Kitabı oku: «Say and Seal, Volume I», sayfa 16

CHAPTER XIX

It cannot be said that sleep came to Faith's eyes unbidden,—yet once come, sleep rested there sweetly, even beyond her usual time; and the first disturbing sound, in that misty Sunday morning, was the stopping of a wagon at the front door. But if Faith ran to the window with any special expectations, they were disappointed,—there was nothing at the door but Crab, his companion the little wagon, and Mrs. Derrick composedly getting out of the same. Which was at least surprising enough. The good lady's next appearance was a very noiseless one in Faith's room.

"Dear mother! where have you been?"

"Why I've been trying to get ahead of Dr. Harrison," said her mother sitting down; "and I did it too. I should have been home before if I hadn't been afraid of meeting him—so I had to take a cross road." Mrs. Derrick seemed tired.

"You needn't look at me so, child," she said, taking off her bonnet. "It's enough to see one pale face in a morning. I did see him, Faith, though I didn't speak to him."

"How did he look, mother?"

"I don't suppose he really looked bad—considering," said Mrs. Derrick, with the tired look on her own face; "but I am not used to seeing him pulled down. It sort of upset me to see him lie there and those two boys keeping watch of him. I declare, Faith! I wouldn't like to be the one to touch him with them sitting by!"

"But how is he, mother? who did you see?"

"I didn't see anybody but them—Mr. Simlins wasn't up. They said he seemed better, dear—and that if I'd seen him last night I'd think he had quite a colour now: so I suppose he is better. Only I haven't got the heart of a kitten sometimes—" and a little motion of the lips warned Faith that if her mother was sparing of details it was because she could scarce give them.

"But isn't he as well as the doctor said? He would look pale, you know"—

"I shouldn't have known from what the doctor said, that he'd anything more than a scratch on the tip end of his little finger!" said Mrs. Derrick,—"so I believe I didn't expect even to see him look pale. And all the while, the doctor was staring at the pantry doors—I didn't know but he'd get up and open 'em and look in."

"You said two boys were there? who beside Reuben Taylor?"

"O Sam Stoutenburgh was 'tother side," said Mrs. Derrick, "and wanted to know how you were. I'd a great mind to tell him it was none of his business. I suppose he thinks his heart is as large as he is, and can hold everything at once."

A shadow of something seemed to cross Faith at the mention of Sam's name. She turned away and began dressing herself.

"Don't stir again, mother," she said. "I'll come down and see about breakfast."

"It'll rest me to go with you, child,—I told Reuben I'd come again and stay if Mr. Linden would let me, and Reuben will send me word. So I want to see you in the mean time. But I don't think they'll send."

The breakfast was a quiet meal, though Faith but poorly performed her promise of eating. How Faith spent the hour after breakfast her mother could but guess; then she came out with her bonnet on and kissed her before setting off to Sunday school. The thick mist yet filled the air, growing yellow now with the struggling sunbeams. She walked quick and met nobody.

Till she came to her place, and there she found not Charles twelfth alone, but the two other little additions to her charge that had been promised her. For though it was by no means 'cold weather'—the warm sunny days lingering yet and this Sunday promising to be a good specimen,—it happened that Johnny and his companion had received a special injunction to come, as Faith found out, and were there accordingly.

And if Johnny regretted his old place in another class, it was not for the reason his new teacher had feared. Faith's face was very pale,—that of itself touched the children; and her words this day came in a tone that won all the recesses of their hearts. She had forgot about other teachers or children being in her neighbourhood; on those three her stores of love and tenderness poured themselves out. She told them with warm lips, of Christ and his love and his leading,—of the safety and joy of his sheep,—of her wish that her little charge should be lambs in that flock, and what sort of lambs they must be. Faith spoke to her children very much as if she had been a child herself. They knew instinctively, with very sure knowledge, that she belonged to the fold of which she was joyously telling them.

The children, on their part, met her variously. Johnny—with his clear childish eyes, the flower-like unfolding of his little heart to that warm sunshine—gave her more help than trouble,—she understood the liking to teach him for her own sake. If his thoughts sometimes wandered a little from her words, the downcast look, the slight quiver of his childish lips, told Faith where they had gone; and she could forgive him. But though at such times Robbie Waters always remembered to look grave too, yet he displaced Faith's gravity once by whispering to her (in the midst of her earnest admonitions to Charles twelfth) that 'she knew she was pretty'; and was in general in an easy, docile state of mind, and much interested and amazed at the 'deportment' of his little neighbour, Charles twelfth. When Faith came out of the school, she saw that all the seats of Mr. Linden's class were vacant; and with that little reminding touch, went to her own place in the church.

