“Why, papa, you always said you wished we had had a boy.”
“Ah, I did not know that I should have to suffer all this when the wedding time came.”
“Now, if you would only go into your garden, and see to your patients, my love, everything would go right!” cried Mrs Luttrell; “but you are so impatient! Look at Millicent, how quiet and calm she is!”
The doctor had looked at Millicent as she stole out to him in the garden—often now, as if moved by a desire to be as much with him as she could before the great step of her life was taken.
There was a quiet look of satisfaction in her eyes that told of her content, and the happy peace that reigned within her breast.
The doctor understood her, as she came to him when at work, questioning him about the blossoms of this rose, and the success of that creeper, and taking endless interest in all he did; and when she was summoned away to try something on, or to select some pattern, she smiled and said that she would soon be back.
“Ah!” he said with a sigh, “she is trying to break it off gently!” and his work ceased until he heard her step, when he became very busy and cheerful again, as they both played at hiding from one another the separation that was to come.
“Poor papa!” thought Millicent, “he will miss me when I am gone!”
“If that fellow does not behave well to her,” said the doctor to himself, “and I do happen to be called in to him, I shall—well, I suppose it would not be right to do that.” As for Mrs Luttrell, she was too busy to think much till she went to bed, and then the doctor complained.
“I must have some rest, my dear!” he said plaintively, “and I don’t say that you will—but if you do have a bad face-ache from sleeping on a pillow soaked with tears, don’t come to me to prescribe.”