Sally did not eat. And when the doctor was ready to go, she followed him into the hall.
"May I run up and see Mr. Meriweather for just a moment?"
"He is in great pain. The housekeeper is looking after him. She is a very sensible woman."
The doctor felt that Sally was not sensible. She seemed to him, indeed, a silly little minx in a silver gown. He had rather rigid ideas. In his lexicon there was no such word as "play." He had his work to do, and he was tired.
"You might look in for a moment," he agreed, finally.
He went on, and Sally sped upstairs. The door of Merry's room was open. He lay with his eyes shut. The housekeeper was at the end of the hall getting out blankets. So Sally tip-toed in and dropped on her knees beside the bed. Merry's unhurt hand was on the outside of the counterpane. She laid her cheek against it.
He opened his eyes. "Sally!"
She nodded, tears near the surface. "Oh, Merry, you're such a darling!"
He was puzzled. "Why?"
"To look after me as you did—when Hildegarde was there."
He saw the mistake she had made, started to speak, stopped. Might it not be kinder to Sally if he sailed under false colors rather than tell her the unflattering truth?
So, as she still knelt beside the bed, he touched her bright locks with his finger-tips. "How's the shoulder?"
