Dr. Breen's Practice. William Dean Howells

and he tells a story better than any man I ever saw. There was one story of his”—

      “I have no sense of humor,” interrupted Grace impatiently. “Mr. Libby,” she broke out, “I 'm sorry that you've asked Mrs. Maynard to take a sail with you. The sea air”—she reddened with the shame of not being able to proceed without this wretched subterfuge—“won't do her any good.”

      “Then,” said the young man, “you must n't let her go.”

      “I don't choose to forbid her,” Grace began.

      “I beg your pardon,” he broke in. “I'll be back in a moment.”

      He turned, and ran to the edge of the cliff, over which he vanished, and he did not reappear till Mrs. Maynard had rejoined Grace on the piazza.

      “I hope you won't mind its being a little rough, Mrs. Maynard,” he said, breathing quickly. “Adams thinks we're going to have it pretty fresh before we get back.”

      “Indeed, I don't want to go, then!” cried Mrs. Maynard, in petulant disappointment, letting her wraps fall upon a chair.

      Mr. Libby looked at Grace, who haughtily rejected a part in the conspiracy. “I wish you to go, Louise,” she declared indignantly. “I will take the risk of all the harm that comes to you from the bad weather.” She picked up the shawls, and handed them to Mr. Libby, on whom her eyes blazed their contempt and wonder. It cost a great deal of persuasion and insistence now to make Mrs. Maynard go, and he left all this to Grace, not uttering a word till he gave Mrs. Maynard his hand to help her down the steps. Then he said, “Well, I wonder what Miss Breen does want.”

      “I 'm sure I don't know,” said the other. “At first she did n't want me to go, this morning, and now she makes me. I do hope it is n't going to be a storm.”

      “I don't believe it is. A little fresh, perhaps. I thought you might be seasick.”

      “Don't you remember? I'm never seasick! That's one of the worst signs.”

      “Oh, yes.”

      “If I could be thoroughly seasick once, it would be the best thing I could do.”

      “Is she capricious?” asked Mr. Libby.

      “Grace?” cried Mrs. Maynard, releasing her hand half-way down the steps, in order to enjoy her astonishment without limitation of any sort. “Grace capricious!”

      “Yes,” said Mr. Libby, “that's what I thought. Better take my hand again,” and he secured that of Mrs. Maynard, who continued her descent. “I suppose I don't understand her exactly. Perhaps she did n't like my not calling her Doctor. I did n't call her anything. I suppose she thought I was dodging it. I was. I should have had to call her Miss Breen, if I called her anything.”

      “She wouldn't have cared. She is n't a doctor for the name of it.”

      “I suppose you think it's a pity?” he asked.

      “What?”

      “Her being a doctor.”

      “I'll tell her you say so.”

      “No, don't. But don't you?”

      “Well, I would n't want to be one,” said Mrs. Mayward candidly.

      “I suppose it's all right, if she does it from a sense of duty, as you say,” he suggested.

      “Oh, yes, she's all right. And she's just as much of a girl as anybody; though she don't know it,” Mrs. Maynard added astutely. “Why would n't she come with us? Were you afraid to ask her?”

      “She said she was n't a good sailor. Perhaps she thought we were too young. She must be older than you.”

      “Yes, and you, too!” cried Mrs. Maynard, with good-natured derision.

      “She doesn't look old,” returned Mr. Libby.

      “She's twenty-eight. How old are you?”

      “I promised the census-taker not to tell till his report came out.”

      “What is the color of her hair?”

      “Brown.”

      “And her eyes?”

      “I don't know!”

      “You had better look out, Mr. Libby!” said Mrs. Maynard, putting her foot on the ground at last.

      They walked across the beach to where his dory lay, and Grace saw him pulling out to the sail boat before she went in from the piazza. Then she went to her mother's room. The elderly lady was keeping indoors, upon a theory that the dew was on, and that it was not wholesome to go out till it was off. She asked, according to her habit when she met her daughter alone, “Where is Mrs. Maynard?”

      “Why do you always ask that, mother?” retorted Grace, with her growing irritation in regard to her patient intensified by the recent interview. “I can't be with her the whole time.”

      “I wish you could,” said Mrs. Breen, with noncommittal suggestion.

      Grace could not keep herself from demanding, “Why?” as her mother expected, though she knew why too well.

      “Because she wouldn't be in mischief then,” returned Mrs. Breen.

      “She's in mischief now!” cried the girl vehemently; “and it's my fault! I did it. I sent her off to sail with that ridiculous Mr. Libby!”

      “Why?” asked Mrs. Breen, in her turn, with unbroken tranquillity.

      “Because I am a fool, and I couldn't help him lie out of his engagement with her.”

      “Did n't he want to go?”

      “I don't know. Yes. They both wanted me to go with them. Simpletons! And while she had gone up-stairs for her wraps I managed to make him understand that I did n't wish her to go, either; and he ran down to his boat, and came back with a story about its going to be rough, and looked at me perfectly delighted, as if I should be pleased. Of course, then, I made him take her.”

      “And is n't it going to be rough?” asked Mrs. Green.

      “Why, mother, the sea's like glass.”

      Mrs. Breen turned the subject. “You would have done better, Grace, to begin as you had planned. Your going to Fall River, and beginning practice there among those factory children, was the only thing that I ever entirely liked in your taking up medicine. There was sense in that. You had studied specially for it. You could have done good there.”

      “Oh, yes,” sighed the girl, “I know. But what was I to do, when she came to us, sick and poor? I couldn't turn my back on her, especially after always befriending her, as I used to, at school, and getting her to depend on me.”

      “I don't see how you ever liked her,” said Mrs. Breen.

      “I never did like her. I pitied her. I always thought her a poor, flimsy little thing. But that ought n't to make any difference, if she was in trouble.”

      “No,” Mrs. Breen conceded, and in compensation Grace admitted something more on her side: “She's worse than she used to be,—sillier. I don't suppose she has a wrong thought; but she's as light as foam.”

      “Oh, it is n't the wicked people who, do the harm,” said Mrs. Green.

      “I was sure that this air would be everything for her; and so it would, with any ordinary case. But a child would take better care of itself. I have to watch her every minute, like a child; and I never know what she will do next.”

      “Yes; it's a burden,” said Mrs. Breen, with a sympathy which she had not expressed before. “And you're a good girl, Grace,” she added in very unwonted recognition.

      The grateful tears stole into the daughter's eyes, but she kept a