"What sort of a patient, Martin?" she inquired again.

"Her name is Ollivier," I said. "A common name. Our postmaster's name
is Ollivier."

"Oh, yes," she answered; "I know several families of Olliviers. I dare
say I should know this person if you could tell me her Christian name.
Is it Jane, or Martha, or Rachel?"

"I don't know," I said; "I did not ask."

Should I tell my mother about my mysterious patient? I hesitated for a
minute or two. But to what good? It was not my habit to talk about my
patients and their ailments. I left them all behind me when I crossed
the threshold of home. My mother's brief curiosity had been satisfied
with the name of Ollivier, and she made no further inquiries about her.
But to expedite me in my purpose, she rang, and gave orders for old
Pellet, our only man-servant, to find a strong hamper, and told the cook
to look out some jars of preserve.

The packing of that hamper interested me wonderfully; and my mother,
rather amazed at my taking the superintendence of it in person, stood by
me in her store-closet, letting me help myself liberally. There was a
good space left after I had taken sufficient to supply Miss Ollivier
with good things for some weeks to come. If my mother had not been by, I
should have filled it up with books.

"Give me a loaf or two of white bread," I said; "the bread at Tardif's
is coarse and hard, as I know after eating it for a week. A loaf, if you
please, dear mother."