"How did you find Miss Lamar, doctor? Anything much the matter?" asked Dale, sauntering into his friend's office that evening, shortly after the return of the latter from his round of visits among his patients.

Kenneth sat at his table, spatula in hand, making pills, a slight cloud of care on his brow.

His reply was not a direct answer to the question.

"Sit down, Godfrey," he said. "I've been thinking of calling in your aid in the management of this case."

"Mine?" laughed Dale.

"Yes, as consulting physician."

"You are certainly jesting, yet you look as grave as a judge on the bench."

"I wish," Kenneth said, pausing for an instant in his work and looking earnestly at Dale, "that there was more young society here, more to amuse and interest a young girl like Miss Lamar. Can't you help me to think of something new?"

"Boating parties," suggested Dale.

"That will do for one thing. Now what else?"

"Get up a class in botany. I'll join it. You are quite an enthusiast in that line and know a great deal more on the subject than any one else about here."

"Thank you. I should enjoy it if others would. Anything more?"

"No, I should say I'd done my share of thinking, and you must finish up the job yourself, you who are to pocket the fee," returned Dale laughing. "Now I'm off, prescribing a night's rest for you, to be taken at once; for you are looking wretchedly worn out."

Very weary Kenneth certainly was, yet the friendly counsel was not taken. His work finished, he pushed his implements aside, and sat long with his folded arms upon the table, his head resting on them; not sleeping, for now and again a heavy sigh, or a few low breathed words of prayer came from his lips.

"Oh Lord, for them, for them, I beseech thee, in the midst of wrath remember mercy! Let them rest under the shadow of thy wing, till these calamities be overpast."

Both Dale's suggestions in the line of amusements were promptly carried out, and with excellent effect upon the patient. She was fond of plants and flowers, and Kenneth proved a capital teacher. Mrs. Lamar and several others, both married and single, joined the class and they had many a pleasant ramble over hill and valley in search of specimens.

The major provided a boat for the rowing parties and frequently made one of them himself, taking special care of his young sister.

When he was not present Kenneth took his place in this particular, but not at all in a lover-like way; his manner was fraternal, "sometimes almost paternal," Nell thought, with an emotion of anger and pique at "being treated so like a child."

"It is because I was so silly as to cry before him! He thinks me a mere baby," she said to herself now and again, in extreme vexation.

She was apt to be frank in the expression, or rather exhibition of her feelings, and Kenneth was at times not a little puzzled to understand in what he had offended. He never blamed her, however, but, attributing her displeasure to some fault or awkwardness in himself, redoubled his kindly attention, and his efforts to give pleasant and healthful occupation to her thoughts.

With this in view he would often take a book from his pocket, when he found himself alone with her, read aloud some passage that he particularly admired, and draw her into conversation about it.

Also he tried to interest her in his patients, occasionally taking her with him where he knew her visits would be welcome, and engaging her to prepare dainties to tempt the sickly appetites, and clothing for such as were poor enough to need assistance of that kind.

His only thought, so far as she was concerned, was to comfort and relieve, and it did not occur to him that there might be danger in the cure, for her as for himself.

Yet there was; for how could the girl gain such an insight into the noble generosity and unselfishness of his character, without learning to love him? It was not only his unvarying kindness towards herself, his patient forbearance even in her most petulant and unreasonable moods, but also his sympathy for, and gentleness toward, even the very poorest and most uninteresting and ungrateful of those who invoked his aid as a physician, his anxiety and untiring efforts to relieve suffering, and his unselfish joy when those efforts were successful.

Also his deep, humble, unassuming piety, and earnest desire to lead to the Great Physician, that there might be healing of soul as well as body.

Her admiration and respect grew day by day, until he seemed to her an example of all that was good and great and lovable. Dale, too, unwittingly helped on the mischief. He had some notion of courting pretty Nell himself, so did not care to interest her too much in Kenneth; but his thoughts were often full of the latter, the strange secret that seemed to darken his life; and remembering Kenneth's expressed desire to engage Nell's thoughts upon matters that would take them from herself and the unfortunate occurrence that had shaken her nerves, and calling to mind also that she had come from the same neighborhood with Kenneth and would be likely to know the family history of the Clendenins, he deemed it no harm to broach the subject one day when alone with her, and ask if she could guess what their friend's sorrow was.

