"A sister is born for adversity, too—you bet." Meanwhile, the doctor and Pearl, left alone, had broken the silence which fell upon them at first.
"Come out for a ride, Pearl," he said at last. "Saturday is the teacher's happy day, and I haven't seen you for months—not to speak to you—and I want to hear all about what you've been doing. You haven't told me yet that you are glad I was elected."
"But I wrote you a note, didn't I?"
"Oh yes indeed, you did," he agreed, "but you know even the best notes in the world lack color—or something."
"Even roses," said Pearl, "lack something too, though it isn't color."
"You will come, won't you, Pearl?" he urged.
Pearl sat on the flowered lounge, looking at him intently.
"Just wait a minute, doctor," she said, "your explanation of slivers and their treatment interests me very much. I think I had better consult you now as my physician. I have never had a physician, but it would no doubt be you if I should need one."
"Thank you, Miss Watson," he said, quite gravely, "I appreciate the compliment," and waited for her to speak.
"I have a sliver, too," she said at last. "No, not in my foot. It is in my heart, and I am afraid I have been trying the foolish way of letting it work out. You are quite right in saying it is slow, and painful—and attracts attention to itself. It does. Now that day, the second day of March, you and I had some serious conversation. I didn't understand why you said what you did. I don't yet. I am sure you said what you thought you should say. You may have been telling the truth—or if not, something you considered better than the truth, easier, more comfortable, less painful."