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Gwendolyn wondered just who the young nurse was. She opened her lips to ask; then saw how painfully her mother had colored at the mere mention of the person in question, and so kept silence.

The Doctor gone, her father came to her mother’s side and patted a shoulder. “Well, we shan’t ever say anything more about that bee,” he declared, laughing, yet serious enough. “Shall we, Gwendolyn!”

“No.” She blinked, puzzling over it a little.

“There! It’s settled.” He bent and kissed his wife. “You thought you were doing the best thing for our little girl—I know that, dear. You had her future in mind. And it’s natural—and right—for a mother to think of making friends—the right kind, too—and a place in the social world for her daughter. And I’ve been short-sighted, and neglectful, and—”

“Ah!” She raised wet eyes to him. “You had your worries. You were doing more than your share. You had to meet the question of money. While I—”

He interrupted her. “We both thought we were doing our very best,” he declared.

“We almost did our worst! Oh, what would it all have amounted to—what would anything have mattered—if we’d lost our little girl!”

The pink came rushing to Gwendolyn’s cheeks. “Why, I wasn’t lost at all!” she declared happily. “And, oh, it was so good to have my questions all answered, and understand so many things I didn’t once—and to be where all the put-out lights go, and—and where soda-water comes from. And I was so glad to get rid of Thomas and Jane and Miss Royle, and—”

The hall-door opened. She checked herself to look that way. Someone was entering with a tray. It was a maid—a maid wearing a sugar-bowl cap.

Gwendolyn knew her instantly—that pretty face, as full and rosy as the face of the French doll, and framed by saucy wisps and curls as fair as Gwendolyn’s own—and freckleless!

“Oh!” It was a low cry of delight.

The nurse smiled. She had a tray in one hand. On the tray was a blue bowl of something steaming hot. She set the tray down and came to the bed-side.

Gwendolyn’s eyes were wide with wonder. “How—how—?” she began.

Her mother answered. “Jane called down to the Policeman, and he ran to the house on the corner.”

Now the dimples sprang into place, “Goody!” exclaimed Gwendolyn, and gave a little chuckle.

Her mother went on: “We never can feel grateful enough to her, because she was such a help. And we’re so glad you’re friends already.”

Gwendolyn nodded. “She’s one of my window-friends,” she explained.

“I’m going to stay with you,” said the nurse. She smoothed Gwendolyn’s hair fondly. “Will you like that?”

“It’s fine! I—I wanted you!”

The Doctor re-entered. “Well, how does our sharp little patient feel now?” he inquired.

“I feel hungry.”

“I have some broth for you,” announced the pretty nurse, and brought forward the tray.

Gwendolyn looked down at the bowl. “M-m-m!” she breathed. “It smells good! Now”—to the Doctor—”if I had one of your nice bread-pills—”

At that, curiously enough, everyone laughed, the Doctor heartiest of all. And “Hush!” chided her mother gently while the Doctor shook a teasing finger.

“Just for that,” said he, “we’ll have eating—and no conversation—for five whole minutes.” Whereupon he began to scribble on a pad, laughing to himself every now and then as he wrote.

“That must be a cheerful prescription,” observed Gwendolyn’s father. He himself looking happier than he had.

“The country,” answered the Doctor, “is always cheerful.”

Gwendolyn’s spoon slipped from her fingers. She lifted eager, shining eyes. “Moth-er,” she half-whispered, “does the Doctor mean Johnnie Blake’s?“

The Doctor assented energetically. “I prescribe Johnnie Blake’s,” he declared.

“A-a-ah!” It was a deep breath of happiness. “I promised Johnnie that I’d come back!”

“But if my little daughter isn’t strong—” Her father gave a sidewise glance at the steaming bowl on the tray.

Thus prompted, Gwendolyn fell to eating once more, turning her attention to the croutons bobbing about on the broth Each was square and crunchy, but not so brown as a bread-pill.

“I shall now read my Johnnie Blake prescription,” announced the Doctor, and held up a leaf from the pad. “Hm! Hm!” Then, in a business-like tone; “Take two pairs of sandals, a dozen cheap gingham dresses with plenty of pockets and extra pieces for patches, and a bottle of something good for wild black-berry scratches.” He bowed. “Mix all together with one strong medium-sized garden-hoe—”