Aside from her beauty of face and form, there was a ripeness of intellect and character in her face, which had come to her from the years of isolated suffering which she had undergone.
“You are so kind to me, Wynn,” she said, with a faint, sad smile. “You have always been the best friend we ever had.”
“Why, what are you talking about?” Dearing said, lightly and with a flush. “Any other jack-leg country doctor would have taken care of you fully as well.”
“You have done hundreds of thoughtful things,” she cried. “You have left nothing undone that could possibly help us. Oh, you are too good! You haven't allowed my poor mother to pay you one penny for your services in all these years. She has tried and tried to make you take it till she has almost given up in despair.”
“I haven't done anything really worth while, Dora,” he said, lightly. “You see, you live right at hand, too, and it is no trouble at all to jump over your fence and mine. I couldn't take money from a next-door neighbor under those circumstances. You just wait until you really need a doctor, and then I'll send in a bill as long as my arm.”
“You can't help being good,” Dora said, feelingly, her wonderful violet eyes filling. “Your great heart simply went out to us in our trouble, and you have determined to help us in every way possible. Mother thinks all the world of you, and Lionel actually believes you are some sort of god.”
“Well, he's badly fooled, I tell you!” Dearing laughed. “But speaking of him, I must lecture you good and hard. You are not treating the child at all right. He oughtn't to be cooped up here in this little yard like he is. It is too small. A growing boy like that needs room, and plenty of it.”
“Oh, you don't understand!” Dora sighed, while a look of deepest pain tortured her mobile face. “I couldn't bear to have him running around a neighborhood as—as heartless as this one is. He is so observant, and has such an inquiring mind, and people are so—so cruel, so utterly unforgiving. But you are trying to change the subject. You think I have no money with which to pay a doctor's bill.” She laughed suddenly and mysteriously as she went on: “I believe I'll let you into a secret. I'll show you something. Come into the parlor.”
She led him, with graceful step and bearing, through the little central passage of the cottage to the parlor door, and they entered together. She laughed like a merry child; it was the sweet, rippling laugh he remembered so well as belonging to his youth and hers, as she pointed to the easel before a window. On it was a good water-color picture of a child at play on the grass near a stream, with a pastoral scene sketched in the background.
“Oh,” he exclaimed, admiringly, “that's the best you've shown me! It is very, very good.”