“Why, of course,” replied Dick; “that’s what you are a doctor for.”

“Well, I won’t agree to do anything of the sort,” said the little doctor coolly, “if you don’t do your part.  Do you know what patience means?”

“I’ve been patient,” exclaimed Dick, in a dudgeon, “forever and ever so many weeks, and now papa is coming home, and I”—­

And then he realized what he had done, and he turned quite pale, and looked at his mother.

Her face gave no sign, but he sank back in his chair, feeling disgraced for life, and ready to keep quiet forever.  And he was so good while Dr. Fisher was attending to his leg that when he was through, the little doctor turned to him approvingly:  “Well, sir, I think that I can promise that you can go home Saturday.  You’ve improved beyond my expectation.”

But Dick didn’t “hurrah,” nor even smile.

“Dicky,” said Mrs. Whitney, smiling into his downcast face, “how glad we are to hear that; just think, good Dr. Fisher says we may go next Saturday.”

“I’m glad,” mumbled Dick, in a forlorn little voice, and till after the door closed on the retreating form of the doctor, it was all that could be gotten out of him.  Then he turned and put out both arms to his mother.

“I didn’t mean—­I didn’t mean—­I truly didn’t mean—­to tell—­mamma,” he sobbed, as she clasped him closely.

“I know you didn’t, dear,” she soothed him.  “It has really done no harm; papa didn’t want the home people to know, as he wants to surprise them.”

“But it was a secret,” said Dick, between his tears, feeling as if he had lost a precious treasure entrusted to him.  “Oh, mamma!  I really didn’t mean to let it go.”

“Mamma feels quite sure of that,” said Mrs. Whitney gently.  “You are right, Dicky, in feeling sorry and ashamed, because anything given to you to keep is not your own but belongs to another; but, my boy, the next duty is to keep back those tears—­all this is hurting your leg.”

Dick struggled manfully, but still the tears rolled down his cheeks.  At last he said, raising his head, “You would much better let me have my cry out, mamma; it’s half-way, and it hurts to send it back.”

“Well, I don’t think so,” said Mrs. Whitney, with a laugh.  “I’ve often wanted to have a cry out, as you call it.  But that’s weak, Dicky, and should be stopped, for the more one cries, the more one wants to.”

“You’ve often wanted to have a cry out?” repeated Dick, in such amazement that every tear just getting ready to show itself immediately rushed back again.  “Why, you haven’t anything to cry for, mamma.”

“Indeed I have,” she declared; “often and often, I do many things that I ought not to do”—­

“Oh! never, never,” cried Dick, clutching her around the neck, to the detriment of her lace-trimmed wrapper.  “My sweetest, dearingest mamma is ever and always just right.”

“Indeed, Dick,” said Mrs. Whitney earnestly, “the longer I live, I find that every day I have something to be sorry for in myself.  But God, you know, is good,” she whispered softly.