"Do you know," he said, "I expected to find you here?"
"Very naturally," said Faith quietly.
"Yes—it is according to my experience. Now how is this child?"—
He turned to see, and so did Faith. He looked at the child, while Faith's eye went from Johnny to him. Both faces were grave, but Faith's grew more grave as she looked.
"How is this child?" she repeated.
"He is not worse," said the doctor; "except that not to be better is to be worse. Are you particularly interested in him?"
Faith looked down at the sweet pure little face, and for a minute or two was very still. She did not even think of answering the doctor, nor dare speak words at all. Her first movement was to push away softly a lock of hair from Johnny's forehead.
"What can I do for him, Dr. Harrison?"
"Not much just now—go on as you have been doing. I will be here to-night again, and then perhaps I shall know more."
He gave her a new medicine for him however; and having said all that was needful on that score, came back with her to the fire and stood a little while talking—just so long as it would do for him to stay with any chance of its being acceptable; talking in a tone that did not jar with the place or the time, gravely and pleasantly, of some matters of interest; and then he went. And Faith sat down by the bedside, and forgot Dr. Harrison; and thought of the Sunday school in the woods that evening in October, and the hymn, "I want to be an angel"; and looked at Johnny with a very full heart.