I wonder what the nervous doctor's name is—poor Sarah!
June paid me a visit this afternoon while I slept. She was reluctant to waken me, but left me her prettiest card. The first roses from my bush! They have been happily translated to a vase beside me, as I write. Father brought them upstairs with him when he came in for tea.
"Did you kiss her hands and tell her how sorry I would be to miss her?" I asked him soberly.
"Whose hands?" he began.
"Who has called on us today?"
"Mrs. Withers!" he answered, suppressing a groan.
Rudely I laughed.
"Surely, Mavis," father continued plaintively, "you could never demand that I kiss—"
I laughed again. Mrs. Withers—ugly name, isn't it!—is the wife of our pastor. She is a good woman, but she possesses little charm.