Chapter: As the train drew up at the station platform, Dr. Price came forward
from the white waiting-room, and stood expectantly by the door of the
white coach. Miller, having left his car, came down the platform in time
to intercept Burns as he left the train, and to introduce him to Dr.
Price.

"My carriage is in waiting," said Dr. Price. "I should have liked to
have you at my own house, but my wife is out of town. We have a good
hotel, however, and you will doubtless find it more convenient."

"You are very kind, Dr. Price. Miller, won't you come up and dine with
me?"

"Thank you, no," said Miller, "I am expected at home. My wife and child
are waiting for me in the buggy yonder by the platform."

"Oh, very well; of course you must go; but don't forget our appointment.
Let's see, Dr. Price, I can eat and get ready in half an hour--that will
make it"--

"I have asked several of the local physicians to be present at eight
o'clock," said Dr. Price. "The case can safely wait until then."

"Very well, Miller, be on hand at eight. I shall expect you without
fail. Where shall he come, Dr. Price?"

"To the residence of Major Philip Carteret, on Vine Street."

"I have invited Dr. Miller to be present and assist in the operation,"
Dr. Burns continued, as they drove toward the hotel. "He was a favorite
pupil of mine, and is a credit to the profession. I presume you saw his
article in the Medical Gazette?"

"Yes, and I assisted him in the case," returned Dr. Price. "It was a
colored lad, one of his patients, and he called me in to help him. He is
a capable man, and very much liked by the white physicians."

Miller's wife and child were waiting for him in fluttering anticipation.
He kissed them both as he climbed into the buggy.

"We came at four o'clock," said Mrs. Miller, a handsome young woman, who
might be anywhere between twenty-five and thirty, and whose complexion,
in the twilight, was not distinguishable from that of a white person,
"but the train was late two hours, they said. We came back at six, and
have been waiting ever since."

"Yes, papa," piped the child, a little boy of six or seven, who sat
between them, "and I am very hungry."

Miller felt very much elated as he drove homeward through the twilight.
By his side sat the two persons whom he loved best in all the world. His
affairs were prosperous. Upon opening his office in the city, he had
been received by the members of his own profession with a cordiality
generally frank, and in no case much reserved. The colored population of
the city was large, but in the main poor, and the white physicians were
not unwilling to share this unprofitable practice with a colored doctor
worthy of confidence. In the intervals of the work upon his hospital, he
had built up a considerable practice among his own people; but except in
the case of some poor unfortunate whose pride had been lost in poverty
or sin, no white patient had ever called upon him for treatment. He knew
very well the measure of his powers,--a liberal education had given him
opportunity to compare himself with other men,--and was secretly
conscious that in point of skill and knowledge he did not suffer by
comparison with any other physician in the town. He liked to believe
that the race antagonism which hampered his progress and that of his
people was a mere temporary thing, the outcome of former conditions, and
bound to disappear in time, and that when a colored man should
demonstrate to the community in which he lived that he possessed
character and power, that community would find a way in which to enlist
his services for the public good.

He had already made himself useful, and had received many kind words and
other marks of appreciation. He was now offered a further confirmation
of his theory: having recognized his skill, the white people were now
ready to take advantage of it. Any lurking doubt he may have felt when
first invited by Dr. Burns to participate in the operation, had been
dispelled by Dr. Price's prompt acquiescence.

On the way homeward Miller told his wife of this appointment. She was
greatly interested; she was herself a mother, with an only child.
Moreover, there was a stronger impulse than mere humanity to draw her
toward the stricken mother. Janet had a tender heart, and could have
loved this white sister, her sole living relative of whom she knew. All
her life long she had yearned for a kind word, a nod, a smile, the least
thing that imagination might have twisted into a recognition of the tie
between them. But it had never come.

And yet Janet was not angry. She was of a forgiving temper; she could
never bear malice. She was educated, had read many books, and
appreciated to the full the social forces arrayed against any such
recognition as she had dreamed of. Of the two barriers between them a
man might have forgiven the one; a woman would not be likely to overlook
either the bar sinister or the difference of race, even to the slight
extent of a silent recognition. Blood is thicker than water, but, if it
flow too far from conventional channels, may turn to gall and wormwood.
Nevertheless, when the heart speaks, reason falls into the background,
and Janet would have worshiped this sister, even afar off, had she
received even the slightest encouragement. So strong was this weakness
that she had been angry with herself for her lack of pride, or even of a
decent self-respect. It was, she sometimes thought, the heritage of her
mother's race, and she was ashamed of it as part of the taint of
slavery. She had never acknowledged, even to her husband, from whom she
concealed nothing else, her secret thoughts upon this lifelong sorrow.
This silent grief was nature's penalty, or society's revenge, for
whatever heritage of beauty or intellect or personal charm had come to
her with her father's blood. For she had received no other inheritance.
Her sister was rich by right of her birth; if Janet had been fortunate,
her good fortune had not been due to any provision made for her by her
white father.

She knew quite well how passionately, for many years, her proud sister
had longed and prayed in vain for the child which had at length brought
joy into her household, and she could feel, by sympathy, all the
sickening suspense with which the child's parents must await the result
of this dangerous operation.

"O Will," she adjured her husband anxiously, when he had told her of the
engagement, "you must be very careful. Think of the child's poor mother!
Think of our own dear child, and what it would mean to lose him!"

 The train pulls into the station and Dr. Burns meets Dr. Price on the platform. Burns informs Price that he has invited Miller to assist in the surgery, and Price tells them to be at the Carteret house at eight in the evening. Dr. Price and Dr. Burns leave the station and both are complimentary of Dr. Miller. Miller goes to his own carriage and meets his wife and child. He is happy to return to his loved ones and is pleased to have been accepted by both Dr. s Miller and Price as a professional equal. As they ride home, Miller's wife Janet ponders over her secret thoughts for her sister Olivia and the pain she must be going through with the sickness of her child. She secretly "worships" Olivia, her half-sister, and does not think wrongly of Olivia for her attitude towards her and her child. Blood is thicker than water, but, if it flow too far from conventional channels, may turn to gall and wormwood. She implores her husband to take great care with this young patient

