"To-morrow?" dimpled the May Girl. "Ha!--To-morrow!" shrugged young Kennilworth. "It was the rabbits," dimpled the May Girl, "that I was going to tell you about now. It's a very moral song written specially to deplore the--the thievish habits of the rabbits. But I can't seem to get around to the 'deploring' until the second verse. All the first verse is just scientific description." Adorably the young voice lilted into the nonsense--- "Oh, the habit of a rabbit Is a fact that would amaze From the pinkness of his blinkness and the blandness of his gaze, In a nose that's so a-twinkle like a merri--perri--winkle--- And---" Goodness me!--That _voice_!--The babyishness of it!--And the poignancy! Should one laugh? Or should one cry? Clap one's hands? Or bolt from the room? I decided to bolt from the room. Both my Husband and myself thought it would be only right to telephone Dr. Brawne about the fainting spell. There was a telephone fortunately in my own room. And there is one thing at least very compensatory about telephoning to doctors. If you once succeed in finding them, there is never an undue lag in the conversation itself. "But tell me only just one thing," I besought my Husband, "so I won't be talking merely to a voice! This Dr. Brawne of yours?--Is he old or young? Fat or thin? Jolly? Or----?" "He's about fifty," said my Husband. "Fifty-five perhaps. Stoutish rather, I think you'd call him. And jolly. Oh, I----" "Ting-a-ling--ling--_ling_!" urged the telephone-bell. Across a hundred miles of dripping, rain-bejeweled wires, Dr. Brawne's voice flamed up at last with an almost metallic crispness. "Yes?" "This is Dr. Brawne?" "Yes." "This is Mrs. Delville--Jack Delville's wife." "Yes?" "We just thought we'd call up and report the safe arrival of your ward and tell you how much we are enjoying her!" "Yes? I trust she didn't turn up with any more lame, halt, or blind pets than you were able to handle." "Oh no--_no_--not--at all!" I hastened to affirm. (Certainly it seemed no time to explain about poor Allan John.) "But what I really called up to say," I hastened to confide, "is that she fainted this afternoon, and----" "Yes?" crisped the clear incisive voice again. "Fainted," I repeated. "Yes?" "_Fainted_!" I fairly shouted. "Oh, I hardly think that's anything," murmured Dr. Brawne. His voice sounded suddenly very far away and muffled as though he were talking through a rather soggy soda biscuit. "She faints very easily. I don't find anything the matter. It's just a temporary instability, I think. She's grown so very fast." "Yes, she's tall," I admitted. "Everything else all right?" queried the voice. The wires were working better now. "I don't need to ask if she's having a good time," essayed the voice very courteously. "She's always so essentially original in her ways of having a good time--even with strangers--even when she's really feeling rather shy."