It was between nine and ten o'clock, while Faith was yet lost in her little charge, while Mrs. Derrick at home was thinking of her, and Mr. Simlins was taking his late breakfast, that Dr. Harrison's curricle reached the farmer's gate. All was quiet without the house, but when Jenny Lowndes admitted the doctor into the hall, the array of hats and caps upon the table might have startled a less professional man; might have even suggested the idea that Mr. Simlins was giving a breakfast party.

"Let me see Mr. Linden," said the doctor.

Jenny hesitated—then her fear of Dr. Harrison overcoming her scruples, she walked softly to the door and opened it. But if the doctor wanted to see his patient, he was obliged to wait a little; for the group of boys—some standing, some kneeling—around the bed, hid everything else. The room was very still, very earnest; even Dr. Harrison could feel that; the sound of words, very low-spoken, was all he could hear. The closing door made itself heard, however,—several boys turned round, and at once stepped aside; and the doctor saw his patient, not dressed but lying as he had left him the night before. Mr. Linden smiled—and saying some words to his class held out his hand towards the doctor; but this was fastened upon at once by so many, that the doctor again had to wait his turn; and it was not until everyone else had touched that hand, some even with their lips, that he was left alone with his patient.

"What are you doing?" said he, in a sort of grave tone which did not however mean gravity. "Holding a levee?—and do you receive your courtiers at different hours according to their ages? in that case. I have come at the wrong time."

"No, you shall have the time all to yourself."

"I see I have it! Are the juvenile members of society in Pattaquasset accustomed to pay their respects to you at this hour in the morning?"

"Not always. Once a week we meet to talk over pleasant things."

"Have I interrupted the pleasant things now?"

"No, I could not talk very long this morning. The boys were just going."

"I wish I had come a little sooner," said Dr. Harrison. "I'm not a boy, to be sure, but I don't know that they are privileged to monopolize all pleasant things. If they are, I am against monopolies. However, if you can't talk, you mustn't talk. How do you do?"

"I do well—if a man can be doing well when he's doing nothing. I will talk as long as you please—about pleasant things."

The doctor however diverged to the state of his patient's health, nor would talk of anything else till his investigations on that point were made. The result of them seemed to be satisfactory.

"Now Linden," he said, in atone that indicated they were free to ask and answer,—"who was that fellow last night? have you any idea?"

"It is difficult to identify a man when you are only within gunshot of him—and after sundown," said Mr. Linden smiling.

"Difficult—yes, it may be,—but you gathered something?"

"I gathered a run."

"That is," said the doctor looking at him, "you have an opinion on the subject and are not willing to risk it?"

"No," said Mr. Linden, "I have had risk enough for one night."

"You are mistaken, Linden. A hint might be quite enough to bring out the certainty. My father is very eager about the matter, and is only waiting for you to empower him to act."

"I shall give you no hint," said Mr. Linden. "I might be willing to risk my own opinion, but not another man's character."

The doctor looked at him keenly and curiously.

"What possible motive!"—he said. "For it is evident that the shot was fired of intent, and evident that you yourself think so. It is unheard-of!"

"Were you bred to the bar, that you sum up evidence before it is given?" said Mr. Linden, with a good-humoured raising of his brows at the doctor.

"But the man ran!"

"So did I—he could hardly think I was much hurt."

"I don't want to have such a fellow abroad in Pattaquasset," said the doctor. "But suppose we go back to the pleasant things. You must start the subject, Linden. Rousseau says a man can best describe the sweets of liberty from the inside of a prison—so, I suppose, you being shot at and laid on your back, can have no lack of theme."

Mr. Linden smiled—the smile of a most unfettered spirit.

"Liberty!" he said. "Yes, I have realized since I have lain here, that—

'My soul is free, as ambient air,'—

My sense of liberty comes from the possession—not the want."

"Prospective possession,"—said the doctor. "Unless indeed," he went on with a humorous play of the lips—"you mean that my orders to you to lie still, merely gave zest to your triumphant knowledge that you could get up if you had a mind. A riotous degree of self-will that I believe I do not possess. Was that what good Mrs. Derrick meant when she said she wondered how I had hindered you?"

