“Are you?  Your voice sounds weak to-night.”

“I do not suppose I am very strong.”

“How many wonderful things have you found to-day?”

“I have not thought about them—­I have not found any.”

Doctor Sandford bent a little over Daisy’s couch, holding her hand still and examining her.

“What is the matter, Daisy?” said he.

Daisy fidgeted.  The doctor’s fine blue eyes were too close to her and too steady to be escaped from.  Daisy turned her own eyes uneasily away, then brought them back; she could not help it.  He was waiting for her to speak.

“Dr. Sandford,” she said humbly, “won’t you please excuse me?”

“Excuse you what, Daisy?”

“From telling you what you want to know.”

“Pray why should I?”

“It is something that is quite private to myself.”

If the doctor’s lips remained perfectly still for some moments, it was because they had a private inclination to smile, in which he would not indulge them.  Daisy saw nothing but the most moveless gravity.

“Private from all but your physician, Daisy,” he said at last.  “Do not you know he is an exception to general rules?”

“Is he?” said Daisy.

“Certainly.  I always become acquainted with people’s private affairs.”

“But I do not want that you should be acquainted with mine.”

“No matter.  You are under my care,” said the doctor.  Then after a minute he added in a lower tone, “What have you been shedding tears about to-day?”

Daisy’s face looked intensely grave; wise and old beyond her days, though the mouth was also sweet.  So she faced the doctor and answered him with the sedateness of fifty years—­“I can’t very well tell you, Dr. Sandford.”

“You have been shedding tears to-day?”

“Yes, sir—­” said Daisy softly.

“A good many of them?  You have been lying here with your face to the window, crying quietly, a good part of the afternoon—­have you not?”

“Yes, sir,” said Daisy, wondering at him.

“Now I am your physician and must know what was the matter.”

“It is something I cannot tell about, Dr. Sandford.”

“Yes, Daisy, you are mistaken.  Whatever concerns you, concerns me; if it is the concern of nobody else.  Were you tired of lying here so long, day after day?”

“O no, sir!  I don’t mind that at all.  I mean—­I don’t mind it at all much.”

“You do not?” said the doctor.  “Have you lost a pet kitten, or a beloved lap-dog?”

“I haven’t any, either a kitten or a dog,” said Daisy.

“Has that young cavalier, Preston Gary, neglected you?”

“He would not do that,” said Daisy; “but he is very fond of shooting.”

“He is!” said Dr. Sandford.  “Most boys are.  You have not felt lonely, then, Daisy?”

“O no, sir.”

“I believe I should, in your place.  What is the matter, then?  I ask as your friend and physician; and you must tell me, Daisy.  Who has been to see you to-day?”