And Nan
that night was a soul's physician, though she had been made to sorely
hurt her patient before the new healthfulness could well begin.
They floated down the river and tried to talk once or twice, but there
were many spaces of silence, and as they walked along the paved
streets, they thought of many things. An east wind was blowing in from
the sea, and the elm branches were moving restlessly overhead. "It
will all be better to-morrow," said Nan, as they stood on the steps at
last. "You must come to see Aunt Nancy very often after I have gone,
for she will be lonely. And do come in the morning as if nothing had
been spoken. I am so sorry. Good-night, and God bless you," she
whispered; and when she stood inside the wide doorway, in the dark,
she listened to his footsteps as he went away down the street. They
were slower than usual, but she did not call him back.
XXI
AT HOME AGAIN
In Oldfields Dr. Leslie had outwardly lived the familiar life to which
his friends and patients had long since accustomed themselves; he had
seemed a little preoccupied, perhaps, but if that were observed, it
was easily explained by his having one or two difficult cases to think
about. A few persons suspected that he missed Nan, and was, perhaps, a
little anxious lest her father's people in Dunport should claim her
altogether. Among those who knew best the doctor and his ward there
had been an ardent championship of Nan's rights and dignity, and a
great curiosity to know the success of the visit.
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