“Yes, Doctor, I’m going to take care of myself.”
“Mrs. Richling, is your father a man of fortune?”
“My father is not living,” said she, gravely. “He died two years ago. He was the pastor of a small church. No, sir; he had nothing but his small salary, except that for some years he taught a few scholars. He taught me.” She brightened up again. “I never had any other teacher.”
The Doctor folded his hands behind him and gazed abstractedly through the upper sash of the large French windows. The street-door was heard to open.
“There’s John,” said the convalescent, quickly, and the next moment her husband entered. A tired look vanished from his face as he saw the Doctor. He hurried to grasp his hand, then turned and kissed his wife. The physician took up his hat.
“Doctor,” said the wife, holding the hand he gave her, and looking up playfully, with her cheek against the chair-back, “you surely didn’t suspect me of being a rich girl, did you?”
“Not at all, madam.” His emphasis was so pronounced that the husband laughed.
“There’s one comfort in the opposite condition, Doctor,” said the young man.
“Yes?”
“Why, yes; you see, it requires no explanation.”