Perhaps she had at last begun to depend upon him--a dependence which, with a woman such as Jane, must, he felt sure, eventually end in love.
With these thoughts filling his mind, he settled deeper in his chair.
These were the times in which he loved to think of her--when, with pipe in mouth, he could sit alone by his fire and build castles in the coals, every rosy mountain-top aglow with the love he bore her; with no watchful mother's face trying to fathom his thoughts; only his faithful dog stretched at his feet.
Picking up his brierwood, lying on a pile of books on his desk, and within reach of his hand, he started to fill the bowl, when a scrap of paper covered with a scrawl written in pencil came into view.

He turned it to the light and sprang to his feet.
"Tod worse," he said to himself.

"I wonder how long this has been here." The dog was now beside him looking up into the doctor's eyes.

It was not the first time that he had seen his master's face grow suddenly serious as he had read the tell-tale slate or had opened some note awaiting his arrival.
Doctor John lowered the lamp, stepped noiselessly to the foot of the winding stairs that led to the sleeping rooms above--the dog close at his heels, watching his every movement--and called gently: "Mother! mother, dear!" He never left his office when she was at home and awake without telling her where he was going.
No one answered.
"She is asleep.

I will slip out without waking her.