"So this is Dorothy Elizabeth and her mother—" he began gayly; but he could get no further.
Helen Denby turned with a joyous cry and an eagerly extended hand.
"Oh, Dr. Gleason, I'm so glad! You are better, aren't you? I'm so glad to see you!"
"Yes, I'm better. I'm well—only I can't seem to make people believe it. And you— I don't need to ask how you are. And so this big girl is the little Dorothy Elizabeth I used to know. You have your mother's eyes, my dear. Come, won't you shake hands with me?"
The little girl advanced slowly, her gaze searching the doctor's face. Then, in her sweet, high-pitched treble, came the somewhat disconcerting question:—
"Is you—daddy?"
The doctor laughed lightly.
"No, my dear. I'm a poor unfortunate man who hasn't any little girl like you; but we'll hope, one of these days, you'll see—daddy." He turned to Helen Denby with suddenly grave, questioning eyes.
"Betty, dear,"—Mrs. Denby refused to meet the doctor's gaze,—"go carry the flower to Annie and ask her please to put it in water for you; then run out and play with Bessie in the garden. Mother wants to talk to Dr. Gleason a few minutes." Then, to the doctor, she turned an agitated face. "Surely, didn't your sister—tell you? I'm going to London with Mrs. Reynolds."
"Yes, she told me. But perhaps I was hoping to persuade you—to do otherwise."