t the nurse's
knowledge,--Miss Masters took her rest-time every afternoon from three
to seven,--rules were suspended to admit Miss Sadie Whirtle, of Baird &
Himmel's,--an enormous, snapping, red-cheeked girl she proved to be,
whose ample Semitic countenance gave a copious background for violet
talcum, but who said nothing wittier in Vivian's hearing than "Very
pleased to make your acquaintance, I'm sure"--and once to admit Miss
Henrietta Cooney, of Saltman's bookstore. Hen came by from the store
late one August afternoon, having heard something of the case which
seemed to worry V.V. more than all his others put together. She was
allowed to spend twenty minutes in the sick-room, provided she did not
permit Kern to talk. Having faithfully obeyed these instructions,
Henrietta returned to the office, where the doctor sat in his
shirt-sleeves, humped over Miss Masters's chart.

"She's an odd little thing," said Hen, "very cute and dear with her
staring eyes and her yes-ma'ams. I was telling her about the Thursday
Germans, first explaining that a German had nothing to do with
Germany--or has it? You know you told me she was wild about parties. She
was so, so interested.... V.V., she's quite a sick girl, isn't she?"

"Quite sick," replied V.V. He glanced out of his weather-worn window,
and said: "But she's going to be better to-morrow."

"Oh! That's the crisis, or whatever you call it?"

He answered by a nod, and Hen continued:

"She never belonged in the Works, and she certainly never belonged to
that fat woman with the beak I met in the hall. She's a
changeling--that's it. Speaking of the Works, V.V., I had quite a long
letter from Cally Heth this week."

"Oh!" said V.V. "Oh, yes!--from Miss Heth. How is she?"

Hen, who had been strolling about the tall chamber and peeking into the
instrument cabinet, noted the young man's guarded tone; and she wondered
how many times V.V. and her cousin Cally had met, and what part he had
played in all that affair, and in general what these two thought of
each other.

"Well, she's certainly in much better spirits than when I had the note
from her in July. One thing, her answering my letters at all shows it.
They're in Switzerland now, at the National House, Lucerne, and J.
Forsythe Avery has, turned up, which is a pretty good sign of the times,
I should say. He's a social barometer, you know,--the last man in the
world to turn up where it would hurt his position, whatever it is. It