Marian rose from the sofa, trying, as she always did, when the Doctor came, to look strong and well. She did not take his visits to herself. Doctor Chittenden had always come now and then to see her father, and if his visits had been more frequent of late they had not been more formal or professional than before. Graeme watched him as he fastened his horse, and then went to the door to meet him.
“My child,” said he, as he took her hand, and turned her face to the light, “are you quite well to-day?”
“Quite well,” said Graeme; but she was very pale, and her cold hand trembled in his.
“You are quite well, I see,” said he, as Marian came forward to greet him.
“I ought to be,” said Marian, laughing and pointing to an empty bottle on the mantelpiece.
“I see. We must have it replenished.”
“Don’t you think something less bitter would do as well?” said Marian, making a pitiful face. “Graeme don’t think it does me much good.”
“Miss Graeme had best take care how she speaks disrespectfully of my precious bitters. But, I’ll see. I have some doubts about them myself. You ought to be getting rosy and strong upon them, and I’m afraid you are not,” said he, looking gravely into the fair pale face that he took between his hands. He looked up, and met Graeme’s look fixed anxiously upon him. He did not avert his quickly as he had sometimes done on such occasions. The gravity of his look deepened as he met hers.
“Where has your father gone?” asked he.
“To the Bell neighbourhood, for the day. The children have gone with him, and Graeme and I are going to have a nice quiet day,” said Marian.