“Won’t you sit down?” he said, so gently that my eyes filled with tears, and again everything was blurred as I blundered to the seat.

He did some other things, and mixed medicines that he took out of a black bag, and made John take some.  After this he sat down on a wooden box, near me, and watched in silence, and I felt that he was a friend.  Mr. Barnett left, promising to return soon, and we remained there, listening to the quick breathing, and dully hearing the long, low booming of the great waves outside, till I fancied they were saying things to me, which I could not understand.

After a time Susie came in.

“Yer father says won’t you please come in an’ have yer supper,” she said.  “I knows ye’d rather stay here, but there ain’t no jobs folks kin do better starvin’ than when they’s had their grub.  An’ th’ poor dear man wants yer that bad it makes me feel sorry fer him.”

“You ought to go and have something to eat, and rest a little, Miss Jelliffe,” said the doctor.  “This young person appears to have some rather sensible ideas, and you can return whenever you want to.”

So I rose, because it wasn’t fair to poor old Dad to leave him alone all the time.  Of course it was hurting me to leave, but it would also have hurt to think that he would be having his supper all alone, so sadly.

“You will let me know if....”

“Of course I will,” interrupted the doctor boy.  “You may depend on me.  I’ll send the big chap here over, if there is any change.”

“You are very good,” I said.  “I think—­I think you are a very nice doctor.”

To my surprise he blushed just a little.

“Thank you,” he said.  “Thank you very much.”

There was a smile on his face, and I think I managed to smile a little too, and then I went off with Susie.

“They is some o’ th’ old women as tells about love medicines as can make folks jist crazy fer one another,” she said, as we walked away, rapidly.  “Seems ter me ‘twould be good enough if some o’ them doctors found out some drug as worked t’other way.  This bein’ in love is harder’n the teethache, an’ is enough ter make one feel like hopin’ ter be an old maid.”

“Perhaps it does, Susie,” I assented.

“Come in,” cried Dad, as I pushed the door open.  “Glad to see you, Helen.  I hope the poor chap’s better.  I just had Stefansson up here, and he says that old Sammy tried his best to drown them all and smash the yacht to kindling.  But he admitted that the way the old fellow slapped her through was a marvel.  But next year he’s going back to racing boats; says he’s had enough of cruising.”

He looked at me, as I sank wearily in a chair, too tired to answer.

“What’s the matter, daughter?” he asked.  “You are not ill, are you?”

He rose and came towards me, his dear loving face full of concern, and I jumped up too and kissed him.

“That’s my own dear little girl,” he said, much comforted.  “And—­and Helen dear, I don’t suppose you will want to sail to-morrow, will you, or in a day or two?”