"Then she's going to stay right here," said that young woman firmly.

"Well, I guess _not_" replied the doctor, looking her over. "How about
your own complexion if you take it?" he added, planting a question he
expected to tell.

Miss De Courcy's remark was couched in such forcible terms that I think
I had better not repeat it. It ought to have convinced any doctor
living that her complexion was her own affair.

"Oh! that's all right," replied the man of science, unoffended, a tardy
recognition of her valor showing through his easy insolence. "But how
about the Board of Health, and how about me? She's better off in a
hospital, any way. You can't take care of her," with a scornful glance
at the draggled finery and striking hat. "What do you want to try it
for? I can't let the contagion spread all over the house, you know; how
would you get anything to eat? No, it's no use. She's got to go. I'm not
going to ruin my reputation as a doctor, and--"

Miss De Courcy smiled sweetly into the doctor's hard, common face. She
drew a purse from her pocket, and selected several bills from a roll
that made his small eyes light up greedily, and pressing the little
packet into his not too reluctant fingers, she remarked significantly,
as she sat down easily on the top of a low table:

"You're mistaken about what's the matter with her, doctor. She's got
the chicken-pox. You just look at her again as you go out, and you'll
see that I am right. But it's just as well to be careful. You might mail
a note for me when you go out, and my wash-woman will buy things for me,
and bring them up here to the door. I'll swear I won't go out till you