THE SICK-A-BED LADY
I'm not a little girl," she added conscientiously—"I'm twenty years old."
So the Young Doctor slipped over gently behind her and lifted her limp form up into the lean, solid curve of his arm and shoulder. It was n't exactly a sumptuous corner like silken pillows, but it felt as glad as the first rock you strike on a life-swim for shore, and the Sick-A-Bed Lady dropped right off to sleep sitting bolt upright, wondering vaguely how she happened to have two hearts, one that fluttered in the usual place, and one that pounded rather noisily in her back somewhere between her shoulder-blades.
On his way home that day the Young Doctor stopped for a long while at his Best Friend's house to discuss some curious features of the Case.
"Anything new turned up?" asked the Best Friend.
"Nothing," said the Young Doctor, pulling mood ily at his cigar.
"Well, it certainly beats me," exclaimed the Best Friend, "how any long-headed, shrewd old fellow like the Old Doctor could have brought a raving fever patient here and installed her in his own house under that clumsy Old Housekeeper without once mentioning to any one who the girl was, or where to communicate with her people. Great Heavens, the Old Doctor knew what a poor 'risk' he was.
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