"I believe not," replied Dick.
"Sad--sad--sad! But there is time--there is always time; and hope--there is always hope. She bears up."
"What else can she do? Knocking your head against a stone wall is not an agreeable diversion."
"Your head, my young friend, your head," said Dr. Vinsen, jocosely. Then turning to Mrs. Death, "What is this? A linseed poultice? Very proper. Let it be very hot. Our little patient makes a face. If she never has a worse trouble than a linseed poultice she is to be envied. Here is a bottle of medicine--a tablespoonful every four hours. I will call again to-morrow. You will not shut your door against me, eh?"
"No, indeed, sir. We don't shut the door against our best friends."
"So kind of you to say so." He paused to contemplate the group of children on the floor. "This"--with a comprehensive wave of his hand, so as to take in the whole of the room--"is a scene for an artist, and on the walls of the Academy would attract attention, even from the aristocracy."
"That wouldn't help them much," observed Dick.
"I don't know--I really don't know. It enlarges the scope, widens the sympathies--wi-dens the sym-pa-thies. Be happy, children, be happy." He went through the ceremony of shaking hands with Dick and Mrs. Death, and with an amiable smile, in which his halo seemed to take part, left the room.
"Dick," whispered Gracie. He bent towards her. "May I call you Dick?"
"Yes, Gracie."