On these explorations Barbara’s chosen companion was Bubbles.  He was no longer a mere Buttons:  her interest and belief in the child had passed beyond the wish to see him develop into a good servant.  She wished to make something better of him—­or if there is nothing better than a good servant, something more showy and ornamental.

He was sharp as a needle; and he was honest.  He was not too old to be moulded by good influences, schools, and associations into a man with proper manners, and an upper-class command of the English language.  He should go to one of the New England church schools, later to college, then he should choose a career for himself and be helped into harness.  So she planned his future.  In the meanwhile she wished to see the thin, spindly body catch up with the big, intelligent head.  Although his muscles were tough and wiry he had a delicate look which troubled her, and a cough which to her inexperienced and anxious ears suggested a consumptive tendency.

Dr. Ferris laughed at this, but to satisfy her he gave the boy a thorough questioning and a thorough looking over.  “Any of your family consumptives, Bubbles?”

“Don’t think so, sir.”

“Well, you’re not.  Heart and lungs are sound.”

“Miss Barbara says she doesn’t like my cough.”

“Yes,” said the surgeon, “it worries her quite a good deal.  And I advise you to stop it.”

“But my throat gets tickling, and—­”

“Your throat gets tickling because you are an inveterate cigarette smoker.  And that’s the reason why you are undersized and under-nourished.  How long have you smoked?”

“I don’t remember when I didn’t.”

“Can’t you stop?”

“I stopped once for two days, and then I took a pack of smokers that wasn’t mine.  That was about the only thing I ever stole.”

“But if you gave me your word not to smoke any more till you’re twenty-one, couldn’t you keep that promise?”

“I could try,” said Bubbles, evincing very little confidence,

“Will you try?” said the surgeon.  “Hello, what’s this?”

The boy in lifting his left arm had disclosed a dark-brown birthmark shaped like the new moon.  All amusement had gone out of Dr. Ferris’s eyes; and he had that look of tragic memories that so often put an end to his smiling and optimistic moods.

“Do you remember your father?”

“No, sir.”

“Mother living?”

Bubbles hesitated.  “She’s in an asylum.  She’s crazy.”

“What was your father’s name?”

Bubbles shook his head.

The surgeon considered for a moment.  “Well,” he said, at length, and once more smiling, “put your clothes on, and then go to Miss Ferris and promise her that you won’t smoke any more.  What asylum did you say your mother was in?”

“Ottawan.”

“Do you ever see her?”

“No, sir.  She don’t like to see me.”