ran into the house.

I had liked the doctor's daughter ever since I had begun to know her,
although at first I had found it a little hard to become acquainted
with her.

She was the treasurer of the literary society of the village, and I
was its secretary. We had to work together sometimes, and I found her
a very straightforward girl in her accounts and in every other way.

In about a minute she returned, carrying a little pasteboard box.

"Here are some one-grain quinine capsules," she said. "They have no
taste, and I am quite sure that if you get into a low country it would
be a good thing for you to take at least one of them every morning.
People may have given you all sorts of things for your journey, but I
do not believe any one has given you this." And she handed me the box
over the top of the gate.

I did not say that her practical little present was the only thing
that anybody had given me, but I thanked her very heartily, and
assured her that I would take one every time I thought I needed it.
Then, as it seemed proper to do so, I straightened up my bicycle as if
I would mount it. Again her fingers clutched the top of the two
palings.

"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