“The Docther’s! You don’t mane to tell me now, Berty, that this pocket-book belongs to the Docther?”
“Yes, Tim; he gave me a dime there at the crossing, and this dropped, and I ran after the stage, but they didn’t notice me, and then at first I meant to take it to the station or something; but I thought of my Christmas tree, and so—and so—I didn’t.”
“Well, Berty,” said Tim, after a long, thoughtful pause, “I’m glad I didn’t know the rights of the matther till ye had come to a betther mind, for I can’t say I think well of it. So it’s running away from him ye were, and no wonder; and he had it in his own hand too, sure enough. Yes, it’s well I didn’t know, for I should have given it back to him straight, and it’ll look betther coming from you.”
Berty quite agreed that it would look better coming from her, and yet her heart sank within her when she saw the Doctor’s pleasant face appear at the door. He came straight towards her bed, only nodding to the other children as he passed them.
“Good morning, Berty,” said he; “how do you find yourself to-day?”
Berty did not wait to answer. Her courage was melting away so rapidly, that she felt she had no time to lose. She took the pocket-book from Tim and held it out to the Doctor.
“Here it is. Oh, take it! take it, quick!” said she, and burst into tears.
The Doctor took the package in his hand, and stood looking from one to the other. He had put his suspicions so entirely away that they did not readily return.
“What is it, Tim?” said he, at last.
“It’s a pocket-book, sir, that Berty found. She says it’s yours.”