"Come in, doctor," she called brightly. "Come in."
"Comin'! Comin', young lady!" grunted the little man, appearing in the doorway. "Hum!"—he halted before her. "Going to leave us in the morning, eh? I came in to say good-bye. All the fol-de-rols and fiddle-de-dees and frill-de-rums packed up, eh?"
"What's left of them, doctor," she laughed. "But they all smell so frightfully of smoke that I don't expect any one to come near me for the rest of the summer. Yes; I am going in the morning."
"And there goes the sunlight out of Hebron," sighed the doctor dolorously, puckering up his face. "Same old story—lose your heart to some young scoundrel down there in Maine, that's what'll happen. Lord, if I were only thirty—hum-m—say, twenty years younger now!"
"Well," said Janet merrily, "you've some responsibility yourself to shoulder. You advised my going."
"Professionally, professionally," qualified the doctor; "and that's a very different thing, mind you." He plumped himself into a chair, as Janet resumed her place on the sofa and the warden, laughing, went back to his seat by the table. "How long are you going to let her stay, Rand?" he demanded.
"Well, I don't know," the warden smiled. "Long enough to miss her, though I intend to run down there myself for a few days later on if I can get away. I suppose she will stay until I can get the house habitable. I wouldn't want to impose on Mrs. Woods again—we've about turned her out of house and home as it is."
"Mrs. Woods is a fine woman, a fine woman—heart of gold—splendid wife—Woods is a lucky man,"
