"Then isn't there a hill to climb?" continued the Doctor, "with your hat down your back on a string? And stones to roll—?"
The small face grew suddenly serious. "No, thank you," she said, with a slow shake of the head, "I'd rather not turn any stones."
"Very well—hm! hm!"
"Oh, and there'll be jolly times of an evening after supper," broke in her father, enthusiastically. The stern lines of his face were relaxed, and a score of tiny ripples were carrying a smile from his mouth to his tired eyes. "We'll light all the candles—"
"Daddy!" She relinquished the bowl, and turned to him swiftly. "Not—not candles that burn at both ends—"
"No." He stopped smiling.
"You're a wise little body!" pronounced the Doctor, taking her hand.
"How's the pulse now?" asked her mother. "Somehow"—with a nervous little laugh—"she makes me anxious."
"Normal," answered the Doctor promptly. "Only thing that isn't normal about her is that busy brain, which is abnormally bright." Thereupon he shook the small hand he was holding, strode to the table, and picked up a leather-covered case. It was black, and held a number of bottles. In no way did it resemble the pill-basket. "And if a certain person is to leave for the country soon—"
Gwendolyn's smile was knowing. "You mean 'a certain party.'" He was trying to tease her with that old nursery name!