He was quite as shy as his patient, especially when a third person
overheard his conversation. Big and handsome and superior to his fellow
townsmen as Dr. Archie was, he was seldom at his ease, and like Peter
Kronborg he often dodged behind a professional manner. There was
sometimes a contraction of embarrassment and self consciousness all over
his big body, which made him awkward—likely to stumble, to kick up
rugs, or to knock over chairs. If any one was very sick, he forgot
himself, but he had a clumsy touch in convalescent gossip.
Thea curled up on her side and looked at him with pleasure. “All right.
I like to be sick. I have more fun then than other times.”
“How’s that?”
“I don’t have to go to school, and I don’t have to practice. I can read
all I want to, and have good things,”—she patted the grapes. “I had
lots of fun that time I mashed my finger and you wouldn’t let Professor
Wunsch make me practice. Only I had to do left hand, even then. I think
that was mean.”
The doctor took her hand and examined the forefinger, where the nail had
grown back a little crooked. “You mustn’t trim it down close at the
corner there, and then it will grow straight. You won’t want it crooked
when you’re a big girl and wear rings and have sweethearts.”
She made a mocking little face at him and looked at his new scarf-pin.
“That’s the prettiest one you ev-ER had. I wish you’d stay a long while
and let me look at it. What is it?”
Dr. Archie laughed. “It’s an opal. Spanish Johnny brought it up for me
from Chihuahua in his shoe. I had it set in Denver, and I wore it to-day
for your benefit.”
Thea had a curious passion for jewelry. She wanted every shining stone
she saw, and in summer she was always going off into the sand hills to
hunt for crystals and agates and bits of pink chalcedony. She had two
cigar boxes full of stones that she had found or traded for, and she
imagined that they were of enormous value. She was always planning how
she would have them set.
“What are you reading?” The doctor reached under the covers and pulled
out a book of Byron’s poems. “Do you like this?”
She looked confused, turned over a few pages rapidly, and pointed to “My
native land, good-night.” “That,” she said sheepishly.
“How about ‘Maid of Athens’?”
She blushed and looked at him suspiciously. “I like ‘There was a sound
of revelry,’” she muttered.
The doctor laughed and closed the book. It was clumsily bound in padded
leather and had been presented to the Reverend Peter Kronborg by his
Sunday-School class as an ornament for his parlor table.
“Come into the office some day, and I’ll lend you a nice book. You can
skip the parts you don’t understand. You can read it in vacation.
Perhaps you’ll be able to understand all of it by then.”
Thea frowned and looked fretfully toward the piano. “In vacation I have
to practice four hours every day, and then there’ll be Thor to take care
of.” She pronounced it “Tor.”
“Thor? Oh, you’ve named the baby Thor?” exclaimed the doctor.
Thea frowned again, still more fiercely, and said quickly, “That’s a
