I shall not bore you with the details of my work in once more establishing confidence. And, at that, it was a sort of shaky, at-arms-length confidence. One morning, a few days after the episode of Middleton's brook, Nance came into my office, very properly and charmingly clad, and perched herself upon the top of her grandfather's writing-table. She was extremely saucy-looking, and inclined to be impudent. I came and stood by, looking down upon her. She was unusually pretty and tempting with an air of old-time daring in the tilt of her face.

At that moment I was sure I loved her for the three or four adorable little freckles upon her nose. The sight of these same scarcely perceptible beauty spots, which appeared regularly with the summer, carried me back to a day when I had made fun of the sun's tampering with her complexion. In those days she chose to sniffle very pityingly, yet becomingly, in the vain attempt to make me repentant. As she sat before me, instead of the handsome young woman she was, I saw an awkward girl of eleven or twelve with spindling legs that were rather uncertain in their movements; long thin arms with small bony hands, all attached to a shapeless little body, the only redeeming feature of which was a truly promising face and wonderfully beautiful hair as red as burnished brass. I remembered that, on many occasions, there was mud between the toes of her bare feet, for she always had possessed a boy's propensity for puddling. This brought to mind the wading I had seen earlier in the week, and I admit I blushed at the contrast presented to my mind.

"Are you still web-footed?" I asked, with a reminiscent smile.

"When I grow to be a very old woman," she replied impudently, "I shall dabble in the puddles in my back yard; climb apple-trees in the spring; and help my boys make snow men at Christmas time."

Then I had but to see her merry, mischievous face to discover the Nance of my friend, the happy pedler. "Is it her feet or her hair," was rattling through my brain, "or is it the old-day Nance, or the beautiful, splendid young woman now sitting on her grandfather's desk?"

Here she picked up an open knife, a piece of pine from the window sill, drew her lips into a distractingly tempting pucker and began to whistle and whittle in imitation of one of the village's wise-acres at the store. I watched her for a moment with a heart which I was almost sure she could hear thumping away like a trip hammer. Hadn't I seen her whistle a thousand times, it seemed a thousand years ago, and gravely imitate every rheumatic old gentleman who occupied a chair in summer under the awning, or a box in winter behind the stove at Mr. Appleblossom's? Then all of a sudden I knew it was for her thumb. The big barlow had unceremoniously taken a whack at this adorable part of her hand and, as she smilingly held it aloft, a tiny stream of blood oozed forth and fell on the handkerchief she held beneath it. It was really a mere trifle, but immediately I looked deeply concerned, hauled out my instrument case, and removed what I needed therefrom with much seriousness and dignity. Meantime as I bathed the injured member she looked on, though two tears stood in her eyes, with an impish grin which left no doubt but that she readily saw through my hypocrisy. Anyhow she let me use absorbent cotton, much adhesive plaster, and great yards of bandage with which to bind it. I was a very long time doing the work, and when I had it completed, as I have said before, I was sure it was for her thumb.

Now you know—at least if you are a woman and young and pretty—that a doctor, even if he is doing nothing more than dressing a thumb, may get unusually close to his patient without the least mischievous intentions. Therefore I am sure you will not blame me when I tell you that I was led to it by the soft caress of her perfumed hair as it now and then brushed dangerously against my cheek; the occasional touch of her knees bringing vividly annoying memories of a few days past, as I busied myself about her; and, as I bent above her, the healthful, sweet odor of her breath in my nostrils; these things, I say, with the alluring mystery of all of her, breathing, pulsating, hot, close beside me, overpowered me and I was trembling when she looked up to thank me. Then, before I knew it or had time to think, I had my arms about her, crushing her to me, and passionately kissing her lips.

It might not be telling things too much just to mention that she fought a brief little battle quite consistent with the temperament of her hair. Then, when she learned how strong and determined were my arms, suddenly she ceased to struggle, her eyes becoming friendly and timid. Ah, surely this was the moment that, while the glorious hair, the feet, the freckles, and the thumb did not lose caste, the heart within me crowned her lips!

"Now, strange to say," commented Dr. King to Jean FranÇois, "it was the next day she ran away.... You may understand why, but I do not."

"I do," was the laconic reply of the happy pedler.