“Are you in the habit of keeping other folk's property?” inquired Chip, with some acerbity.
“Nothing but personal caricatures—and hearts, perhaps,” returned the Little Doctor, sweetly.
“I hardly think your collection of the last named article is very large,” retorted Chip.
“Still, I added to the collection to-day,” pursued Miss Whitmore, calmly. “I shared my seat in the train with J. G.'s silent partner (I did not find him silent, however), Mr. Duncan Whitaker. He hired a team in Dry Lake and we came out together, and I believe—please don't mention Dr. Cecil Granthum to him, will you?”
Chip wished, quite savagely, that she wouldn't let those dimples dodge into her cheeks, and the laugh dodge into her eyes, like that. It made a fellow uncomfortable. He was thoroughly disgusted with her—or he would be, if she would only stop looking like that. He was in that state of mind where his only salvation, seemingly, lay in quarreling with some one immediately.
“So old Dunk's come back? If you've got his heart, you must have gone hunting it with a microscope, for it's a mighty small one—almost as small as his soul. No one else even knew he had one. You ought to have it set in a ring, so you won't lose it.”
“I don't wear phony jewelry, thank you,” said Miss Whitmore, and Chip thought dimples weren't so bad after all.
The Little Doctor was weaving Silver's mane about her white fingers and meditating deeply. Chip wondered if she were thinking of Dr. Cecil.
“Where did you learn to draw like that?” she asked, suddenly, turning toward him. “You do much better than I, and I've always been learning from good teachers. Did you ever try painting?”
Chip blushed and looked away from her. This was treading close to his deep-hidden, inner self.
“I don't know where I learned. I never took a lesson in my life, except from watching people and horses and the country, and remembering the lines they made, you know. I always made pictures, ever since I can remember—but I never tried colors very much. I never had a chance, working around cow-camps and on ranches.”
“I'd like to have you look over some of my sketches and things—and I've paints and canvas, if you ever care to try that. Come up to the house some evening and I'll show you my daubs. They're none of them as good as 'The Old Maid.'”
“I wish you'd tear that thing up!” said Chip, vehemently.
“Why? The likeness is perfect. One would think you were designer for a fashion paper, the way you got the tucks in my sleeve and the braid on my collar—and you might have had the kindness to TELL me my hat was on crooked, I think!”
There was a rustle in the loose straw, a distant slam of the stable door, and Chip sat alone with his horse, whittling abstractedly at his pencil till his knife blade grated upon the metal which held the eraser.
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VI
The Hum of Preparation
Miss Whitmore ran down to the blacksmith shop, waving an official-looking paper in her hand.
“I've got it, J. G.!”
“Got what—smallpox?” J. G. did not even look up from the iron he was welding.
“No, my license. I'm a really, truly doctor now, and you needn't laugh, either. You said you'd give a dance if I passed, and I did. Happy Jack brought it just now.”
“Brought the dance?” The Old Man gave the bellows a pull which sent a shower of sparks toward the really, truly doctor.
“Brought the license,” she explained, patiently. “You can see for yourself. They were awfully nice to me—they seemed to think a girl doctor is some kind of joke out here. They didn't make it any easier, though; they acted as if they didn't expect me to pass—but I did!”
The Old Man rubbed one smutty hand down his trousers leg and extended it for the precious document. “Let me have a look at it,” he said, trying to hide his pride in her.
“Well, but I'll hold it. Your hands are dirty.” Dr. Whitmore eyed the hands disapprovingly.
The Old Man read it slowly through, growing prouder every line.
“You're all right, Dell—I'll be doggoned if you ain't. Don't you worry about the dance—I'll see't yuh get it. You go tell the Countess to bake up a lot of cake and truck, and I'll send some uh the boys around t' tell the neighbors. Better have it Friday night, I guess—I'm goin t' start the round-up out early next week. Doggone it! I've gone and burned that weldin'. Go on and stop your botherin' me!”
In two minutes the Little Doctor was back, breathless.
“What about the music, J. G.? We want GOOD music.”
“Well, I'll tend t' that part. Say! You can rig up that room off the dining room for your office—I s'pose you'll have to have one. You make out a list of what dope you want—and be sure yuh get a-plenty. I look for an unhealthy summer among the cow-punchers. If I ain't mistook in the symptoms, Dunk's got palpitation uh the heart right now—an' got it serious.”
The Old Man chuckled to himself and went back to his welding.
“Oh, Louise!” The Little Doctor hurried to where the Countess was scrubbing the kitchen steps with soft soap and sand and considerable energy. “J. G. says I may have a dance next Friday night, so we must hurry and fix the house—only I don't see much fixing to be done; everything is SO clean.”
“Oh, there ain't a room in the house fit fer comp'ny t' walk into,” expostulated the Countess while she scrubbed. “I do like t' see a house clean when folks is expected that only come t' be critical an' make remarks behind yer back the minit they git away. If folks got anything t' say I'd a good deal ruther they said it t' my face an' be done with it. 'Yuh can know a man's face but yuh can't know his heart,' as the sayin' is, an' it's the same way with women—anyway, it's the same way with Mis' Beckman. You can know her face a mile off, but yuh never know who she's goin' t' rake over the coals next. As the sayin' is: 'The tongue of a woman, at last it biteth like a serpent an' it stingeth like an addle,' an' I guess it's so. Anyway, Mis' Beckman's does. I do b'lieve on my soul—what's the matter, Dell? What yuh laughin' at?”
The Little Doctor was past speech for the moment, and the Countess stood up and looked curiously around her. It never occurred to her that she might be the cause of that convulsive outburst.
“Oh—he—never mind—he's gone, now.”
“Who's gone?” persisted the Countess.
“What kinds of cake do you think we ought to have?” asked the Little Doctor, diplomatically.
The Countess sank to her knees and dipped a handful of amber, jelly-like soap from a tin butter can.
“Well, I don't know. I s'pose folks will look for something fancy, seein' you're givin' the dance. Mis' Beckman sets herself up as a shinin' example on cake, and she'll come just t' be critical an' find fault, if she can. If I can't bake all around her the best day she ever seen, I'll give up cookin' anything but spuds. She had the soggiest kind uh jelly roll t' the su'prise on Mary