“Then so do I, and you shall have the uttermost minute.”
“And when it is done,”—the young spirit weakened,—“this, which you gave me so long ago, shall be yours again—for a memory!”
She put his hand upon the ring which fitted her middle finger.
“A memory?” he whispered.
“Of the bravest and sweetest man in the world,” she said, putting a kiss upon the ring. “Oh! but I don’t want to go.”
She was so wonderful—with such a tremendous spirit in that brave little body. The doctor thought she might even then get well.
And when he came again, she did seem well—quite well. Her cheeks were pink, her lips crimson, her hair was coiled and dressed. She smiled and said: “Paint!”
But the trick had deceived her family even more than it had deceived the doctor. For, one by one they came in and, standing at the foot of the bed, seeing the pretty little painted creature, they were sure that she was getting better rapidly—was, in fact, almost well! Her younger sister romped in and leaped upon the bed, crying: “See, doctor! It is all as it used to be! And it has been so long since it was all as it used to be. Dearest, soon we will be out on Saint George’s Hill again, rolling together on the grass, down, down and—”
“Yes,” cooed the little patient rapturously, “soon—very soon—.” But a sudden sob ended the incident.