Mrs. Tolbridge smiled.  “I think you do manage to live very well, Miss Panney.”

“Yes,” said the other, “and I’d like to manage to have my friends live well, too.  By the way, did you ever make rum-flake for the doctor when he comes in tired and faint?”

“I never heard of it,” replied the other.

“I thought as much,” said Miss Panney.  “Well, you take the whites of two eggs and beat them up, and while you are beating you sprinkle rum over the egg, from a pepper caster, which you ought to keep clean to use for this and nothing else.  Then you should sift in sugar according to taste, and when you have put a dry macaroon, which has been soaking in rum all this time, in the bottom of a glass saucer, you pile the flake over it, and it’s ready for him, except that sometimes you put in,—­let me see!—­a little orange juice, I think, but I’ve got the recipe there in my scrap-book, and I can find it in a minute.”  So saying, the old lady threw aside the coverlid, and jumped to the floor with the activity of a cat.

Mrs. Tolbridge burst out laughing.

“I declare, Miss Panney!” she exclaimed, “you have your dress on.”

“What of that?” said the old lady, opening a drawer.  “A warm dress is a good thing to wear, at least I have always found it so.”

“But not with a night-cap,” said the other.

“That depends on circumstances,” said Miss Panney, turning over the pages of a large scrap-book.

“And shoes,” continued Mrs. Tolbridge, laughing again.

“Shoes,” cried Miss Panney, pushing out one foot, and looking at it.  “Well, truly, that was an oversight; but here is the recipe;” and without the aid of spectacles, she began to read.  “It’s exactly as I told you,” she said presently, “except that some people use sponge cake instead of macaroons.  The orange juice depends on individual taste.  Shall I write that out for you, or will you remember it?”

“Oh, I can remember it,” said the other; “but tell me, Miss Panney—­”

“Well, then,” said the old lady, “make it for him, and see how he likes it.  There is one thing, Mrs. Tolbridge, that you should never forget, and that is that the doctor is not only your husband, but the mainstay of the community.”

“Oh, I know that, and accept the responsibility; but you must tell me why you are in bed with all your clothes on.  I believe that you did not expect the doctor so soon, and when you heard my knock, you clapped on your night-cap and jumped into bed.”

“Catherine,” quietly remarked the old lady, “there is nothing so discouraging to a doctor as to find a person who has sent for him out of bed.  If the patient is up and about, she mystifies him; he is apt to make mistakes; he loses interest; he wonders if she couldn’t come to him, instead of his having to go to her; but when he finds the ailing person in bed, the case is natural and straightforward; he feels at home, and knows how to go to work.  If you believe in a doctor, you ought to make him believe in you.  And if you are in bed, he will believe in you, and if you are out of it, he is apt not to.  More than that, Mrs. Tolbridge, there is no greater compliment that you can pay to a physician you have sent for, than to have him find you in bed.”