ng face. Her hands were small, her feet were small, and she did
not look as if she weighed a hundred pounds, although, in fact, her
weight was considerably more than that. Her dress was a simple one, on
which a great deal of thought had been employed to make it becoming.

For a longer time than usual she now bent over the doctor's manuscript,
endeavoring to resolve a portion of it into comprehensible words. Then
she held up the page to the light, replaced it on the table, stood up and
looked at it, and finally sat down again, her elbows on the paper, and
her tapering fingers in the little brown curls at the sides of her head.
Presently she raised her head, with a sigh. "It is of no use," she said.
"I must go and ask him what this means; that is, if he is at home."

With the page in her hand, she went to the office door, and knocked.

"Come in," said Dr. Tolbridge.

Miss Drane entered; the doctor was alone, but he had his hat in his hand
and was just going out.

"I am glad I caught you," said she, "for there is a part of this page in
which I can see no meaning."

"What is it?" said the doctor. "Read it."

Slowly and distinctly she read:--

"'The cropsticks of flamingo bicrastus quack.'"

The doctor frowned, laid his hat on the table, and seating himself took
the paper from Cicely Drane.

"This is strange," said he. "It does seem to be 'cropsticks of flamingo,'
but what can that mean?"

"That is what I came to ask you," said she. "I have been puzzling over it
a good while, and I supposed, of course, you would know what it is."

"But I do not," said the doctor. "It is often very hard for me to read my
own writing, and this was written two years ago. You can leave this sheet
with me, and this evening I will look over it and try to make something
out of it."

Cicely Drane was methodical in her ways; she could not properly go on
with the rest of her work without this page, and so she told the doctor.

"Oh, never mind any more work for today," said he. "It is after four
o'clock now, and you ought to go out and get a little of this pleasant
sunshine. By the way, how do you like this new business?"

"I should like it very well," said Cicely, as she stood by the table, "if
I could get on faster with it, but I work so very, very slowly. I made a
calculation this morning, that if I work at the same rate that I have
been working since I came here, it will take me thirteen years and eleven
months to copy your manuscr