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 end, she asked for his opinion, she got a shock; for, slowly shaking that great white head of his, he answered, with a gentle smile, that he had hitherto made it the habit of his life seldom to formulate an opinion, and never to express one—a habit which appeared to Mrs. Callender most peculiar in any one, and in a doctor, actively inhuman.

All of a sudden, however, a new idea flashed into her mind—were there not other doctors, as well as doctors of medicine? Of course! and, swiftly seized with a wild and palpitating hope, “Oh, Dr. Miller,” she cried, “do you—oh, are you a musicianer?” at the same time revolving, with the customary quickness of her woman’s mind, all sorts of plans for giving a commission to the very next piano agent who should call. But his answer not only crushed that infant hope past remedy, it also raised a fear; for, “God forbid!” he said, with an earnestness so devout that Mrs. Callender felt her heart almost stop its beating. Could he—oh—could he possibly be a Doctor of—Divinity? Of the habits of such folk she had no experience, it is true, but awful visions beset her—of gentle but persistent admonishings, of sermons on weekdays as well as Sundays. Worst of all, of Roger, at no time an admirer of “parsons,” and already good-naturedly contemptuous of this poor man who had “made such a mess of his life,” waxing “rampageous,” and kicking against the bodily presence of so spiritually minded a guest. The idea was, indeed, so alarming, that she dared not put it to the proof. The old man had concealed the fact, if fact it were, for so many years, that perhaps, if he were not goaded into declaring