Yes--it certainly was like a 'cello. "I did not know how you would--
you are very kind, Doctor Strong. Dear Aunt Vesta; she would try to
make the best of it, I know. Aunt Phoebe will not speak of it, she
is too much shocked, but Aunt Vesta is angelic."

"Indeed she is!" said the young doctor, heartily. "And she is so
pretty, too, and so soft and creamy; I never saw any one like her."

There was a moment of dreadful silence. Geoffrey sought desperately
for a subject of conversation, but the frivolous spirit of tragedy
refused to suggest anything except boots, and women never understand
boots.

The strange thing was, that the girl did not appear to find the
silence dreadful. She stood absently curling and uncurling a
syringa-leaf between her long white fingers. All the lines of her
were long, except the curl of her upper lip, and there was not an
ungraceful one among them. Her face was quietly sad, but there was
no sign of confusion in it. Good heavens! what were women made of?

Presently she turned to him, and again the shadow of a smile crept
into her eyes. "You don't ask whether I am better, Doctor Strong,"
she said; and there was even a faint suggestion of mischief in her
voice.

"No!" said Geoffrey. "I shall never ask you that again."

The shadow turned to a spark. "You might help me!" she exclaimed.
"At least you need not make it harder for me--" she checked herself,
and went on in a carefully even tone. "I am so ashamed of myself!"