The crippled boy was lying on the bed, and a beautiful, blooming, vigorous young girl was sitting by him in an attitude of expectation, and with a look upon her face that was tinged with a shy timidity. The doctor did not speak at first, having a fancy that she should open the conversation. She stood up, in evident hesitation what to do, and then said:
“Did you want to speak to me about anything?”
“I fancied you wanted to speak to me,” he said.
“You are, perhaps, one of the doctors,” said Ethel, not knowing what else to say.
“Yes, I’m one of the doctors,” he said, looking at her keenly all the time, with a self-possession which she found it impossible to imitate. She was so confused, in fact, that she could think of nothing to say but, “Which one?”
“Dr. Hubert,” he said.
“Oh, are there two Dr. Huberts?” she asked. “I didn’t know that.”
“There is but one Dr. Hubert, so far as I know,” he said. “Why do you object to my being he?”
“Oh, really!” said the girl, blushing. “Please excuse me. I thought he would be an old man.”
“I’m glad he ain’t. I hate old men!” put in Bobby, unexpectedly.