"Do you hope I have changed?—or are you afraid I have?"
"Why I don't think I said I did either," said Mrs. Derrick smiling, for she felt as if Dr. Harrison was an old acquaintance. "And I suppose it makes more difference to you than to me, anyway." Which words were not blunt in their intention, but according to the good lady's habit were a somewhat unconscious rendering of her thoughts. "How's Miss Sophy, after her holiday? I always think play's the hardest work that's done."
"I am very sorry you found it so!" said the doctor.
"You needn't be—" said Mrs. Derrick, rocking complacently and making her knitting needles play in a style that certainly might be called work,—"I've got over it now. To be sure I was tired to death, but I like to be, once in a while."
The doctor laughed, as if, in a way, he had found his match.
"And how is Miss Derrick?" he asked. "If she was tired too, it was my fault."
"I guess that 'll never be one of your faults, Dr. Harrison," said Mrs. Derrick,—"it would take any amount of folks to tire her out. She's just like a bird always. O she's well, of course, or I shouldn't be sitting here."
"And so like a bird that she lives in a region above mortal view, and only descends now and then?"
"Yes, she does stay upstairs a good deal," said Mrs. Derrick, knitting away. "Whenever she's got nothing to do down here. She's been down all the morning."
"I can't shoot flying at this kind of game," said the doctor;—"I'll endeavour to come when the bird is perched, next time. But in the meanwhile, Miss Derrick seemed pleased the other night with these Chinese illuminations—and Sophy took it into her head to make me the bearer of one, that has never yet illuminated anything, hoping that it will do that office for her heart with Miss Derrick. The heart will bear inspection, I believe, with or without the help of the lantern."