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“San Francisco, June.

DO I believe it now, after the first stunning effect
is over, and I sit here alone thinking calmly of
what came to me in Jessie Verner's letter? Do
I believe that Dora will marry her brother-in-law, remembering
as I do the expression of her face when she
sat by the two graves and I told her of Anna? Can
there be jealousy where there is no love? I think not,
and she was jealous of my commendations of Jessie.
Oh, was I deceived, and did her coldness and ill-nature
mean more than I was willing to admit? It is very hard
to give her up, loving her as I do, but God knows best
what is for my good. When I set Anna above Him He
took her away, and now He will take my Dora. It is
sheer selfishness, I know, and yet I cannot help feeling
that I would rather she were lying by Anna's side than
to see her Squire Russell's wife. It is a most unnatural
match, for there is no bond of sympathy in their natures.
Dora must be unhappy after the novelty is gone. Darling
Dora,—it is not wicked to speak thus of her now, as there

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is no certainty in the case, only a surmise, which, nevertheless,
has almost broken my heart, for I feel sure that
whether she marry the Squire or not, she is lost to me.
She does not care for me. She never did, else why does
she grow so cross and crisp when my name is mentioned?
Alas! that I should ever have thought otherwise, and
built up a beautiful future which only Dora was to share
with me. I am afraid to record on paper how dear she
is to me, or how constantly she has been in my mind since
I parted from her. How anxiously I waited for some
reply to my letter, and how disappointed I was in the
arrival of every mail. I wonder if I did well to answer
Jessie so soon, and send that message to Dora? I am
confident now that it was not a right spirit which prompted
me to act so hastily. I felt that Dora had broken
faith with me,—that she should have waited at least the
year,—that in some way she was injuring me, and so vindictive
pride dictated the words I sent her. May I be
forgiven for the wrong; and if Dora is indeed to be the
bride of her sister's husband, may she be happy with him,
and never know one iota of the pain and suffering her marriage
will bring to me.

“Our stay in California has been very pleasant, even
though I have failed thus far in what was the secret
motive which led me here, the hope of finding the man
to whom that letter was addressed long years ago, Robin's
father, and, as I believe, Anna's husband. We have been

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at this hotel just three weeks to-day, and mother likes it
better than the private boarding-house we left. Friends
seem to spring up around us wherever we go, and I believe
I have nearly as many patients in San Francisco as
I ever had at home. For this good fortune, which I did
not expect, I thank my Heavenly Father, praying that
the means I use may be blessed to the recovery of those
who so willingly put their lives in my hands.

“How that poor fellow in the next room groans, and
how the sound of his moaning makes me long to hasten
to his side and alleviate, if possible, the fever which they
say is consuming him. Poor fellow, he was making
money so fast, I hear, and hoarding it so carefully for his
mother, he told his acquaintance, and now he is dying
here alone, far from his mother, who would so gladly
smooth his dying pillow. I saw him when they carried
him through the hall on his arrival from the mountains,
and something in the shape of his head and the way the
hair curled around it, made me start, it was so like
Robert's. But the name, when I asked it, drove the
hope away: John Maxwell, or Max, as he is generally
called by those who know him best. He has been here
for years, steadily accumulating money, and winning, as
it would seem, scores of friends. Even the head chamber-maid,
when she heard “young Max” was ill, and
was to be brought here, evinced more womanly interest
than I supposed her capable of doing. He must be

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growing worse, his moanings increase so fast, and there seems
to be a consultation going on within his room, while my
name is spoken by some one, a friend too it would seem,
for he says:

“`I wish you would try him at least. I have great
faith in that mode of practice.'

“They are going to send for me; they are coming
now to the door; they are saying to me:

“`Dr. West, will you step in and see what you think
of poor Max's case?”'

p605-187

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