"Miss Heather," he said, "you are good. Now this is delightful--now I have every hope of having my old friend on her feet once more." Aunt Penelope gave him one of her grim smiles--she could not smile in any other way if she were to try for a hundred years. The doctor examined her, felt her pulse, took her temperature, said that she was decidedly better, ordered heaps of nourishment, and desired me to follow him downstairs. "What possessed you to come back, Miss Grayson?" he said, when we found ourselves together in the little drawing-room. I told him that I had not come back because the news of Aunt Penelope's illness had reached me, but for a quite different reason, and one which I could not divulge, even to him. "But that is very strange," he said, "for I wrote three days ago to ask your father to send you back immediately. I was quite tired out expecting you and wondering at your silence. I would not tell the dear old lady for fear of disappointing her. Your coming back of your own accord and without hearing anything is really most extraordinary, _most_ astounding. But, there! you have come, and now it's all right." "You may be certain, doctor," I replied, "that I will do my utmost for Aunt Penelope, and that she shall want for nothing as long as I can obtain it for her." "Good girl; you are a good girl, Heather," he replied; "you are doing the right thing, and God will bless you. I may as well tell you that I was exceedingly anxious about your aunt this morning. You see, she had nobody to look after her; that boy did his best, but he couldn't be expected to know, and when I suggested a nurse, or even a charwoman, bless me, child, she nearly ate my head off! She is a troublesome old woman, is your aunt, Miss Heather, but a most worthy soul. Well, it's all right now, and my mind is much relieved." I went upstairs a few minutes later to find Aunt Penelope sitting up in bed and looking wonderfully fresh and cheerful. "Now just sit down by me, Heather," she said, "and tell me the news. Why have you come back? I made up my mind that I'd keep my vow and promise to your father not to ask for you, even if I died without seeing you, until August." "But that was very wrong of you, auntie, and you ought not to be at all proud of yourself for having made such a vow." "Well, I made it, and I'm the last sort of woman to break my word. But you have come back, so it's all right now. Did you dream about me or anything of that sort?" "Oh, no," I answered. "I came back, dear auntie--I came back of my own accord." "What!" said Aunt Penelope. "Heather, child, I am not very strong, and you mustn't startle me. You don't mean to say, you don't mean to hint, that you--you aren't happy with your father?" "I'd be always happy with father," I answered, "always, always. But the fact is, I don't think, Auntie Pen, dear, I don't think I love my stepmother very much."