“Oh, dear, oh, dear! Quite a deep little cut. Nasty little cut. Nasty little cut. But, never mind. Never mind, little lady. We’ll soon have it better. Soon have it better, little lady. What’s your name?” “My name is Joyce,” said the child distinctly. “Oh, really!” he replied. “Oh, really! Well, that’s a fine name too, in my opinion. Joyce, eh?—And how old might Miss Joyce be? Can she tell me that?” “I’m six,” said the child, slightly amused and very condescending. “Six! There now. Add up and count as far as six, can you? Well, that’s a clever little girl, a clever little girl. And if she has to drink a spoonful of medicine, she won’t make a murmur, I’ll be bound. Not like _some_ little girls. What? Eh?” “I take it if mother wishes me to,” said Joyce. “Ah, there now! That’s the style! That’s what I like to hear from a little lady in bed because she’s cut her knee. That’s the style—” The comfortable and prolix doctor dressed and bandaged the knee and recommended bed and a light diet for the little lady. He thought a week or a fortnight would put it right. No bones or ligatures damaged—fortunately. Only a flesh cut. He would come again in a day or two. So Joyce was reassured and stayed in bed and had all her toys up. Her father often played with her. The doctor came the third day. He was fairly pleased with the knee. It was healing. It was healing—yes—yes. Let the child continue in bed. He came again after a day or two. Winifred was a trifle uneasy. The wound seemed to be healing on the top, but it hurt the child too much. It didn’t look quite right. She said so to Egbert. “Egbert, I’m sure Joyce’s knee isn’t healing properly.” “I think it is,” he said. “I think it’s all right.” “I’d rather Doctor Wing came again—I don’t feel satisfied.” “Aren’t you trying to imagine it worse than it really is?” “You would say so, of course. But I shall write a post-card to Doctor Wing now.” The doctor came next day. He examined the knee. Yes, there was inflammation. Yes, there _might_ be a little septic poisoning—there might. There might. Was the child feverish? So a fortnight passed by, and the child _was_ feverish, and the knee was more inflamed and grew worse and was painful, painful. She cried in the night, and her mother had to sit up with her. Egbert still insisted it was nothing, really—it would pass. But in his heart he was anxious. Winifred wrote again to her father. On Saturday the elderly man appeared. And no sooner did Winifred see the thick, rather short figure in its grey suit than a great yearning came over her. “Father, I’m not satisfied with Joyce. I’m not satisfied with Doctor Wing.” “Well, Winnie, dear, if you’re not satisfied we must have further advice, that is all.” The sturdy, powerful, elderly man went upstairs, his voice sounding rather grating through the house, as if it cut upon the tense atmosphere. “How are you, Joyce, darling?” he said to the child. “Does your knee hurt you? Does it hurt you, dear?”