"But it is my turn to sit in front," said Doris, smiling faintly. "We think it would be unfair to let Mr. MacCammon sit alone when he is driving us. And Rosalie and I always have each other, you know." So the bishop had to help her into the car--MacCammon's car--and into the front seat with MacCammon himself, and the bishop had to stand on the curb while they drove off. No wonder MacCammon was whistling softly to himself. With Doris out of the question, the bishop was a nice enough fellow, clean, clear-cut, straightforward--but with Doris in the question he was an eternal nuisance and a bore. And MacCammon could never get Doris out of his questions any more. "Will you come up?" she asked as they drew up beside the apartment. "Not to-night," he said softly. "But thank you for asking." She had not asked the bishop. "To-night you girls must run straight to bed and rest, and I will come for you to go with me in the morning. No, you must not try to cook until the operation is over. I will eat with you after that to even up. I know a grand place for hot cakes and sirup--very close. Good night, Rosalie, you are a good little scout," he called, as she started up the stairs. Then he drew Doris into a shadowy corner and said, "You must not worry, Doris. Rosalie is taking this better than you are. Hasn't your religion taught you that things work out just right for--men--like your father--who are whole-souled and pure-minded?" "Christians, you mean," said Doris, smiling at his evident desire to avoid the tone of preaching. "Yes, I know. I do believe that things will come right eventually, and I do not worry--much. But father is too good to suffer, and be hurt. It should have been some one else." "Oh, Doris, don't you know that your father will have more tenderness and more gentleness for all sickness and all suffering, after he himself has suffered? Before this, he has _spoken_ kindness. Now he will _live_ it. It takes the ultimate caress of pain to give us understanding." Doris moved her hands softly in his. "Yes, you must go." He put his arms around her, and her face fell against his shoulder. "Go, dear Doris, and dream of sweet and lovely things--your father strong and well and tenderer than ever--and dream of me, not very good, I know, but--very fond of you. And please forget the bishop." Doris laughed at that, quickly, breathlessly. "I will, just for to-night," she promised. "No, for all the nights." He kissed her hair where it curled beneath the blue motor hat, warmly, tenderly--for somehow he felt that this night of her anxious sorrow was not the time to press the kiss of love upon her lips, though he knew in his heart it would not have been denied him. CHAPTER XIV THE DOCTOR