"No," said Mr. Linden smiling—"she meant that she did not think you had."

"She didn't mean a thing of the kind! She spoke in pure wonder, and made me begin to wonder in my turn."

Which wonder Mr. Linden did not inquire into.

"I am very sorry I wasn't a boy this morning!" said Dr. Harrison, after standing and looking down at him a little.

"Can't you sit down and say why?"

"I should have heard so much!—which now I am not to hear. For if I had been a boy, I should certainly not have been missing at your levee."

"O you deceive yourself,—if you were a boy nothing short of my authority would bring you, in the first place."

"I have not the slightest doubt the power would have been found equal to the resistance," said the doctor bowing.

"Neither have I."

"Well!—" said the doctor laughing a little peculiarly,—"in that case I should have been here. Now I have a fancy to know what you call pleasant things, Linden. You speak with a mouth full—as if there were plenty of them."

"Yes, there are plenty," Mr. Linden said, moving a little and resting his face on his hand as if he felt tired; "but we were talking of only two this morning,—heaven, and the way thither."

Dr. Harrison looked at him steadily.

"You are tired," he said gently. "You shall not talk any more to me now, and I shall forbid your holding any more levees to-day. After which," he added, the humourous expression coming back, "I shall expect to hear a proclamation going through Pattaquasset, that, like the knights of old, you are ready for all comers!—Well—I'll come and see you to-morrow; and as long as you'll let me, as a friend; for the pleasure of talking. You can have it all your own way, with a few more days' strength. Will you have a levee to-morrow at the same hour?"

A little play of the lips came with the answer—

"Will that suit you?—I'll send you word." Then looking up at the doctor with a different expression, he added, "What do you think of my pleasant things?"

"Hardly in my line—" said the doctor with a carelessness which was somewhat dubious in its character. "It is very well for those who find the subject pleasant. I confess I have never studied it much."

"Then you have but half learned your profession." But the words were so spoken that they could not give offence.

Neither did the doctor seem disposed to take offence.

"I'll ask you what you mean by that to-morrow," he said very pleasantly. "I thought I had learned my profession. Have you learned yours?" The last words were with a keen eye to the answer.

"Some people dignify my present business with that name," Mr. Linden said.

"Well, you shall discourse to me more at length to-morrow," said the doctor. "Shall I come later?"

"I don't expect to be in school to-morrow, so you may name your own time," Mr. Linden said with a pleasant look. "But remember,—a physician who has no skill to feel the pulse of the mind, no remedies that can reach its fever or its chills,—is but half a physician. If I had never studied the subject,—one word about heaven and the way thither would be worth more to me than all the science of medicine ever discovered! It is now—" he said in a low tone, as the flush passed away. And then holding out his hand to Dr. Harrison, Mr. Linden added, "I fully appreciate your skill and kindness—you need not doubt it."

The hand was taken, and grasped, cordially but in silence.

Whether the doctor went straight from Mr. Simlins' house to church—where he was not a very constant attendant—it does not appear. What is certain about the matter, is, that he was outside of the church door after service just at the time that Faith Derrick found herself there, and that he assumed a place at her side and walked with her towards her mother's house instead of taking the other direction towards his own. Faith was alone, Mrs. Derrick having chosen to stay at home in case she should be sent for. The mist had cleared off completely, and the sunny warm air invited to lingering in it. Faith would not have lingered, but the doctor walked slowly, and she could not leave him.

"I have been wanting to see you, ever since my inopportune proposal yesterday," said he in a low tone,—"to make my peace with you."

"It is made, sir," said Faith, giving him a smile.

"How do you do to-day?"

"Very well!" she told him.

The doctor listened to the sound of her voice, and thought with himself that as regarded the moral part of her nature the words were certainly true.

"Let me have the pleasure of relieving you of that,"—he said, taking Faith's little Bible gently away from her. "I am going your way. Miss Derrick—you spoke yesterday of particular work to be done on Sunday. Have you any objection to tell me what you meant by it? I confess to you, your words are somewhat dark to me. That is my fault, of course. Will you give me light?" It was a gentle, grave, quiet tone of questioning.

"Others might do it far better, sir," said Faith.

