I suppose she became subtly conscious, as women always are, that somebody's eyes were fixed upon her, for she awoke fully, and looked up as I lingered on the door-sill. "O Dr. Martin!" she cried, "I am so glad!" She looked pleased enough to be upon the point of trying to raise herself up in order to welcome me, but I interposed quickly. It was more difficult than I had expected to assume a grave, professional tone, but by an effort I did so. I bade her lie still, and took a chair at some little distance. "Tardif is gone out fishing," she said, "and his mother is gone away too, to a christening-feast somewhere; but Mrs. Renouf is to be here in an hour or two. I told them I could manage very well as long as that." "They ought not to have left you alone," I replied. "And I shall not be left alone," she said, smiling, "for you are come, you see. I am rather glad they are away; for I wanted to tell you how much I felt your goodness to me all through that dreadful week. You are the first doctor I ever had about me, the very first. Perhaps you thought I did not know what care you were taking of me; but, somehow or other, I knew every thing. My mind did not quite go. You were very, very good to me." "Never mind that," I said; "I am come to see how my work is going on. How is the arm, first of all?" I almost wished that Mother Renouf or Suzanne Tardif had been at hand. But Miss Ollivier seemed perfectly composed, as much so as a child. She looked like one with her cropped head of hair, and frank, open face. My own momentary embarrassment passed away. The arm was going on all right, and so was Mother Renouf's charge, the sprained ankle. "We must take care you are not lame," I said, while I was feeling carefully the complicated joint of her ankle. "Lame!" she repeated, in an alarmed voice, "is there any fear of that?" "Not much," I answered, "but we must be careful, mam'zelle. You must promise me not to set your foot on the ground, or in any way rest your weight upon it, till I give you leave." "That means that you will have to come to see me again," she said; "is it not very difficult to come over from Guernsey?" "Not at all," I answered, "it is quite a treat to me." Her face grew very grave, as if she was thinking of some unpleasant topic. She looked at me earnestly and questioningly. "May I speak to you with great plainness, Dr. Martin?" she asked. "Speak precisely what is in your mind at this moment," I replied. "You are very, very good to me," she said, holding out her hand to me, "but I do not want you to come more often than is quite necessary, because I am very poor. If I were rich," she went on hurriedly, "I should like you to come every day--it is so pleasant--but I can never pay you sufficiently for that long week you were here. So please do not visit me oftener than is quite necessary." My face felt hot, but I scarcely knew what to say. I bungled out an answer: