was locked—just as a buggy containing two men drove into the yard.
"Too late!" he exclaimed in a tragic tone. I understood that something dreadful must have happened, but I did not care, since, as I fondly supposed, it did not concern me. I pushed out past Alexander Abraham—who was looking as guilty as if he had been caught burglarizing—and came face to face with the man who had sprung from the buggy. It was old Dr. Blair, from Carmody, and he was looking at me as if he had found me shoplifting.
"My dear Peter," he said gravely, "I am very sorry to see you here—very sorry indeed."
I admit that this exasperated me. Besides, no man on earth, not even my old family doctor, has any right to "My dear Peter" me!
"There is no loud call for sorrow, doctor," I said loftily. "If a woman, forty-eight years of age, a member of the Presbyterian church in good and regular standing, cannot call upon one of her Sunday School scholars without wrecking all the proprieties, how old must she be before she can?"
The doctor did not answer my question. Instead, he looked reproachfully at Alexander Abraham.
"Is this how you keep your word, Mr. Bennett?" he said. "I thought that you promised
