Pearl sprang up, almost in tears.  “Doc,” she cried indignantly, “haven’t I towld ye a dozen times not to say that?  Where’s yer sense, Doc?”

The doctor laughed.  He could laugh about it now, since Dr. Barner had quite exonerated him from blame in the matter, and given it as his professional opinion that young Cowan would have died any way—­the lancing of his throat having perhaps hastened, but did not cause his death.

“Pearl,” the doctor said smiling, “Arthur’s father sent me 50 pounds and a letter that will make me blush every time I think of it.  Now I cannot take the money.  The operation, no doubt, saved his life, but if it hadn’t been for you there would have been no operation.  I want you to take the money.  If you do not, I will have to send it back to Arthur’s father and tell him all about it.”

Pearl looked at him in real distress.

“And I’ll tell everyone else, too, what kind of a man I am—­Jim here knows it already”—­the doctor’s eyes were smiling as he watched her troubled little face.

“Oh, Doctor Clay,” she cried, “you’re worse ’n Danny when you get a notion inter yer head.  What kin I do with ye?”

“I do not know,” the doctor laughed,” unless you marry me when you grow up.”

“Well,” Pearl answered gravely, “I can’t do that till ma and me git the family raised, but I’m thinkin’ maybe Mary Barner might take ye.”

“I thought of that, too,” the doctor answered, while a slight shadow passed over his face, “but she seems to think not.  However, I’m not in a hurry Pearl, and I just think I’ll wait for you.”

After Camilla and Jim and the doctor had gone that night, and Teddy and Billy and Jimmy had gone to bed, Pearl crept into her father’s arms and laid her head on his broad shoulder.

“Pa,” she said drowsily, “I’m glad I’m home.”

Her father patted her little brown hand.

“So am I, acushla,” he said; after a pause he whispered, “yer a good wee girl, Pearlie,” but Pearl’s tired little eyes had closed in sleep.

Mrs. Watson laid more wood on the fire, which crackled merrily up the chimney.

“Lay her down, John dear,” she whispered.  “Yer arms’ll ache, man.”

On the back of the stove the teakettle simmered drowsily.  There was no sound in the house but the regular breathing of the sleeping children.  The fire burned low, but John Watson still sat holding his little sleeping girl in his arms.  Outside the snow was beginning to fall.

CONCLUSION CONVINCING CAMILLA

“If you can convince me, Jim, that you are more irresponsible and more in need of a guiding hand than Mrs. Francis—­why then I’ll—­I’ll be—­”

Jim sprang from his chair.

“You’ll be what, Camilla?  Tell me quick,” he cried eagerly.

“I’ll be—­convinced,” she said demurely, looking down.

Jim sat down again and sighed.