To-morrow, if you ask her, she will come again.' 'I shall not wait to be asked,' I returned, answering the dumb, wistful look that greeted the doctor's words.

'Oh yes, I shall come again to-morrow, and we will have a little talk, and I will bring you some flowers, and if you care to hear me sing I have plenty of pretty songs.' And then I kissed her forehead, for I felt strongly drawn to the poor creature, as though she were a strange, suffering sister, and I thought that the kiss and the song and the flowers would be a threefold cord of sympathy for her to bind round her harassed soul through the long hours of the night.
Mr.Hamilton followed me silently out, and on the threshold we encountered Susan Locke.

She was a thin, subdued-looking woman, dressed in rusty black, with a careworn, depressed expression that changed into pleasure at the sight of Mr.Hamilton.
'Oh, doctor, this is good of you, surely,--and you so busy! It is one of Phoebe's bad days, when nothing pleases her and she will have naught to say to us, but groan and groan until one's heart is pretty nigh broken.
I was half hoping that you would look in on us and give her a bit of a word.' 'Miss Garston has done more than that,' replied Mr.Hamilton.

'I think you will find your sister a little cheered.

Give her something comfortable to eat and drink, and speak as cheerfully as you can.
Good-night, Miss Locke.' And then he motioned to me to precede him down the little garden.