"If I was a great big man, White Lady, I would 'dopt you!"
It seemed to Rosamund that Eleanor, while reaching out with all the ardor of her loneliness, was being daily wrung by seeing him; she spoke of it to Ogilvie, after Eleanor herself had denied it. But he was inclined to agree with Mrs. Reeves that it could not harm her.
"Women find comfort in strange things," he said. "Let her have her own way."
Rosamund sighed. "It does not seem to me that her summer here has helped her at all," she said. "She is more a 'White Lady' than ever. I wish you would tell me what you think of her, Doctor Ogilvie!"
"I cannot tell you any more than I have," he replied. "There is no incurable fault of vision, no defect of the eye itself. If I could prescribe a large dose of happiness for her, she would get well. As it is—nerves have very elusive freaks sometimes, you know!"
"Then she will—she will be—oh! Don't say that! Not my Eleanor!"
"Now you are taking too much for granted. I do not say it. Her eyes are no worse than when she came here. If she were strong they would recover; if she were happy she would quickly become strong! As it is—who can say?"
"Oh, how helpless you all are!" she cried.
He ran his fingers through his hair—his cap was apt to be anywhere but on his head. "Helpless! Good Lord, yes!"
As the weeks passed, they had become very good friends, spending many hours together, driving about the countryside as he made his rounds. Knowing Eleanor to be there in the mornings, Ogilvie fell into the way of making Mother Cary's his first house of visitation in the afternoon. They were always waiting for him at the gate—the now inseparable three; and if Rosamund left all show of eager greeting to Yetta and little Tim, the doctor seemed never to notice the omission. It was enough to find her there.