"That was very wrong of you! You should never pretend to be what you are not!" He started nervously at this, and to cover his confusion called to the little dog, Charlie, who at once jumped up on his knees;--"You shouldn't, really! Should he, Charlie?" Charlie sat upright, and lolled a small red tongue out between two rows of tiny white teeth, by way of a laugh at the suggestion--"People--even dogs--are always found out when they do that!" "What are those bright flowers out in your garden just beyond the door where you are sitting?" Helmsley asked, to change the conversation. "Phloxes,"--she answered--"I've got all kinds and colours--crimson, white, mauve, pink, and magenta. Those which you can see from where you sit are the crimson ones--father's favourites. I wish you could get out and look at the Virginian creeper--it's lovely just now--quite a blaze of scarlet all over the cottage. And the Michaelmas daisies are coming on finely." "Michaelmas!" he echoed--"How late in the year it is growing!" "Ay, that's true!" she replied--"Michaelmas means that summer's past." "And it was full summer when I started on my tramp to Cornwall!" he murmured. "Never mind thinking about that just now," she said quickly--"You mustn't worry your head. Mr. Bunce says you mustn't on any account worry your head." "Mr. Bunce!" he repeated wearily--"What does Mr. Bunce care?" "Mr. Bunce _does_ care," averred Mary, warmly--"Mr. Bunce is a very good little man, and he says you are a very gentle patient to deal with. He's done all he possibly could for you, and he knows you've got no money to pay him, and that I'm a poor woman, too--but he's been in to see you nearly every day--so you must really think well of Mr. Bunce." "I do think well of him--I am most grateful to him," said David humbly--"But all the same it's _you_, Mary! You even got me the attention of Mr. Bunce!" She smiled happily. "You're feeling better, David!" she declared--"There's a nice bright sparkle in your eyes! I should think you were quite a cheerful old boy when you're well!" This suggestion amused him, and he laughed. "I have tried to be cheerful in my time,"--he said--"though I've not had much to be cheerful about." "Oh, that doesn't matter!" she replied!--"Dad used to say that whatever little we had to be thankful for, we ought to make the most of it. It's easy to be glad when everything is gladness,--but when you've only got just a tiny bit of joy in a whole wilderness of trouble, then we can't be too grateful for that tiny bit of joy. At least, so I take it." "Where did you learn your philosophy, Mary?" he asked, half whimsically--"I mean, who taught you to think?" She paused in her lace-mending, needle in hand. "Who taught me to think! Well, I don't know!--it come natural to me. But I'm not what is called 'educated' at all." "Are you not?"