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“Oh, fath-er,” cried Gwendolyn, her hoarse voice wistful with pleading, “you won’t mind if I play with Johnnie, will you?”

“Play all the time,” answered her father. “Play hard—and then play some more.”

“He isn’t a common little boy.” Whereupon, satisfied, she returned to the blue bowl.

“And now,” went on the Doctor, “as to directions.” He held up other leaves from the pad. “First week (you’ll have to go easy the first week), use the prescription each day as follows; When driving; also when lying on back watching birds in trees (and have a nap out of doors if you feel like it); also when lighting the fire at sundown. Nurse, here, will watch out for fingers.”

At that, another pleased little chuckle.

“Second week:” (the Doctor coughed, importantly) “When riding your own fat pony, or chasing butterflies—assisted by one good-natured, common, ordinary, long-haired dog; or when fishing (stream or bath-tub, it doesn’t matter!) or carrying kindling in to Cook—whether you’re tired or not!”

“I love it!”

“Third week: When baking mudpies, or gathering ferns (but put ’em in water when you get home); when jaunting in old wagon to hay-field, orchard or vegetable-patch—this includes tomboy yelling. And go barefoot.”

Gwendolyn’s spoon, crouton-laden, wabbled in mid-air. “Go barefoot?” she repeated, small face flushing to a pleased pink. “Right away? Before I’m eight?”

“Um!” assented the Doctor. “And shin up trees (but don’t disturb eggs if you find ’em). Also do barefoot gardening,—where there isn’t a plant to hurt! And wade the creek.”

Again the dimples came rushing to their places. “I like squashing,” she declared, smiling round.

“Then isn’t there a hill to climb?” continued the Doctor, “with your hat down your back on a string? And stones to roll—?”

The small face grew suddenly serious. “No, thank you,” she said, with a slow shake of the head, “I’d rather not turn any stones.”

“Very well—hm! hm!”

“Oh, and there’ll be jolly times of an evening after supper,” broke in her father, enthusiastically. The stern lines of his face were relaxed, and a score of tiny ripples were carrying a smile from his mouth to his tired eyes. “We’ll light all the candles—”

“Daddy!” She relinquished the bowl, and turned to him swiftly. “Not—not candles that burn at both ends—”

“No.” He stopped smiling.

“You’re a wise little body!” pronounced the Doctor, taking her hand.

“How’s the pulse now?” asked her mother. “Somehow”—with a nervous little laugh—”she makes me anxious.”

“Normal,” answered the Doctor promptly. “Only thing that isn’t normal about her is that busy brain, which is abnormally bright.” Thereupon he shook the small hand he was holding, strode to the table, and picked up a leather-covered case. It was black, and held a number of bottles. In no way did it resemble the pill-basket. “And if a certain person is to leave for the country soon—”

Gwendolyn’s smile was knowing. “You mean ‘a certain party.'” He was trying to tease her with that old nursery name!

“—She’d better rest. Good-by.” And with that mild advice, he beckoned the nurse to follow him, whispered with her a moment at the door, and was gone.

Gwendolyn’s father resumed his place beside the bed. “She can rest,” he declared, “—the blessed baby! Not a governess or a teacher is to show as much as a hat-feather.”

She nodded. “We don’t want ’em quacking around.”

Someone tapped at the door then, and entered—Rosa, bearing a card-tray upon which were two square bits of pasteboard. “To see Madam,” she said, presenting the tray. After which she showed her white teeth in greeting to Gwendolyn, then stooped, and touched an open palm with her lips.

Gwendolyn’s mother read the cards, and shook her head. “Tell the ladies—explain that I can’t leave my little daughter even for a moment to-day—”

“Oh, yes, Madam.”

“And that we’re leaving for the country very soon.”

Rosa bobbed her dark head as she backed away.

“And, Rosa—”

“Yes, Madam?”

“You know what I need in the country—where we were before.”

A bow.

“Pack, Rosa. And you will go, of course.”

“And Potter, Madam?”

“Potter, too. You’ll have to pack a few things up here also.” A white hand indicated the wardrobe door.

“Very well, Madam.”

As the door closed, the telephone rang. Gwendolyn’s father rose to answer it. “I think it’s the office, dear,” he explained; and into the transmitter—”Yes?… Hello?… Yes. Good-morning!… Oh, thanks! She’s better…. And by the way, just close out that line of stocks. Yes…. I shan’t be back in the office for some time. I’m leaving for the country as soon as Gwendolyn can stand the trip. To-morrow, maybe, or the next day…. No; don’t go into the market until I come back. I intend to reconstruct my policy a good deal. Yes…. Oh, yes…. Good-by.”