He had a large pan of bread-dough beside him. Out of it, now, he gouged a spoonful, which he began to roll between his palms. And as he rolled the dough, it became rounder and rounder, until it was ball-like. It turned browner and browner, too, precisely as if it were baking in his hands! When he was finished with it, he piled it to one side, atop other brown pellets.
She advanced to speak. "Please," she began, pointing a small finger, "what is this place?"
He glanced up. "This, little girl, is the Pillery."
The Pillery! Instantly she knew what he was making—bread-pills.
And the bread-pills helped her to recognize him. She dimpled cordially. "I haven't seen you since I had the colic," she said, nodding, "but I know you. You're the Doctor!"
The Doctor was most cordial, shaking her hand gently; after which, naturally enough, he felt her pulse.
"But there's nothing the matter with me," she protested. "It's my dear Puffy. You remember."
Now he rose solemnly, selected a fresh-baked pill, bowed to the right, again to the left, last of all, to her—and presented the pill.
"In that case, Miss Gwendolyn," he said, smiling down, "a toast!"
And—quite in contrast to the evening of her seventh birthday anniversary—toast there was, deliciously crisp and crunchy!