"You do me less than justice, Miss Faith. You can hear me rant about philosophical niceties,—and yet think that I would not have patience to listen to a lecture from you upon my neglected duties!"
"I didn't mean that, sir."
He gave her a genial, recognizing little smile, which was not exactly in his "part"—but came in spite of him.
"Do you know, I should like to hear it, Miss Faith. I always like lectures illustrated. What have you done already?"
"There is an almost bed-ridden woman two miles off, who will bless somebody all winter for the comfort of a rocking-chair—all her life, I may rather say;—a common wooden one, Dr. Harrison."
"That is a capital idea," said the doctor. "She will bless you, I hope."
"No, certainly! I shall tell her the money is not mine,—I am only laying it out for a kind somebody."
"Miss Faith," said the doctor,—"I am not kind!"
"I think you are,"—was her gentle, somewhat wistful answer. The doctor sprung up.
"Mrs. Derrick," said he with all his comicality alive,—"Miss Faith promised me a piece of pumpkin pie."