CHAPTER THIRTEEN.

A MORNING RIDE.

One bright summer's morning in the latter part of November, as Dr Fox was on his way to visit a patient living in Dutoits Pan, he turned his horses' heads into the street where lived Miss Kate Darcy.

As he neared the house of his countrywoman, in whom he had recently come to take a deep interest, she appeared descending the steps of the verandah which surrounded the house. He spoke to his horses, and they increased their speed, reaching the curbstone as Miss Darcy opened the gate.

"Good-morning, Miss Darcy," said he, "out for a walk? Would that I were also walking!"

Kate looked up brightly and smiled. "Good-morning," said she, "would that I were also riding!"

Dr Fox's eyes held a gleam of pleasure, and springing lightly from the carriage, said, "I shall admit of no retreat after that. I am going to Dutoits Pan, and you must go with me."

Kate readily entered the carriage, the doctor seated himself by her side, and the horses sped away.

"Is there not a sort of indefinable recognition of approach and presence, by which we may sometimes become aware of the proximity of people before seeing them?" began the doctor. "I was thinking of you as I rode along, and here you are!"

Kate did not say that she had also thought of the doctor that morning. She only replied:

"Yes, I think there is often something of that sort. And recognition goes farther, too. We may often see a man's invisible soul, paradoxically speaking, against his will, and without desire. There is something, too, about a person that radiates, as it were, and unconsciously to himself and others affects those with whom he comes in contact. I suppose it affects sometimes from afar, as I did you this morning."

Dr Fox looked at Kate curiously.

"You are a novelty in this part of the world," he said. "I suppose no other woman this side an ocean voyage could talk like that."

"That may be true," said Kate, unaffectedly. "Women about here are not thinkers along certain lines. But I have a belief that moral and spiritual atmosphere has an extent and influence of which we little dream."

There was silence for a moment. Then, with a quick transition, Kate again spoke:

"Isn't this glorious? I am never happier than when I am behind fine horses, riding over a good road."

"I think, then, I see the way to giving you happiness," said the doctor, "and at the same time getting a good deal for myself. You seem like a bit of my native land again."

"Of the earth, earthy?" queried Kate.

"How can you!" cried the doctor, "but you are the first American woman I have seen in two years, and you are tremendously Yankee."

"Pray, what is tremendously Yankee?" asked Kate.

"Oh, delightfully individual! that is a trait of our countrymen--yours and mine. One sees it in you when you cross the floor, or do any other everyday thing. You could not conceal your nationality."

"We do not try to conceal what we take pride in. I am proud of being an American. Dear old America, I have not seen it in five years."

"So long? What have you been doing?"

"I have had a career," said Kate, quietly.

"Tell me about your career," said the doctor. "I have lived here two years, as you know. When you have tarried so long, you will want to know, as deeply as you can, the first congenial spirit that comes to Africa and finds you."

"What, two long years in Africa! Nothing could induce me to stay in such a land so long."

"The improbable, even the seemingly impossible things, often come to pass, Miss Darcy. Now, please, are you going to tell me about your career?"

"It won't be long."

"What--your career?"

"No--the story of it. There was a good deal of career. While I was living it, it seemed as if there would never be any end to it, and I often wished for any other life but that. It came to an end only a few months ago. It seems like a dream of centuries."

"You must have been very young when you began, for you--"

"Don't look all those centuries, eh?" said Kate, laughingly. "Why, I am twenty-eight." She then gave him an outline of her life, with the heartache left out. Although Kate was of an ardent imaginative temperament, she never sentimentally dwelt on her griefs.

By this time they had reached their destination. The call was short, the doctor taking little time to listen to the recounting of aches and pains. He braced his hypochondriacal patient up, by telling him that he was far better than he had expected to find him, and before the invalid could relapse, the doctor had gone. But the man was better, of course, for had not the doctor told him so?

"You have returned quickly," said Kate. "Is your patient better?"

"The patient? Oh yes, he's all right. I will bring my galvanic battery with me next time, and just give him a little homoeopathic earthquake. Don't let us talk about these sick people. You don't look as if sick subjects would be appropriate to your thoughts or conversation."