"I shouldn't hurry," remarked Doctor Spence. "They're glad enough to have you."
"So they say—the boy's been in here this morning—but that's nonsense, of course."
On his way down the steep village street the doctor met Nell coming up, with her quick, bright step, and he stopped the gray cob to speak to her.
"Well, Miss Nell," he said, with a smile twinkling in his keen eyes as they scanned the beautiful face with the dark tendrils of hair blown across her brow, beneath her old sailor hat, the clear gray eyes shining like crystal, the red lips parted slightly with the climb. "Just left your interesting patient. He'll come down to-morrow. Don't let him fag himself; and, see here, Nell, try and amuse him."
The gray eyes opened still wider, then grew thoughtful and doubtful, and the doctor laughed.
"Rather difficult, eh?" he said, reading her thoughts. "Well, I should say it was somewhat of a large order. But you can play draughts or cat's-cradle with him, or read, or play the piano. That's the kind of thing he wants. There's something on his mind, and that's worse than having a splint on his arm, believe me, Nell."
Nell nodded.
"I thought—that is, I fancied—he looked as if he were in trouble," she said musingly. "Poor man!"
"Oh, I don't know that he wants your pity," remarked the doctor dryly. "As a rule, when a man's got something on his mind, he has put it there himself."