With the ease of much practice, Doctor James’s unroving eyes estimated the order and quality of the room’s furnishings. The appointments were rich and costly. The same glance had secured cognizance of the lady’s appearance. She was small and scarcely past twenty. Her face possessed the title to a winsome prettiness, now obscured by (you would say) rather a fixed melancholy than the more violent imprint of a sudden sorrow. Upon her forehead, above one eyebrow, was a livid bruise, suffered, the physician’s eye told him, within the past six hours.

Doctor James’s fingers went to the man’s wrist. His almost vocal eyes questioned the lady.

“I am Mrs. Chandler,” she responded, speaking with the plaintive Southern slur and intonation. “My husband was taken suddenly ill about ten minutes before you came. He has had attacks of heart trouble before—some of them were very bad.” His clothed state and the late hour seemed to prompt her to further explanation. “He had been out late; to—a supper, I believe.”

Doctor James now turned his attention to his patient. In whichever of his “professions” he happened to be engaged, he was wont to honour the “case” or the “job” with his whole interest.

The sick man appeared to be about thirty. His countenance bore a look of boldness and dissipation, but was not without a symmetry of feature and the fine lines drawn by a taste and indulgence in humour that gave the redeeming touch. There was an odour of spilled wine about his clothes.

The physician laid back his outer garments, and then, with a penknife, slit the shirt-front from collar to waist. The obstacles cleared, he laid his ear to the heart and listened intently.

“Mitral regurgitation?” he said softly, when he rose. The words ended with the rising inflection of uncertainty. Again he listened long; and this time he said, “Mitral insufficiency,” with the accent of an assured diagnosis.

“Madam,” he began, in the reassuring tones that had so often allayed anxiety, “there is a probability—” As he slowly turned his head to face the lady, he saw her fall, white and swooning, into the arms of the old negress.

“Po’ lamb! po’ lamb! Has dey done killed Aunt Cindy’s own blessed child? May de Lawd ’story wid His wrath dem what stole her away; what break dat angel heart; what left—”

“Lift her feet,” said Doctor James, assisting to support the drooping form. “Where is her room? She must be put to bed.”

“In here, suh.” The woman nodded her kerchiefed head towards a door. “Dat’s Miss Amy’s room.”

They carried her in there, and laid her on the bed. Her pulse was faint, but regular. She passed from the swoon, without recovering consciousness, into a profound slumber.

“She is quite exhausted,” said the physician. “Sleep is a good remedy. When she wakes, give her a toddy—with an egg in it, if she can take it. How did she get that bruise upon her forehead?”

“She done got a lick there, suh. De po’ lamb fell—No, suh”—the old woman’s racial mutability swept her into a sudden flare of indignation—“old Cindy ain’t gwineter lie for dat debble. He done it, suh. May de Lawd wither de hand what—dar now! Cindy promise her sweet lamb she ain’t gwine tell. Miss Amy got hurt, suh, on de head.”

Doctor James stepped to a stand where a handsome lamp burned, and turned the flame low.

“Stay here with your mistress,” he ordered, “and keep quiet so she will sleep. If she wakes, give her the toddy. If she grows any weaker, let me know. There is something strange about it.”