As the train drew up at the station platform, Dr. Price came forward from the white waiting-room, and stood expectantly by the door of the white coach. Miller¹, having left his car, came down the platform in time to intercept² Burns as he left the train, and to introduce him to Dr. Price.  
"My carriage is in waiting," said Dr. Price. "I should have liked to have you at my own house, but my wife is out of town. We have a good hotel, however, and you will doubtless find it more convenient."
 
"You are very kind, Dr. Price. Miller, won't you come up and dine with me?"
 
"Thank you, no," said Miller, "I am expected at home. My wife and child are waiting for me in the buggy yonder by the platform."
 
"Oh, very well; of course you must go; but don't forget our appointment. Let's see, Dr. Price, I can eat and get ready in half an hour—that will make it"—
 
"I have asked several of the local physicians to be present at eight o'clock," said Dr. Price. "The case can safely wait until then."
 
"Very well, Miller, be on hand at eight. I shall expect you without fail. Where shall he come, Dr. Price?"
 
"To the residence of Major Philip Carteret, on Vine Street."
 
"I have invited Dr. Miller to be present and assist in the operation," Dr. Burns continued, as they drove toward the hotel. "He was a favorite pupil of mine, and is a credit to the profession. I presume you saw his article in the Medical Gazette?"
 
"Yes, and I assisted him in the case," returned Dr. Price. "It was a colored lad, one of his patients, and he called me in to help him. He is a capable man, and very much liked by the white physicians."
 
Miller's wife and child were waiting for him in fluttering anticipation³.
He kissed them both as he climbed into the buggy.
"We came at four o'clock," said Mrs. Miller, a handsome young woman, who might be anywhere between twenty-five and thirty, and whose complexion⁴, in the twilight⁵, was not distinguishable from that of a white person, "but the train was late two hours, they said. We came back at six, and have been waiting ever since."
 
"Yes, papa," piped the child, a little boy of six or seven, who sat between them, "and I am very hungry."
 
Miller felt very much elated as he drove homeward through the twilight. By his side sat the two persons whom he loved best in all the world. His affairs were prosperous. Upon opening his office in the city, he had been received by the members of his own profession with a cordiality generally frank, and in no case much reserved. The colored population of the city was large, but in the main poor, and the white physicians were not unwilling⁶ to share this unprofitable practice with a colored doctor worthy⁷ of confidence. In the intervals⁸ of the work upon his hospital, he had built up a considerable practice among his own people; but except in the case of some poor unfortunate whose pride had been lost in poverty or sin, no white patient had ever called upon him for treatment. He knew very well the measure of his powers,—a liberal education had given him opportunity to compare himself with other men,—and was secretly conscious that in point of skill and knowledge he did not suffer by comparison with any other physician in the town. He liked to believe that the race antagonism⁹ which hampered¹⁰ his progress and that of his people was a mere¹¹ temporary thing, the outcome of former conditions, and bound to disappear in time, and that when a colored man should demonstrate to the community in which he lived that he possessed¹² character and power, that community would find a way in which to enlist¹³ his services for the public good.
 
He had already made himself useful, and had received many kind words and other marks of appreciation¹⁴. He was now offered a further confirmation¹⁵ of his theory: having recognized his skill, the white people were now ready to take advantage of it. Any lurking¹⁶ doubt he may have felt when first invited by Dr. Burns to participate in the operation, had been dispelled¹⁷ by Dr. Price's prompt acquiescence¹⁸.
 
On the way homeward Miller told his wife of this appointment. She was greatly interested; she was herself a mother, with an only child. Moreover, there was a stronger impulse than mere humanity to draw her toward the stricken mother. Janet had a tender heart, and could have loved this white sister, her sole living relative of whom she knew. All her life long she had yearned¹⁹ for a kind word, a nod, a smile, the least thing that imagination might have twisted into a recognition of the tie between them. But it had never come.
 
And yet Janet was not angry. She was of a forgiving temper; she could never bear malice²⁰. She was educated, had read many books, and appreciated to the full the social forces arrayed against any such recognition as she had dreamed of. Of the two barriers between them a man might have forgiven the one; a woman would not be likely to overlook either the bar sinister²¹ or the difference of race, even to the slight extent of a silent recognition. Blood is thicker than water, but, if it flow too far from conventional channels, may turn to gall²² and wormwood. Nevertheless, when the heart speaks, reason falls into the background, and Janet would have worshiped this sister, even afar off, had she received even the slightest encouragement. So strong was this weakness that she had been angry with herself for her lack of pride, or even of a decent self-respect. It was, she sometimes thought, the heritage of her mother's race, and she was ashamed of it as part of the taint²³ of slavery. She had never acknowledged, even to her husband, from whom she concealed²⁴ nothing else, her secret thoughts upon this lifelong sorrow. This silent grief was nature's penalty, or society's revenge, for whatever heritage of beauty or intellect or personal charm had come to her with her father's blood. For she had received no other inheritance. Her sister was rich by right of her birth; if Janet had been fortunate, her good fortune had not been due to any provision made for her by her white father.
 
She knew quite well how passionately²⁵, for many years, her proud sister had longed and prayed in vain for the child which had at length brought joy into her household, and she could feel, by sympathy, all the sickening suspense²⁶ with which the child's parents must await the result of this dangerous operation.
 
"O Will," she adjured²⁷ her husband anxiously, when he had told her of the engagement, "you must be very careful. Think of the child's poor mother! Think of our own dear child, and what it would mean to lose him!"