She handed the doctor a little morocco case.  He opened it, and saw a ring, which was plainly of value.  It was old-fashioned—­a round mass of small diamonds with a good-sized central one.

“You are quite right,” he said.  “The ring is far too valuable for you to dispose of.  Bring it to my house at four o’clock, and I will get rid of it for you.”

Mrs. Puckridge was greatly relieved, and ended the interview by leading the way to the back-door.  When she opened it, he saw his patient sitting in the little arbor.  She rose, and came to meet him.

“You see I am quite well now,” she said, holding out her hand.

Her tone was guarded, but surely the ice was melting a little!  Was she taking courage at the near approach of her deliverance?

She stooped to pick a double daisy from the border.  Prompt as he generally was, he could say nothing:  he knew what was coming next.  She spoke while still she stooped.

“When you come again,” she said, “will you kindly let me know how much I am in your debt?”

As she ended she rose and stood before him, but she looked no higher than his shirt-studs.  She was ashamed to speak of her indebtedness as an amount that could be reckoned.  The whiteness of her cheek grew warm, which was all her complexion ever revealed of a blush.  It showed plainer in the deepened darkness of her eyes, and the tremulous increase of light in them.

“I will,” he replied, without the smallest response of confusion, for he had recovered himself.  “You will be careful!” he added.  “Indeed you must, or you will never be strong.”

She answered only with a little sigh, as if weakness was such a weariness! and looked away across the garden-hedge out into the infinite—­into more of it at least I think, than Faber recognized.

“And of all things,” he went on, “wear shoes—­every time you have to step off a carpet—­not mere foot-gloves like those.”

“Is this a healthy place, Doctor Faber?” she asked, looking haughtier, he thought, but plainly with a little trouble in her eyes.

“Decidedly,” he answered.  “And when you are able to walk on the heath you will find the air invigorating.  Only please mind what I say about your shoes.—­May I ask if you intend remaining here any time?”

“I have already remained so much longer than I intended, that I am afraid to say.  My plans are now uncertain.”

“Excuse me—­I know I presume—­but in our profession we must venture a little now and then—­could you not have some friend with you until you are perfectly strong again?  After what you have come through, it may be years before you are quite what you were.  I don’t want to frighten you—­only to make you careful.”

“There is no one,” she answered in a low voice, which trembled a little.

“No one—?” repeated Faber, as if waiting for the end of the sentence.  But his heart gave a great bound.