When he came down-stairs fifteen minutes later, he found the slim figure in the Turkey-red apron waiting for him at the bottom.  As the girl looked up at him he noted, as he had done many times already in the short two weeks he had known her, the peculiar, gipsy-like beauty of her face.  It was a beauty of which she herself, he had occasion to believe, was absolutely unconscious, and in this he was right.

Charlotte disliked her dark skin, despised her black curls, and considered her vivid colouring a most undesirable inheritance.  She admired intensely Celia’s blonde loveliness, and lost no chance of privately comparing herself with her sister, to Celia’s infinite advantage.

“Doctor Churchill,” she said, as he approached her, hat in hand, “I was very rude to you just now.  I am—­sorry.”

She held out her hand.  Doctor Churchill took it.  Charlotte’s thick black lashes swept her cheek, and she did not see the look, half-laughing, half-sympathetic, which rested on her downcast face.

“It’s all right,” said Doctor Churchill’s low, clear voice.  “Don’t think I fail to understand what it means for the cares of a household like this to descend upon a girl’s shoulders.  But I want you to know that I—­that they are all immensely pleased with the pluck you are showing.  I have seen your sister’s lunch tray several times since I have been coming here; it was perfect.”

“I burned her toast just this morning,” said Charlotte, quickly.  “And poached the egg too hard.  Lanse says the coffee is better, but—­oh, no matter—­I’m just discouraged this morning, I—­shall learn something some time, perhaps, but——­” She turned away impulsively.  Doctor Churchill followed her a step or two.

“See here, Miss Charlotte,” he said, “how many times have you been out of the house since your sister was hurt?”

“Not at all,” owned Charlotte, “except evenings, after everything is done.  Then I steal out and run round and round the house in the moonlight, just running it off, you know—­or maybe you don’t know.”

“Yes, I do.  Will you do something now if I ask you to very humbly?”

Charlotte looked at him doubtfully.  “If you mean go for a walk—­which is what doctors always mean, I believe—­I haven’t time.”

Doctor Churchill looked at his watch.  “It is half past ten.  Is that chicken for luncheon?”

“No, for supper—­or dinner—­I don’t know just what it is we have at night now.  I simply began to get it ready this morning because I hadn’t the least idea in the world how long it takes to cook a chicken.”  She was smiling a little at the absurdity of her own words.

“And you didn’t want to ask your sister?”

“I meant to surprise her.”

“Well, of one thing I am fairly confident,” said Doctor Churchill, with gravity.  “If you take a run down as far as the old bridge and back, there will still be time to see to the chicken.  What is more, by the time you get back, all big obstacles will look like little ones to you.  Go, please.  I am to be in the office for the next hour, and if the house catches fire I will run over and put it out.  I could even undertake to steal in the back door and put coal on the kitchen fire, if it is necessary.”