hers with a look of tentative appeal, but it slipped off Miss Trotter’s dark pupils—­which were as abstractedly critical as the doctor’s—­without being absorbed by them.  When the door closed behind her, the doctor exclaimed:  “By Jove! you’re in luck, Chris!  That’s a splendid woman!  Just the one to look after you!” The patient groaned slightly.  “Do what she says, and we’ll pull you through in no time.  Why! she’s able to adjust those bandages herself!”

This, indeed, she did a week later, when the surgeon had failed to call, unveiling his neck and arm with professional coolness, and supporting him in her slim arms against her stiff, erect buckramed breast, while she replaced the splints with masculine firmness of touch and serene and sexless indifference.  His stammered embarrassed thanks at the relief—­for he had been in considerable pain—­she accepted with a certain pride as a tribute to her skill, a tribute which Dr. Duchesne himself afterward fully indorsed.

On re-entering his room the third or fourth morning after his advent at the Summit House, she noticed with some concern that there was a slight flush on his cheek and a certain exaltation which she at first thought presaged fever.  But an examination of his pulse and temperature dispelled that fear, and his talkativeness and good spirits convinced her that it was only his youthful vigor at last overcoming his despondency.  A few days later, this cheerfulness not being continued, Dr. Duchesne followed Miss Trotter into the hall.  “We must try to keep our patient from moping in his confinement, you know,” he began, with a slight smile, “and he seems to be somewhat of an emotional nature, accustomed to be amused and—­er—­er—­petted.”

“His friends were here yesterday,” returned Miss Trotter dryly, “but I did not interfere with them until I thought they had stayed long enough to suit your wishes.”

“I am not referring to them,” said the doctor, still smiling; “but you know a woman’s sympathy and presence in a sickroom is often the best of tonics or sedatives.”

Miss Trotter raised her eyes to the speaker with a half critical impatience.

“The fact is,” the doctor went on, “I have a favor to ask of you for our patient.  It seems that the other morning a new chambermaid waited upon him, whom he found much more gentle and sympathetic in her manner than the others, and more submissive and quiet in her ways—­possibly because she is a foreigner, and accustomed to servitude.  I suppose you have no objection to her taking charge of his room?”

Miss Trotter’s cheek slightly flushed.  Not from wounded vanity, but from the consciousness of some want of acumen that had made her make a mistake.  She had really believed, from her knowledge of the patient’s character and the doctor’s preamble, that he wished her to show some more kindness and personal sympathy to the young man, and had even been prepared to question its utility!  She saw