“Father thinks that you should be able to walk in about three days,” said Miss Farr cheerfully.

Spence said he hoped that Dr. Farr was right.  But the rain, he feared, might keep him back a bit, “I am really sorry,” he added, “that my presence is so distasteful to the doctor.  I have been here almost two weeks and I have seen so little of him that I’m afraid I am keeping him out of his own house.”

“No, you are not doing that,” the girl’s reassurance was cordial enough, “Father is having an outside spell just now.  He quite often does.  Sometimes for weeks together he spends most of his time out of doors.  Then, quite suddenly, he will settle down and be more like—­ other people.”

It was her way, the professor noticed, to state facts, not to explain them.

“Then he has what I call an ‘inside spell,’” she went on.  “That is when he does most of his writing.  He does some quite good things, you know.  And a few of them get published.”

“Scientific articles?” asked Spence.

“Well—­articles.  You might not call them scientific.  Science is very exact, isn’t it?  Father would rather be interesting than exact any day.”

Her hearer found no difficulty in believing this.

“His folk-lore stories are the best—­and the least exact,” continued she, heedless of the shock inflicted upon the professorial mind.  “He knows exactly the kind of things Indians tell, and tells it very much better,”

“You mean he—­he fakes it?”

“Well—­he calls it ‘editing.’”

“But, my dear girl, you can’t edit folk-lore!”

“Father can.”

“But—­but it isn’t done!  Such material loses all value if not authentic.”

“Does it?”

The question was indifferent.  So indifferent, in the face of a matter of such moment, that Hamilton Spence writhed upon his couch.  Here at least there was room for genuine missionary work.  He cleared his throat.

“I will tell you just how much it matters,” he began firmly.  But the fates were not with him, neither was his audience.  Attracted by some movement which he had missed she, the audience, had slipped to the door, and was opening it cautiously.

“What is it?” asked the baffled lecturer crossly.

“S-ssh!  I think it’s Sami.”

“A tame bear?”

“No.  Wait.  I’ll prop you up so you can see him.  Look, behind the veranda post.”

The professor looked and forgot about the value of authenticity; for from behind the veranda post a most curious face was peeping—­a round, solemn baby face of cafe au lait with squat, wide nose and flat-set eyes.

“A Jap?” exclaimed Spence in surprise.

“No.  He’s Indian.  Some of the babies are so Japaneesy that it’s hard to tell the difference.  Father says it’s a strain of the same blood.  But they are not all as pretty as Sami.  Isn’t he a duck?”

“He is at home in the rain, anyway.  Why doesn’t he come in?”