"When father comes home," she said, "he will be sorry to find that he
had not a chance to bid you good-bye. And, by-the-way," she added,
quickly, "you know there will be one more meeting of the society. Did
you write out any minutes for the last evening, and would you like me
to read them for you?"
"Upon my word!" I exclaimed. "I have forgotten all about it. I made
some rough notes, but I have written nothing."
"Well, it doesn't matter in the least," said she, quickly. "I remember
everything that happened, and I will write the minutes and read them
for you; that is, if you want me to."
I assured her that nothing would please me better, and we talked a
little about the minutes, after which I thought I ought not to keep
her standing at the gate any longer. So I took leave of her, and we
shook hands over the gate. This was the first time I had ever shaken
hands with the doctor's daughter, for she was a reserved girl, and
hitherto I had merely bowed to her.
As I sped away down the street and out into the open country my heart
was a good deal lighter than it had been when I began my journey. It
was certainly pleasant to leave that village, which had been my home
for the greater part of a year, without the feeling that there was no
one in it who cared for me, even to the extent of a little box of
quinine capsules.