"No," she said in surprise. "I never heard of anything that could cause him such grief. They are well-to-do people, living on a lovely place of their own; they are most highly respected too. I frequently heard them spoken of, always in the highest terms, and never heard of any trouble, except that Kenneth's twin brother was drowned ten or twelve years ago. But surely he could not be grieving so over that now!"

"No, it can't be that." Dale said musingly, "it is evidently a deeper sorrow than any such bereavement could bring, or at least a grief and burden of a different sort."

"Are you not mistaken? May it not be a mere fancy on your part?" queried Nell. "Dr. Clendenin has always struck me as a very cheerful person."

"He is not one to obtrude his griefs upon others," observed Dale in reply. "He forces himself to be cheerful when in general society, and seldom allows even me, his intimate friend, to perceive that he has a burden to bear; but I have reason to believe that he sometimes passes half the night pacing his office instead of taking the rest he needs after his day's toil."

From that, he went on to speak of Kenneth's late mysterious, lonely journey, and to describe the state in which he had returned.

Nell's heart was deeply touched. "How noble he is!" was her mental exclamation. "But Mr. Dale should not have told me, it seems almost like betraying his friend's confidence. I suppose he does not look upon it in that light, but I am quite sure Dr. Clendenin would never have done so by him."

"Of course," said Dale, breaking the momentary silence, "this is between ourselves. I have never mentioned these things to any one else, and never shall."

"Nor shall I, Mr. Dale," she answered.

She did not, but from that time she watched Kenneth more closely than ever before, and that with the growing conviction that Dale was right.

It became with her an absorbingly interesting subject of thought; her heart was more and more filled with pity for Kenneth's silent suffering, and pity is akin to love.

But what could be the cause of this strange, silent anguish? Was it unrequited love? She spurned the thought. What! he of all men to sue in vain? It could not be! What woman's heart could withstand such a siege?

She did not care for him in that way—oh no, not she; but that was quite another thing, he had not sought her, and she was not one to give her heart unasked.

The town was growing, the country rapidly filling up with settlers, mostly of the better class, refined, intelligent, educated and pious people.

Also many gentlemen from the older states, principally Virginia and Kentucky, came to look at land with a view to purchasing, and these always sought out Major Lamar and were hospitably entertained by him.

Thus Nell saw a great deal of society. She enjoyed it too, was a general favorite, and formed some pleasant friendships with these guests of the family; but half unconsciously she made Dr. Clendenin her standard of manly perfection, and found all others short of it.

While, however, in some of these visitors possible lovers might have been found, many were men in middle life, old companions in arms of the major. And these were not the least welcome to Nell, for she loved to sit and listen to them and her brother as they fought their battles over again around the fire in the cool spring or autumn evenings; or on the green sward before the door in the warm summer nights.

Few of them came in winter, and at that season boating, botanizing and long rambles into the country had of course to be given up, yet that less favored time was not without its quiet pleasures.

There was much spinning, weaving, sewing and knitting going on, the ladies often carried their work to a neighbor's house and spent a sociable afternoon together, winding up with an early tea. There were also social gatherings about the fire in the evenings, enlivened by cheerful chat, the cracking of nuts, several varieties of which were found in great abundance in the woods around the village, and scraping turnip, these last being used as a substitute for apples, until time had been given for their cultivation.

Thus had the summer passed, the autumn too, and midwinter had come, finding Nell fully recovered from the effects of her fright, her fears dispelled, her nerves as steady as ever they had been.

It was the second winter since her arrival in Chillicothe, and she had become really attached to the place and its cheerful social life, so free from formality and restraint.

Calling at the major's one evening, Kenneth found her alone in the sitting-room, quietly knitting and thinking beside the fire.

The wide chimney was heaped high with hickory logs, and the dancing, flickering flames filled the whole room with a cheerful, ruddy light.

