Charlotte waited, her cheeks warm in the darkness.  Praise is always sweet when one has earned it.

“I believe you would stand by a friend—­to the last ditch.”

Charlotte was silent for a minute; then she answered, low and honestly, “If he were a friend at all worth having I should try.”

“And expect the same loyalty in return?”

“Indeed I should.”

“I should like,” said Doctor Churchill’s steady voice, “to try a friendship like that—­an acknowledged one.  I always was a fellow who liked things definite.  I don’t like to say to myself, ’I think that man is my friend—­I’m sure he is—­he shows it.’  No, I want him to say so—­to shake hands on it.  I had such a friend once—­the only one.  When he died I felt I had lost—­I can’t tell you what, Miss Charlotte.  I never had another.”

There was a long silence this time.  The figure in the hammock lay still.  But Charlotte’s heart was beating hard.  She knew already that Doctor Churchill was the warm friend of the family.  Could he mean to single her out as the special object of his regard—­her, Charlotte—­when people like Lanse and Celia were within reach?

Charlotte rose to her feet, the doctor rising with her.  She held out her hand, and he could see that she was looking steadily up at him.  He gazed back at her, and a bright smile broke over his face.

“Do you mean it?” he said, eagerly.  “Oh, thank you!”

He grasped the firm young hand as Charlotte fancied he might have grasped that of the comrade he had lost.

“Can’t we take a little walk in this glorious moonlight?” he asked, happily.  “Just up and down the block once or twice?  Or are you too tired?”

Charlotte was not too tired; her weariness had vanished as if by magic.  The two strolled slowly up and down the quiet street, talking earnestly.  The doctor told his companion about several interesting cases he had among the children, and of one little crippled boy upon whom he had recently operated.  The girl listened with an unaffected interest and sympathy very grateful to the man who had long missed companionship of that sort.  An hour went by as if on wings.

Celia came to the door as the two young people were saying good-night at the foot of the steps.  The doctor looked up at her with a smile.

“Is the patient quiet?” he asked.

“Yes, only he mutters in his sleep.”

“That’s not strange.  He’s bound to be a bit feverish after that blow; but I don’t anticipate serious trouble.  Let Jeff sleep on the couch in his room; that will be all that’s necessary.”

Celia stood looking down at the doctor as her sister came up the steps.  “It’s strange,” she said, “for I know Lanse isn’t badly hurt, but all I can think of to-night is how I wish father and mother were here.”

“That’s been in my head all day,” said Charlotte, with her arm around Celia’s shoulder.