The child turned roguish, willful eyes. "But I wants to pick 'em." "Mother can't let you, dear. And see, they are so much prettier growing!" The small red lips pouted. The little curly head gave a vigorous shake. "But I wants 'em to grow in my hands--so," insisted a threateningly tearful voice, as the tightly clutched flower was thrust forward for inspection. "But they won't grow there, darling. See!--this one is all crumpled and broken now. It can't even lift its poor little head. Come, we don't want the rest to be like that, do we? Come! Come away with me." The young eyes grew mutinous. "I wants 'em to grow in my hand," insisted the red lips again. "But mother doesn't." There was a resolute note of decision in the quiet voice now; but suddenly it grew wonderfully soft and vibrant. "And daddy wouldn't, either, dearie. Only think how sorry daddy would be to see that poor little flower in Betty's hand!" As if in response to a potent something in her mother's voice, Betty's eyes grew roundly serious. "Why--would daddy--be sorry?" "Because daddy loves all beautiful things, and he wants them to stay beautiful. And this poor little flower in Betty's hand won't be beautiful much longer, I fear. It is all broken and crushed; and daddy--" With a sudden sense of guilt, as if trespassing on holy ground, the doctor strode forward noisily. "So this is Dorothy Elizabeth and her mother--" he began gayly; but he could get no further. Helen Denby turned with a joyous cry and an eagerly extended hand. "Oh, Dr. Gleason, I'm so glad! You _are_ better, aren't you? I'm so glad to see you!" "Yes, I'm better. I'm well--only I can't seem to make people believe it. And you-- I don't need to ask how you are. And so this big girl is the little Dorothy Elizabeth I used to know. You have your mother's eyes, my dear. Come, won't you shake hands with me?" The little girl advanced slowly, her gaze searching the doctor's face. Then, in her sweet, high-pitched treble, came the somewhat disconcerting question:-- "Is you--daddy?" The doctor laughed lightly. "No, my dear. I'm a poor unfortunate man who hasn't any little girl like you; but we'll hope, one of these days, you'll see--daddy." He turned to Helen Denby with suddenly grave, questioning eyes. "Betty, dear,"--Mrs. Denby refused to meet the doctor's gaze,--"go carry the flower to Annie and ask her please to put it in water for you; then run out and play with Bessie in the garden. Mother wants to talk to Dr. Gleason a few minutes." Then, to the doctor, she turned an agitated face. "Surely, didn't your sister--tell you? I'm going to London with Mrs. Reynolds." "Yes, she told me. But perhaps I was hoping to persuade you--to do otherwise." Her eyes grew troubled. "But it's such a fine chance--" "For more of this 'improvement' business, I suppose," cut in the doctor, a bit brusquely. She turned reproachful eyes upon him. "Oh, please, doctor, don't make fun of me like--"