"I would far rather hear it from you!"

The colour came a little into Faith's cheeks, but her words were given with great simplicity.

"The other days are taken up very much with the work of this world—Sunday is meant more particularly for the work that belongs to the other world."

"And what is that? if you do not object to tell me. I confess, as I tell you, I am ignorant."

She forgot herself now, and looked steadily at him.

"To learn to know God—with whom we have so much to do, here and there;—to learn to know his will and to do it, and to bring others to do it too, if we can.—And if we know and love him already, to enjoy it and take the good of it,"—she added a little lower, and with a softening of expression.

Dr. Harrison read her look fixedly, till she turned it away from him.

"And are these what you call pleasant things?" said he somewhat curiously.

But Faith's answer rang out from her heart.

"Oh yes!"—

She stopped there, but evidently not for want of what to say.

"You are a happy thing," said the doctor, but not in a way to make his words other than graceful. "I wish you would make me as good as you are."

She looked at him, and answered very much as if she had been speaking to a child.

"God will make you much better, Dr. Harrison, if you ask him."

He was silent a minute after that, without looking at her. When he spoke again, it was with a change of tone.

"You are of a different world from that in which I live; and the flowers that are sweet to you, belong, I am afraid, to a Flora that I have no knowledge of. What, for instance, would you call pleasant things to talk about—if you were choosing a subject of conversation?"

Faith looked a little surprised.

"A great many things are pleasant to me," she said smiling.

"I am sure of that! But indulge me—what would you name as supremely such, to talk about?"

"If they are talked about right," said Faith gently, "I don't know anything so pleasant as those things I was speaking of—what God will have us do in this world, and what he will do for us in the next."

"'Heaven and the way thither'—" said Dr. Harrison to himself.

"What, sir?" said Faith.

"I should like to have you answer me that; but I am sorry, I see Mrs. Derrick's house not far beyond us.—I saw our friend Mr. Linden this morning."

"Is he better?" said Faith simply.

"He's doing very well. I told him he'd be a terribly famous man after this. And it's begun. I found near all the boys in Pattaquasset assembled there this morning."

"His Bible class—" said Faith, with a feeling which did not however come into her face or voice, and Dr. Harrison watched both.

"Here is your Bible," he said as they stopped at the little gate. "Do you always look so pale on Sundays?" he added with a look and tone of half professional half friendly freedom.

"Not always," Faith said; but there came at the same time a little tinge into the cheeks,—that Dr. Harrison wished away.

"May I come and earn your forgiveness for yesterday's stupidity?"

"Certainly!" Faith said,—"but there needs no forgiveness—from me, Dr.Harrison."

He left her with a graceful, reverential obeisance; and Faith went in.

CHAPTER XX

Dr. Harrison had but little left Mr. Linden that morning, when Mr. Simlins came in. He had hardly seen his guest yet that day, except, like Mrs. Derrick, when he was asleep. For having watched himself the greater part of the night, for the pure pleasure of it, Mr. Simlins' late rest had brought him almost to the hour when the boys came to what the doctor called Mr. Linden's levee.

"Well how do you find yourself?" said the farmer, standing at the foot of the bed and looking at its occupant with a kind of grim satisfaction.

"I find myself tired, sir—and at the same time intending to get up.Mr. Simlins, are you going down to church this afternoon?"

"Well, no," said the farmer. "I think it's as good church as I can do, to look arter you."

"You can have both," said Mr. Linden smiling,—"I should go with you."

"You aint fit," said the farmer regretfully.

"Fit enough—I'll come back and stay with you another day, when I am well, if you'll let me."

"Will you?" said the farmer. "I'll bottle that 'ere promise and cork it up; and if it aint good when I pull the cork—then I'll never play Syrian again, for no one. But s'pose I ain't goin' to church?"

"Then I shall have to take Reuben."

"You sha'n't take no one but me," growled Mr. Simlins. "I'd rather see you out of my house than not—if I can't see you in it."

