Convalescence.



"You don't mind, do you?" The Little Doctor was visibly uneasy.

"Mind what?" Chip's tone was one of elaborate unconsciousness.
"Mind Dunk's selling the picture for you? Why should I? It's yours,
you know."

"I think you have some interest in it yourself," she said, without
looking at him. "You don't think I mean to--to--"

"I don't think anything, except that it's your picture, and I put in
a little time meddling with your property for want of something else
to do. All I painted doesn't cover one quarter of the canvas, and I
guess you've done enough for me to more than make up. I guess you
needn't worry over that cow and calf--you're welcome to them both; and
if you can get a bounty on those five wolves, I'll be glad to have you.
Just keep still about my part of it."

Chip really felt that way about it, after the first dash of wounded
pride. He could never begin to square accounts with the Little Doctor,
anyhow, and he was proud that he could do something for her, even if it
was nothing more than fixing up a picture so that it rose considerably
above mediocrity. He had meant it that way all along, but the suspicion
that she was quite ready to appropriate his work rather shocked him,
just at first. No one likes having a gift we joy in bestowing calmly
taken from our hands before it has been offered. He wanted her to have
the picture for her very own--but--but--He had not thought of the