When, in the course of the morning, Doctor Wentworth arrived, he discovered him still sitting by the bedside, only Janey had crept close to him and fallen asleep, clasping both her small hands about his large one, and laying her face upon his palm.
"What!" said the doctor. "Can you do that sort of thing?"
"I don't know," answered Tredennis, slowly. "I never did it before."
He looked down at the small, frail creature, and the color showed itself under his bronzed skin.
"I think she's rather fond of me—or something," he added with naïveté, "and I like it."
"She likes it, that's evident," said the doctor.
He turned away to have an interview with Bertha, whom he took to the window at the opposite end of the room, and after it was over they came back together.
"She is not so ill as she was yesterday," he said; "and she was not so ill then as you thought her." He turned and looked at Bertha herself. "She doesn't need as much care now as you do," he said, "that's my impression. What have you been doing with yourself?"
"Taking care of her," she answered, "since she began to complain of not feeling well."
He was a bluff, kindly fellow, with a bluff, kindly way, and he shook a big forefinger at her.