She sat down by the window again and waited. The doorbell rang and Mrs. Beasely was awakened. Janice heard her go heavily to the door.
“Good morning, Doctor!” the widow said, and Dr. Poole’s heavy voice replied:
“Just as bad as ever, Mrs. Beasely. How’s the patient?”
Janice whisked out of the room and went into the kitchen. There she waited until Mrs. Beasely came back for hot water with which to sterilize the doctor’s instruments.
“What does he say?” asked the girl, breathlessly.
“Seems encouraged. But I ain’t,” groaned the widow. “Nobody can live long and refuse vittles like Mr. Haley does. It was the trouble with my Charles,” she continued, referring to her husband, who frequently was the subject of Mrs. Beasely’s conversation. “If he could have kep’ on eatin’ he’d ha’ been alive to-day,” with which unanswerable argument she stalked back into the sick chamber.
Janice waylaid Dr. Poole as he was going out. “Hello, Janice Day!” he exclaimed, cheerfully. “Are you on the job? Then I’m sure my patient is going to get better right away.”
“I am only helping Mrs. Beasely a little,” she said. “But I wished to ask you, Doctor, if it would hurt Mr. Haley to—to see people?”
“Not a bit! Go right in and see him—only keep quiet. Your cheerful, pretty face is better than any drug——”
“Oh! I don’t mean myself,” gasped Janice. “But he has expressed a desire to see somebody else.”