The bells were ringing out for the early afternoon service when they set forth; not ringing against each other, as which should give the loudest call for its own particular church, but with alternate strokes speaking the same thing—the one stepping in when the other was out of broath. The warm sunshine rested upon all—"the evil and the good," and spoke its own message though not so noisily. Along the road Mr. Simlins' little covered wagon (chosen for various reasons) went at an easy pace; with one to drive, and one to bear the motion as best he might; and a third who would almost have agreed to be a pillow or a cushion for the rest of his life, if he could have been one for that day. What there were of that sort in the wagon, or indeed in the house, were to Reuben's eyes far too thin and ineffectual. A little excitement, a very earnest desire to get home once more, did partially supply the need; and by the time the houses were empty and the churches full, the wagon stopped at Mrs. Derrick's gate.

"I guess nobody's home," said Mr. Simlins as he with great tenderness helped Mr. Linden to alight—"but anyway, here's the house all standin'. Reuben, you go ahead and see if we can get in."

But before Reuben touched the door, Mrs. Derrick had opened it from the inside, and stood there—her usually quiet manner quite subdued into silence. Not into inaction however, for her woman's hands soon made their superior powers known, and Mr. Simlins could only wonder why this and that had not occurred to him before. Quick and still and thoughtful, she had done half a dozen little things to make Mr. Linden comfortable before he had been in the house as many minutes, and assured the two others very confidently that "he shouldn't faint again, if he wanted to ever so much!"

"Well, I was sorry to let him go," said Mr. Simlins, "and now I'm glad of it. It takes a woman! Where's some-somebody else?"

"There's nobody else in the house," said Mrs. Derrick. "Faith's gone to meeting, and Cindy too, for all I know."

"I'll send Dr. Harrison word in the morning where I am," said Mr. Linden,—which Mr. Simlins rightly understood to mean that the fact need not be published to-night. He took gentle leave of this lost guest and went to church; excusing himself for it afterwards by saying he felt lonely.

If Faith had seen him there, she might have jumped at conclusions again; but she did not; and after the service walked home, slowly again, though nobody was with her. A little wearied by this time with the night and the day's work, wearied in body and mind perhaps, she paced homewards along the broad street or road, on which the yellow leaves of the trees were floating lazily down, and which was all filled from sky and wayside with golden light. It brought to mind her walk of last Sunday afternoon—and evening;—the hymn, and those other lines Mr. Linden had repeated and which had run in her head fifty times since. And Faith's step grew rather slower and less lightsome as she neared home, and when she got home she went straight up to her room without turning to the right or the left. Her mother was just then in the kitchen and heard her not, and shielded by her bonnet Faith saw not even that Mr. Linden's door stood open; but when she came out again a while after, the full stream of sunlight that came thence into the passage drew her eyes that way. And Faith did not wonder then that her mother had been startled, and unprepared by the doctor's words for the sight of what she now saw. The chintz-covered couch was drawn before the window, in the full radiance of the sunlight, and Mr. Linden lay there looking out; but the sunlight found no glow in his face, unless one as etherial as itself. The habitual sweet pure look was there—a look that reminded Faith of the one Johnny had worn in the morning; but the face was perfectly colourless. The bandaged arm was supported only by a sling, upon the other hand his cheek rested wearily. Faith looked, hesitated, then stepped lightly into the room and stood before him; with a face not indeed quite so pale as his own, but that only the sunlight hindered his seeing was utterly without its usual colour. She found nothing to say, apparently: for she did not speak, only held out her hand. He had turned at the first sound of her step and watched her—at first smiling, then grave—as she came near; and taking her hand as silently as it was given, Mr. Linden looked up at her face,—perhaps to see whether his instructions had been obeyed.

"I have had men's hands about me so long," he said, "that yours feels like—" he did not specify what, but held it a minute as if he were trying to find out. "Miss Faith, you want to be rocked to sleep."

Could he see that her lips trembled? He could feel how her hand did; but her look was as frank as ever.

"Are you less well to-day?"—she said at last, in a voice that was little above a whisper, and stopped short of his name.

"Less well than yesterday at this time—not less well than this morning. A little more tired, perhaps." He spoke very quietly, answering her words and letting his hand and eye do the rest. "Has Mrs. Derrick a cradle in the house that would hold you?"

Perhaps Faith hardly heard the question, for she did not acknowledge it by so much as a smile. She wished to ask the further question, whether the assurance of last night was still true; but his appearance had driven such fear to her heart that she dared not ask it. She stood quite still a minute, but when she spoke her words were in the utmost clear sweetness of a woman's voice.

"Can I do something for you, Mr. Linden?"

"You are doing something for me now—it is so pleasant to see you. But Miss Faith, I shall have to reclaim some of your scholars; you have been teaching too much to-day."

