“Oh, are YOU here? It's a wonder you don't have your bed brought down
here, so you can sleep near Silver. How has he been doing since I left?”
Chip simply sat still upon the edge of the manger and stared. His gray
hat was pushed far back upon his head and his dark hair waved and curled
upon his forehead, very much as a girl's might have done. He did not
know that he was a very good-looking young man, but perhaps the Little
Doctor did. She smiled and came up and patted Silver, who had forgotten
that he ever had objected to her nearness. He nickered a soft welcome
and laid his nose on her shoulder.
“You've been drawing a picture. Who's the victim of your satirical
pencil this time?” The Little Doctor, reaching out quickly, calmly
appropriated the sketch before Chip had time to withdraw it, even if he
had cared to do so. He was busy wondering how the Little Doctor came to
be there at that particular time, and had forgotten the picture, which
he had not quite finished labeling.
“Dr. Cecil--” Miss Whitmore turned red at first, then broke into
laughter. “Oh--h, ha! ha! ha! Silver, you don't know how funny this
master of yours can be! Ha! ha!” She raised her head from Silver's neck,
where it had rested, and wiped her eyes.
“How did you know about Cecil?” she demanded of a very discomfited young
man upon the manger.
“I didn't know--and I didn't WANT to know. I heard the boys talking and
joshing about him, and I just drew--their own conclusions.” Chip grinned
a little and whittled at his pencil, and wondered how much of the
statement was a lie.
Miss Whitmore tamed red again, and ended by laughing even more heartily
than at first.
“Their conclusions aren't very complimentary,” she said. “I don't
believe Dr. Cecil would feel flattered at this. Why those bowed legs,
may I ask, and wherefore that long, lean, dyspeptic visage? Dr. Cecil,
let me inform you, has a digestion that quails not at deviled crabs and
chafing-dish horrors at midnight, as I have abundant reason to know. I
have seen Dr. Cecil prepare a welsh rabbit and--eat it, also, with much
relish, apparently. Oh, no, their conclusions weren't quite correct.
There are other details I might mention--that cane, for instance--but
let it pass. I shall keep this, I think, as a companion to 'The old
maid's credential card.'”
“Are you in the habit of keeping other folk's property?” inquired Chip,
with some acerbity.
“Nothing but personal caricatures--and hearts, perhaps,” returned the
Little Doctor, sweetly.
“I hardly think your collection of the last named article is very
large,” retorted Chip.
“Still, I added to the collection to-day,” pursued Miss Whitmore,
calmly. “I shared my seat in the train with J. G.'s silent partner (I
did not find him silent, however), Mr. Duncan Whitaker. He hired a
team in Dry Lake and we came out together, and I believe--please don't
mention Dr. Cecil Granthum to him, will you?”
Chip wished, quite savagely, that she wouldn't let those dimples dodge
into her cheeks, and the laugh dodge into her eyes, like that. It made a
fellow uncomfortable. He was thoroughly disgusted with her--or he would
be, if she would only stop looking like that. He was in that state of
mind where his only salvation, seemingly, lay in quarreling with some
one immediately.
“So old Dunk's come back? If you've got his heart, you must have gone
hunting it with a microscope, for it's a mighty small one--almost as
small as his soul. No one else even knew he had one. You ought to have
it set in a ring, so you won't lose it.”
“I don't wear phony jewelry, thank you,” said Miss Whitmore, and Chip
thought dimples weren't so bad after all.
The Little Doctor was weaving Silver's mane about her white fingers and
meditating deeply. Chip wondered if she were thinking of Dr. Cecil.
“Where did you learn to draw like that?” she asked, suddenly, turning
toward him. “You do much better than I, and I've always been learning
from good teachers. Did you ever try painting?”
Chip blushed and looked away from her. This was treading close to his
deep-hidden, inner self.
“I don't know where I learned. I never took a lesson in my life, except
from watching people and horses and the country, and remembering the
lines they made, you know. I always made pictures, ever since I can
remember--but I never tried colors very much. I never had a chance,
working around cow-camps and on ranches.”
“I'd like to have you look over some of my sketches and things--and I've
paints and canvas, if you ever care to try that. Come up to the house
some evening and I'll show you my daubs. They're none of them as good as
'The Old Maid.'”
“I wish you'd tear that thing up!” said Chip, vehemently.
“Why? The likeness is perfect. One would think you were designer for a
fashion paper, the way you got the tucks in my sleeve and the braid on
my collar--and you might have had the kindness to TELL me my hat was on
crooked, I think!”
There was a rustle in the loose straw, a distant slam of the stable
door, and Chip sat alone with his horse, whittling abstractedly at his
pencil till his knife blade grated upon the metal which held the eraser.