“I'll bring him--but I may have to chloroform the Countess to get him into the house. You must try to sleep, while I'm gone--and don't fret--will you? You'll get well all the quicker for taking things easily.” Chip smiled faintly at this wholesome advice, and the Little Doctor laid her hand shyly upon his forehead to test its temperature, drew down the shade over the south window, and left him in dim, shadowy coolness to sleep. She came again before she started for Johnny, and found him wide awake and staring hungrily at the patch of blue sky visible through the window which faced the East. “You'll have to learn to obey orders better than this,” she said, severely, and took quiet possession of his wrist. “I told you not to fret about being hurt. I know you hate it--” Chip flushed a little under her touch and the tone in which she spoke the last words. It seemed to mean that she hated it even more than he did, having him helpless in the house with her. It hadn't been so long since she had told him plainly how little she liked him. He was not going to forget, in a hurry! “Why don't you send me to the hospital?” he demanded, brusquely. “I could stand the trip, all right.” The Little Doctor, the color coming and going in her cheeks, pressed her cool fingers against his forehead. “Because I want you here to practice on. Do you think I'd let such a chance escape?” After she was gone, Chip found some things to puzzle over. He felt that he was no match for the Little Doctor, and for the first time in his life he deeply regretted his ignorance of woman nature. When the dishes were done, the Countess put her resentment behind her and went in to sit with Chip, with the best of intentions. The most disagreeable trait of some disagreeable people is that their intentions are invariably good. She had her “crochy work,” and Chip groaned inwardly when he saw her settle herself comfortably in a rocking-chair and unwind her thread. The Countess had worked hard all her life, and her hands were red and big-jointed. There was no pleasure in watching their clever manipulation of the little, steel hook. If it had been the Little Doctor's hands, now--Chip turned again to the decapitated, pale blue vine with its pink flowers and no leaves. The Countess counted off “chain 'leven” and began in a constrained tone, such as some well-meaning people employ against helpless sick folk. “How're yuh feelin' now? Yuh want a drink, or anything?” Chip did not want a drink, and he felt all right, he guessed. The Countess thought to cheer him a little.