"No—" she said,—"I have had no chance."

"No chance to teach too much? And why?"

"Why," she said—"I had only the usual hour this morning. I could do no more."

"You look as if you had been teaching all day—or taught, which is but another branch. What did my boys say to you?"

"I think they thought they were saying to you, Mr. Linden,—they behaved so well."

He smiled.

"I don't believe even your conjuring powers could bring about such a hallucination, Miss Faith.—What a day it has been! Look at that sunlight and think of the city that hath 'no need of the sun'!"

She looked where he bade her, but the contrast was a little too strong just then with the earth that had so much 'need' of it! Only the extreme gravity of her face however indicated anything of the struggle going on. Her eye did not move,—nor eyelid.

"That is the only rest we must wait 'for,'" Mr. Linden said. "That 'remaineth.'"

Faith answered nothing. But after a little while the shadow of that sunlight passed away from her face, and she turned to the couch again and asked with her former gentle expression,

"Will you have tea up here, Mr. Linden?"

"I'm afraid I must," he said, looking up at her with eyes that rather questioned than answered.

"Does mother know what you would like to have?"

"Miss Faith—I wish you would tell me just what is troubling you."

The question flushed her a little, and for a moment her face was a quick play of light and shade; then she said,

"It troubled me not to see you looking better."

He took the force of her words, though he answered lightly.

"I suppose I do look rather frightful! But Miss Faith, I hope to get over that in a few days—you must try and brace up your nerves, because if you cannot bear the sight of me I shall have to deny myself the sight of you."

"Don't do that," she said, the light coming into her eye and voice as if by an actual sunbeam. "Then it is true, what you wrote me last night, Mr. Linden?"

"Well!" he said—"I am not much in the habit of maintaining my own words,—however, in this case I am willing to admit them true. If it will be any relief to your mind, Miss Faith, I will promise to remain in seclusion until you say I am fit to be seen down stairs."

The answer to that was only a rosy little smile, like the sunlight promise of fair weather on the last clouds that float over the horizon. But perhaps his words had brought her mind back to the question of supper for she asked again,

"What are you to have for tea to-night, Mr. Linden?"

"May I take a great liberty?" he said with a look as grave as before.

"I don't know how you can,"—she said and with eyes somewhat surprised, that said in their own way it was impossible.

A little smile—which she scarce saw—came first, and then her hand was brought to his lips. But it was done too gravely and gently to startle even her.

"Now you must go and rest," Mr. Linden said. "I want nothing for tea that shall cost one extra step."

Faith went about as silently and demurely as a cat that has had her ears boxed and been sent out of the dairy. Only in this case she went to her dairy; from whence in due time she emerged with cream and butter and made her appearance in the kitchen.

"Well child!" said Mrs. Derrick. "When did you get home? and what did you do with yourself? I've looked and looked for you till I was tired, and if you'd staid five minutes more I should have run all over town after you."

"Why mother!" said Faith, "I was in my own room for a good while. I got home in usual time."

"Well!"—said her mother, "I hope next time you'll say as much—that's all. Do you know we've got company, Faith?"

"Who, mother?—O I've seen Mr. Linden."

"I meant him," said Mrs. Derrick. "I'm sure the house seems as if it had twice as many in it since he came."

"He ought to have tea, now, mother. Isn't Cindy home yet?"

"No, but that's no matter—I'll take it up in two minutes. Where's the teapot—"

"I think, mother," said Faith as she was adding the last touches to the tray which was to go up stairs,—"I must have put Mr. Linden in mind of his sister, or somebody, this afternoon. I am afraid he misses them now."

"What do you mean by somebody?" said Mrs. Derrick.

"Some of his own family, I mean. I thought so."

"I don't believe you ever put anybody in mind of anybody else," saidMrs. Derrick confidently. "What made you think so, child?"

"Something made me think so,"—said Faith rather abstractly. "Now mother—it is ready, and I'll take it up stairs if you'll take it then."

"I guess I'm up to as much as taking it all the way," said her mother, lifting the tray. "I'll be down presently, dear,—you must want your tea." And up stairs she went.

Reuben came to stay all night, so the ladies had only to take their own much needed sleep, in peace; and a note of information was left at Dr. Harrison's door next morning, some time before that gentleman was awake.