When the chaise stopped, Jerome went up to it, bobbed his head and scraped his foot.
A handsome, keenly scowling face looked out of the chaise at him.
Doctor Seth Prescott was over fifty, with a smooth-shaven face as finely cut as a woman's, with bright blue eyes under bushy brows, and a red scratch-wig.

Before years and snows and rough winds had darkened and seamed his face, he had been a delicately fair man.

"Has he come yet ?" he demanded, peremptorily.
Jerome bobbed and scraped again.

"No, sir." "You didn't see a sign of him in the woods ?" Jerome hesitated visibly.
The doctor's eyes shone more sharply.

"You didn't, eh ?" "No, sir," said Jerome.
"Does your mother know it ?" "Yes, sir." "How is she ?" "She fainted away, but she's better." The doctor got stiffly out of the chaise, took his medicine-chest, and went into the house.