“Doctor,”—a smile played on her lips,—“I want to say one thing.” She was a little care-worn and grief-worn; and yet, Narcisse, you should have seen her; you would not have slipped out.
“Say on, madam,” responded the Doctor.
“If we have to ask anybody, Doctor, it will be you. John had another situation, but lost it by his chills. He’ll get another. I’m sure he will.” A long, broken sigh caught her unawares. Dr. Sevier thrust his pocket-book back into its place, compressing his lips and giving his head an unpersuaded jerk. And yet, was she not right, according to all his preaching? He asked himself that. “Why didn’t your husband come to see me, as I requested him to do, Mrs. Richling?”
She explained John’s being turned away from the door during the Doctor’s illness. “But anyhow, Doctor, John has always been a little afraid of you.”
The Doctor’s face did not respond to her smile.
“Why, you are not,” he said.
“No.” Her eyes sparkled, but their softer light quickly returned. She smiled and said:—
“I will ask a favor of you now, Doctor.”
They had risen, and she stood leaning sidewise against his low desk and looking up into his face.
“Can you get me some sewing? John says I may take some.”