Never were the days too long. Each was filled with such new and lively interest as to preclude the thought of ennui. To provide against it, he had sent for books—more than he had had time to read in all the busy days of the last three years. These and his microscope and his surgical instruments had been brought him on a mule team by Jerry Carew, who did his "toting" for him, fetching all he needed for work or comfort, in this way, from the nearest station where goods could be sent until the hotel opened in the early summer. Not that he needed them, but that, as an artist loves to keep a supply of paints and canvas, or a writer—even when idle—is happier to know that he has at hand plenty of pens and blank paper, he liked to have them.
Thus far he had felt no more need of his books than he had for his surgical instruments, but now he was glad he had them for the sake of the girl who was "that sot on all such." He would open the box the moment he had eaten, and look them over. The little brother should take them down to her one at a time—or better—he would take them himself and watch the smile which came so rarely and sweetly to play about her lips, and in her eyes, and vanish. Surely he had a right to that for his pains.
He heard the sound of rapid hoof beats approaching across the level space from the cabin above him, and looking up, as if conjured from his innermost thought, he saw her coming, allowing the colt to swing along as he would. Her bonnet hung by the strings from her arm, her hair blew in crinkling wisps across her face, and the rapid exercise had brought roses into the creamy whiteness of her skin. She kept to the brow of the ridge and would have passed him unseeing, her eyes fixed on the distant hills, had he not called to her in his clear Alpine jodel.
She reined in sharply and, slipping from the saddle, walked quickly to him, leading the colt, which was warm and panting as if he had carried her a good distance at that pace.
"Oh, Doctor Thryng, we need you right bad. That's why I took this way home. Have you been to the house?"
"Yes. I have just come from there."
"Is mother all right?"
"Doing splendidly." He waited, and she lifted her face to him anxiously.
"We need you bad, Doctor."
"Yes—but not you—you're not—" he began stupidly.