was the doctor's wife. "I do think it's unreasonable of people," continued this good lady, "to send for you just when you are sitting down to your comfortable breakfast, and you so particular as you are about your coffee."  
"Who is it, Mary Anne? Who's the messenger from?" turning to the maid-servant, who stood in a waiting attitude half-in, half-out of the door.
 
"Oh, it's only the Bells. You needn't hurry off to the Bells, Tom."
 
"As well they as another," retorted Dr. Morris "Tell the messenger I'll be round directly, Mary Anne. Now, what's the matter, old lady? Why should you fidget yourself, and have such a spiteful tone when the Bells are mentioned?"
 
"Oh, I'm sick of them, and their airs and affectations," growled Mrs. Morris, who suddenly put on her thickest and most bronchial tones. "What with their afternoon tea, and their grand at-homes, and the ridiculous way they've been going on about that little Matty lately, I really lose all patience with them. What's the consequence of all this kind of thing? Mrs. Bell chokes up her small drawing-room so full of visitors who only come to laugh at her, that one can't breathe comfortably there without the window open, and a fine fresh bronchitis I've got in consequence. You feel me, doctor. I'm all shivering and burning, I'm going to be very ill, there isn't a doubt of it."
 
"Your pulse hasn't quickened," said the doctor, "it's as steady as my own."
 
"Oh, well, if you don't choose to believe in the sufferings of your wife, exhibited before your very eyes, go to your Bells, and comfort them."
 
"Now, Jessie, don't talk nonsense, old lady. You know I'm the first to believe you bad if you are. But what's this about Beatrice Meadowsweet? Is she really engaged to young Bertram?"
 
"It's the gossip, Tom. But maybe it isn't the case. I'll call to see Mrs. Meadowsweet this morning, and find out."
 
"I would if I were you. Beatrice is a fine girl, and mustn't throw herself away."
 
"Throw herself away! Why, it's a splendid match for her. A most aristocratic young man! One of the upper ten, and no mistake."
 
"That's all you women think about. Well, I'm off to the Bells now."
 
The doctor presently reached that rather humble little dwelling where the Bell family enjoyed domestic felicity.
 
He was ushered in by the maid, who wore an important and mysterious face. Mrs. Bell quickly joined him, and she looked more important and mysterious still.
 
"Matty isn't well," she said, sinking her voice to a stage whisper. "Matty has been badly treated; she has had a blight."
 
"Dear, dear!" said Doctor Morris.
 
He was a fat, comfortable-looking man, his hands in particular were very fat, and when he warred to show special sympathy he was fond of rubbing them.
 
"Dear, dear!" he repeated. "A blight! That's more a phrase to apply to the potato than to a blooming young girl."
 
"All the same, doctor, it's true. Matty has been blighted. She had set her young affections where they were craved and sought, and, so to speak, begged for. She gave them, not willingly, doctor, but after all the language that melting eyes, and more melting words, could employ. The word wasn't spoken, but all else was done. She gave her heart, doctor, not unasked, and now it's sent back to her, and she's blighted, that's the only word for it."
 
"I should think so," said the doctor, who was far too professional to smile. "A heart returned like that is always a little difficult to dispose of. Might I ask who—but perhaps you'd rather not tell me?"
 
"No, Doctor Morris, I'd rather tell you; I've sent for you to tell you, and it isn't so much that I blame him, poor young man, for it was all managed between his mother and Beatrice, all, from the very first, and it's my firm belief that he had neither part nor parcel in it. I did what I could, as in duty bound, to give him his chances, but those designers were too many for me."
 
"You don't mean," said the doctor—he really did not concern himself much about Northbury gossip, and no rumors of Matty's flirtations had reached him—"You don't mean Captain Bertram? Why, I have just heard he is engaged to Beatrice. You can't mean Captain Bertram? Impossible."
 
"I do mean Captain Bertram, doctor. No more and no less. And I'll thank you not again to mention the name of that siren, Beatrice, in my presence. Now if you'll come upstairs, I'll show you the poor blighted child."
 
Mrs. Bell had insisted on Matty's staying in bed. After the first awful shock of Mrs. Butler's news had subsided, she had made up her mind that the only rôle left to her daughter was that of the dying martyr. All the town should know that Beatrice had robbed her friend, and that this young and innocent friend was now at death's door.
 
Alice and Sophy were both in the room with their sister, and they were expatiating very loudly on what they considered "ma's cruelty."
 
"You know perfectly, Matty, that he never cared for you," remarked the candid Sophy. "It was all ma's folly from first to last."
 
"First to last," echoed Alice.
 
"And you're not really ill," pursued Sophy. "You slept very sound all last night."
 
"And snored," continued Alice.
 
"Only ma will make a fuss, one way or other," proceeded Sophy. "Now you're to be the forsaken one, and what ma would like would be for your funeral bell to toll the day Bee has her wedding chimes."
 
"And we all love Bee," said Alice.
 
"And we'd like to go to her wedding," said Sophy. "Wouldn't you, Matty? Say, now, if you were going to have a new white muslin for it?"
 
It was at this juncture that the doctor and Mrs. Bell entered the room.
 
For a blighted invalid Matty did not look pale, and the doctor, who quickly discovered that there was no broken heart in the case, ordered his régime with a certain dry sense of humor, anything but comforting to the poor little victim.
 
"Miss Matty requires rest," he said. "Absolute rest. And freedom from all undue excitement. I should recommend for the next few days, complete confinement to her bed with a simple diet; no tea nor coffee, nor any stimulants. Keep her quiet, Mrs. Bell, for while the illness lasts—I give it no name—under which she is laboring, she will have no desire, except to keep herself solitary."
 
"And you think that will effect a cure, doctor?" asked Mrs. Bell, whose eyes had forced up a little moisture. "The child is frail, oughtn't she to be nourished?"
 
"In the way I prescribed, my dear madam. Milk diet, without stimulants. I'll see you again in a couple of days, Miss Matty."
 
"And you say she's not to get up, doctor?"
 
"On no account, until I call again."
&nbs............