When Dr. Leigh called next day, on her morning rounds, she found a brother of the celibate order, Father Monies, in charge.  He was sitting by the window reading, and when the doctor came up the steps he told her in a low voice to enter without knocking.  Father Damon was better, much better; but he had advised him not to leave his bed, and the patient had been dozing all the morning.  The doctor asked if he had eaten anything, and how much.  The apartment was small and scantily furnished—­a sort of anchorite cell.  Through the drawn doors of the next room the bed was in sight.  As they were talking in low voices there came from this room a cheerful: 

“Good-morning, doctor.”

“I hope you ate a good breakfast,” she said, as she arose and went to his bedside.

“I suppose you mean better than usual,” he replied, with a faint attempt at a smile.  “No doubt you and Father Monies are satisfied, now you’ve got me laid up.”

“That depends upon your intentions.”

“Oh, I intend to get up tomorrow.”

“If you do, without other change in your intentions, I am going to report you to the Organized Charity as a person who has no visible means of support.”

She had brought a bunch of violets, and as they talked she had filled a glass with water and put them on a stand by the head of the bed.  Then —­oh, quite professionally—­she smoothed out his pillows and straightened the bedclothes, and, talking all the time, and as if quite unconscious of what she was doing, moved about the room, putting things to rights, and saying, in answer to his protest, that perhaps she should lose her reputation as a physician in his eyes by appearing to be a professional nurse.

There was a timid knock at the door, and a forlorn little figure, clad in a rumpled calico, with an old shawl over her head, half concealing an eager and pretty face, stood in the doorway, and hesitatingly came in.

“Meine Mutter sent me to see how Father Damon is,” she explained; “she could not come, because she washes.”

She had a bunch of flowers in her hand, and encouraged by the greeting of the invalid, she came to the bedside and placed them in his outstretched hand—­a faded blossom of scarlet geranium, a bachelor’s button, and a sprig of parsley, probably begged of a street dealer as she came along.  “Some blooms,” she said.

“Bless you, my dear,” said Father Damon; “they are very pretty.”

“Dey smells nice,” the child exclaimed, her eyes dancing with pleasure at the reception of her gift.  She stood staring at him, and then, her eye catching the violets, she added, “Dose is pooty, too.”

“If you can stay half an hour or so, I should like to step round to the chapel,” Father Monies said to the doctor in the front room, taking up his hat.