"Women are fools alike," grumbled the Doctor. "Never mind. 'When you come to die?' What put that into your head? Look up."
The child sheltered the flaring candle with her hand.
"I've no tho't o' dyin'," she said, laughing.
There was a gray shadow about her eyes, a peaked look to the face, he never saw before, looking at her now with a physician's eyes.
"Does anything hurt you here?" touching her chest.
"It's better now. It was that night o' th' fire. Th' breath o' th' mill, I thenk,—but it's nothin'."
"Burning copperas? Of course it's better! Oh, that's nothing!" he said, cheerfully.
When they reached the door, he held out his hand, the first time he ever had done it to her, and then waited, patting her on the head.
"I think it'll come right, Lois," he said, dreamily, looking out into the night. "You're a good girl. I think it'll all come right. For you and me. Some time. Good-night, child."
After he was a long way down the street, he turned to nod good-night again to the comical little figure in the door-way.