n taking care of Felipa, and she likes
one as well as the other."

Which was not true, in my case at least, since Felipa had openly derided
my small strength when I lifted her, and beat off the sponge with which
I attempted to bathe her hot face, "They" used no sponges, she said,
only their nice cool hands; and she wished "they" would come and take
care of her again. But Christine had resigned _in toto_. If Felipa did
not prefer her to all others, then Felipa should not have her; she was
not a common nurse. And indeed she was not. Her fair face, ideal grace,
cooing voice, and the strength of her long arms and flexible hands, were
like magic to the sick, and--distraction to the well; the well in this
case being Edward Bowne looking in at the door.

"You love them very much, do you not, Felipa?" I said one day when the
child was sitting up for the first time in a cushioned chair.

"Ah, yes; it is so strong when they carry me," she replied. But it was
Edward who carried her.

"He is very strong," I said.

"Yes; and their long soft hair, with the smell of roses in it too," said
Felipa dreamily. But the hair was Christine's.

"I shall love them for ever, and they will love me for ever," continued
the child. "Drollo too." She patted the dog's head as she spoke, and
then concluded to kiss him on his little inch of forehead; next she
offered him all her medicines and lotions in turn, and he smelled at
them grimly. "He likes to know what I am taking," she explained.

I went on: "You love them, Felipa, and they are fond of you. They will
always remember you, no doubt."

"Remember!" cried Felipa, starting up from her cushions like a
Jack-in-a-box. "They are not going away? Never! never!"

"But of course they must go some time, for--"

But Felipa was gone. Before I could divine her intent she had flung
herself out of her chair down on the floor, and was crawling on her
hands and knees toward the outer room. I ran after her, but she reached
the door before me, and, dragging her bandaged foot behind her, drew
herself toward Christine. "You are _not_ going away! You are not! you
are not!" she sobbed, clinging to her skirts.

Christine was reading tranquilly; Edward stood at the outer door mending
his fishing-tackle. The coolness between them remained, unwarmed by so
much as a breath. "Run away, child; you disturb me," said Christine,
turning over a leaf. She did not even look at the pathetic little bundle
at her feet. Pat