Chip knew just how he looked. Inspiration suddenly seizing upon him, he sat down upon the manger, drew his memorandum book out of his inner coat pocket, carefully sharpened a bit of lead pencil which he found in another pocket, tore a leaf from the book, and, with Silver looking over his shoulder, drew a graphic, ideal picture of Dr. Cecil Granthum. CHAPTER V. -- In Silver's Stall. “Oh, are YOU here? It's a wonder you don't have your bed brought down here, so you can sleep near Silver. How has he been doing since I left?” Chip simply sat still upon the edge of the manger and stared. His gray hat was pushed far back upon his head and his dark hair waved and curled upon his forehead, very much as a girl's might have done. He did not know that he was a very good-looking young man, but perhaps the Little Doctor did. She smiled and came up and patted Silver, who had forgotten that he ever had objected to her nearness. He nickered a soft welcome and laid his nose on her shoulder. “You've been drawing a picture. Who's the victim of your satirical pencil this time?” The Little Doctor, reaching out quickly, calmly appropriated the sketch before Chip had time to withdraw it, even if he had cared to do so. He was busy wondering how the Little Doctor came to be there at that particular time, and had forgotten the picture, which he had not quite finished labeling. “Dr. Cecil--” Miss Whitmore turned red at first, then broke into laughter. “Oh--h, ha! ha! ha! Silver, you don't know how funny this master of yours can be! Ha! ha!” She raised her head from Silver's neck, where it had rested, and wiped her eyes. “How did you know about Cecil?” she demanded of a very discomfited young man upon the manger. “I didn't know--and I didn't WANT to know. I heard the boys talking and joshing about him, and I just drew--their own conclusions.” Chip grinned a little and whittled at his pencil, and wondered how much of the statement was a lie. Miss Whitmore tamed red again, and ended by laughing even more heartily than at first. “Their conclusions aren't very complimentary,” she said. “I don't believe Dr. Cecil would feel flattered at this. Why those bowed legs, may I ask, and wherefore that long, lean, dyspeptic visage? Dr. Cecil, let me inform you, has a digestion that quails not at deviled crabs and chafing-dish horrors at midnight, as I have abundant reason to know. I have seen Dr. Cecil prepare a welsh rabbit and--eat it, also, with much relish, apparently. Oh, no, their conclusions weren't quite correct. There are other details I might mention--that cane, for instance--but let it pass. I shall keep this, I think, as a companion to 'The old maid's credential card.'” “Are you in the habit of keeping other folk's property?” inquired Chip, with some acerbity. “Nothing but personal caricatures--and hearts, perhaps,” returned the Little Doctor, sweetly. “I hardly think your collection of the last named article is very large,” retorted Chip.