“Then I’ll see the child over there later to-night,” he said. “Were you going back by train?”
“Yes,” answered Dorothy, with a glance at the woman who was shaking her head back of the doctor—motioning to Dorothy to say “Yes.”
“Then I think you might ride back in my auto. I have a call that way, and it will be much easier for the sick girl than taking a train ride.”
“Oh, that would be so very kind of you,” said Dorothy, her gratitude showing as clearly in her eyes as in her voice. “I am sure Aunt Winnie will be so thankful—”
“No trouble at all,” replied the doctor. “Plenty of room in my machine. Come, little girl,”—to Miette,—“Let us see what some fresh air will do for you.”
And they were going away at last! Dorothy felt almost like collapsing herself—the day had been strenuous indeed.
The old officer touched Dorothy’s arm as she was passing out.
“See here, girl,” he whispered, “don’t hold this again me. I was wrong—foolish. But if the doctor got hold of it—I’d be turned out, and then—it would soon be the poorhouse for me.”
Tears glistened in the deep set eyes. His hands were trembling.
“I will do the best I can,” Dorothy promised, “but father will have to know the circumstances—”