“I love it!”

“Third week:  When baking mudpies, or gathering ferns (but put ’em in water when you get home); when jaunting in old wagon to hay-field, orchard or vegetable-patch—­this includes tomboy yelling.  And go barefoot.”

Gwendolyn’s spoon, crouton-laden, wabbled in mid-air.  “Go barefoot?” she repeated, small face flushing to a pleased pink.  “Right away? Before I’m eight?”

“Um!” assented the Doctor.  “And shin up trees (but don’t disturb eggs if you find ’em).  Also do barefoot gardening,—­where there isn’t a plant to hurt! And wade the creek.”

Again the dimples came rushing to their places.  “I like squashing,” she declared, smiling round.

“Then isn’t there a hill to climb?” continued the Doctor, “with your hat down your back on a string?  And stones to roll—?”

The small face grew suddenly serious.  “No, thank you,” she said, with a slow shake of the head, “I’d rather not turn any stones.”

“Very well—­hm! hm!”

“Oh, and there’ll be jolly times of an evening after supper,” broke in her father, enthusiastically.  The stern lines of his face were relaxed, and a score of tiny ripples were carrying a smile from his mouth to his tired eyes.  “We’ll light all the candles—­”

“Daddy!” She relinquished the bowl, and turned to him swiftly.  “Not—­not candles that burn at both ends—­”

“No.”  He stopped smiling.

“You’re a wise little body!” pronounced the Doctor, taking her hand.

“How’s the pulse now?” asked her mother.  “Somehow”—­with a nervous little laugh—­“she makes me anxious.”

“Normal,” answered the Doctor promptly.  “Only thing that isn’t normal about her is that busy brain, which is abnormally bright.”  Thereupon he shook the small hand he was holding, strode to the table, and picked up a leather-covered case.  It was black, and held a number of bottles.  In no way did it resemble the pill-basket.  “And if a certain person is to leave for the country soon—­”

Gwendolyn’s smile was knowing.  “You mean ‘a certain party.’” He was trying to tease her with that old nursery name!

“—­She’d better rest.  Good-by.”  And with that mild advice, he beckoned the nurse to follow him, whispered with her a moment at the door, and was gone.

Gwendolyn’s father resumed his place beside the bed.  “She can rest,” he declared, “—­the blessed baby!  Not a governess or a teacher is to show as much as a hat-feather.”

She nodded.  “We don’t want ’em quacking around.”

Someone tapped at the door then, and entered—­Rosa, bearing a card-tray upon which were two square bits of pasteboard.  “To see Madam,” she said, presenting the tray.  After which she showed her white teeth in greeting to Gwendolyn, then stooped, and touched an open palm with her lips.

Gwendolyn’s mother read the cards, and shook her head.  “Tell the ladies—­explain that I can’t leave my little daughter even for a moment to-day—­”