“Still, I added to the collection to-day,” pursued Miss Whitmore, calmly. “I shared my seat in the train with J. G.'s silent partner (I did not find him silent, however), Mr. Duncan Whitaker. He hired a team in Dry Lake and we came out together, and I believe--please don't mention Dr. Cecil Granthum to him, will you?” Chip wished, quite savagely, that she wouldn't let those dimples dodge into her cheeks, and the laugh dodge into her eyes, like that. It made a fellow uncomfortable. He was thoroughly disgusted with her--or he would be, if she would only stop looking like that. He was in that state of mind where his only salvation, seemingly, lay in quarreling with some one immediately. “So old Dunk's come back? If you've got his heart, you must have gone hunting it with a microscope, for it's a mighty small one--almost as small as his soul. No one else even knew he had one. You ought to have it set in a ring, so you won't lose it.” “I don't wear phony jewelry, thank you,” said Miss Whitmore, and Chip thought dimples weren't so bad after all. The Little Doctor was weaving Silver's mane about her white fingers and meditating deeply. Chip wondered if she were thinking of Dr. Cecil. “Where did you learn to draw like that?” she asked, suddenly, turning toward him. “You do much better than I, and I've always been learning from good teachers. Did you ever try painting?” Chip blushed and looked away from her. This was treading close to his deep-hidden, inner self. “I don't know where I learned. I never took a lesson in my life, except from watching people and horses and the country, and remembering the lines they made, you know. I always made pictures, ever since I can remember--but I never tried colors very much. I never had a chance, working around cow-camps and on ranches.” “I'd like to have you look over some of my sketches and things--and I've paints and canvas, if you ever care to try that. Come up to the house some evening and I'll show you my daubs. They're none of them as good as 'The Old Maid.'” “I wish you'd tear that thing up!” said Chip, vehemently. “Why? The likeness is perfect. One would think you were designer for a fashion paper, the way you got the tucks in my sleeve and the braid on my collar--and you might have had the kindness to TELL me my hat was on crooked, I think!” There was a rustle in the loose straw, a distant slam of the stable door, and Chip sat alone with his horse, whittling abstractedly at his pencil till his knife blade grated upon the metal which held the eraser. CHAPTER VI. -- The Hum of Preparation. Miss Whitmore ran down to the blacksmith shop, waving an official-looking paper in her hand. “I've got it, J. G.!” “Got what--smallpox?” J. G. did not even look up from the iron he was welding. “No, my license. I'm a really, truly doctor now, and you needn't laugh, either. You said you'd give a dance if I passed, and I did. Happy Jack brought it just now.”