Father came in, providentially.
"How is she, Doctor?" he asked. Which was absurd, as I had reassured him concerning my welfare not two hours earlier.
"Rather scrappy—lots of fight left," answered our guest, rising.
I was speechless.
"I think," said Doctor Denton, "we shall have to get her out of doors."
Father and I stared at him.
"Why not?" he continued, looking from one of us to the other. "We'll commence by building her up a bit, and trying massage for those unused muscles. Then a little later it should be quite easy to carry her comfortably downstairs and settle her on a cot under the trees for a little while each day."
"McAllister—" began father, doubtfully.
"Oh, I'll talk with him," cut in Doctor Denton cheerfully. "He will be back next week," he added, turning deliberately to me.
I looked grateful.