Nell's back was toward the door and she did not perceive his entrance, till he spoke close at her side, his pleasant "Good evening, I hope I do not intrude?" rousing her from her reverie.

"Oh no, doctor, you are always welcome in this house," she said, rising to give him her hand, and inviting him to be seated.

"I knocked," he said apologetically, "but no one seemed to hear, so I ventured to admit myself."

"Quite right," she answered, "though I do not understand how I happened to miss hearing your rap."

"Preoccupation," he remarked with a half absent smile, gazing thoughtfully into the fire as he spoke. "You are all quite well?"

"Quite, thank you. My brother and sister are out spending the evening; and the children are in bed."

He did not speak again for several minutes, but sat watching the flames as they leaped hither and thither, but evidently with thoughts far away; and Nell, furtively studying his countenance, read there the silent suffering Dale had spoken of.

Her woman's heart longed to speak a word of sympathy and comfort; but how should she when she knew not what his sorrow was?

"I am glad," he said at length, "to hear that you are all well. I am going away, and could not feel satisfied to do so without learning that my services were not needed here."

"Going away?" she echoed. "We had not heard of it."

"No; it is scarcely an hour since I knew it myself."

"Where? how long?" she asked impetuously, with changed countenance; then blushing to think she had betrayed so much curiosity and interest—"Excuse me, but Percy and Clare will be anxious to know; some of us may be taken sick."

"Yes; but we will hope not," he said, in the same calm, even tone he had used all along, his gaze still fixed upon the fire. "I go out into the wilderness, Miss Nell, and the time of my return is uncertain."

"Now! in this most inclement season of the year?" she exclaimed. "Isn't it running a great risk? would it not be wiser to put off your journey till spring opens?"

"I think not," he answered slowly; "life is uncertain, and what my hand finds to do must be done with my might."

"But if you lose your life?"

"It will be in the path of duty; and there are some things worth even that risk, Miss Nell."

He turned his head, and his eyes looked full into hers.

"They must be of very great importance," she answered, returning his look with one as calm and quiet as his own, though her pulses quickened at the thought that he was perhaps about to appeal to her for sympathy in his mysterious sorrow. But he did not.

"Do you not agree in my opinion?" he asked.

"Yes; if I had been in Percy's place when the war broke out, I would have done just as he did—periled my life and all I had for my country," she said with kindling eyes.

He smiled approval, then rising, "Good-by, Miss Nell," he said, taking her hand in his, "I must away."

"What! to-night? and do you go alone?"

"I start to-night, Wawillaway is to be my guide a part of the way," he said; "after that my horse and gun will be my sole companions."

"Oh, can't you get Wawillaway to go with you all the way? I should feel—so much more hopeful for your safe return!" she exclaimed; then blushing deeply, as she saw his face light up with pleasure while he asked,

"Do you really care for that?" she hastily withdrew her hand, saying almost pettishly:

"Of course I care to have you here in case any of the family should be taken sick. You understand our constitution, and are the only doctor in the town that we have the least confidence in."

His countenance fell, and she thought she heard a faint sigh as he turned sadly away, and with a silent bow left the house.

She dropped into a chair, hid her face in her hands, and burst into a passion of tears.

"Oh, how could I! how could I! when he has been so good and kind to me!" she sobbed. "It's just as if I had struck him a cruel blow, and oh! I could beat myself for it!"

Her words, and yet more her tone and manner in speaking them, had indeed wounded Kenneth. He had brought a care-burdened and sorrowful heart into her presence, and he carried it away with an added pang.

He was himself surprised to find that she had power to wound him so deeply. He had not known before how dear the wilful little maiden had become to him; but this pain opened his eyes.

"Ah, what have I been doing?" he cried, half aloud, as he strode onward toward his office, "and why am I regretting that for which I should be unutterably thankful—that I alone suffer, because of my imprudence? I must, I will be grateful that she has not given her young heart to such a one as I. And yet—and yet—but ah me, this is hoping even against hope! Yet will I not utterly despair, for with God all things are possible."