"Oh, perhaps a week," she said, lightly, and Chip's heart went heavy.

"You may paint any kind of picture you like, but I'd rather you did
something like 'The Last Stand'--only better. And put your brand, as
you call it, in one corner."

"You won't sell it, will you?" The words slipped out before he knew.

"No--no, I won't sell it, for it won't be mine. It's for yourself this
time."

"Then there won't be any picture," said Chip, shortly.

"Oh, yes, there will," smiled the Little Doctor, sweetly, and went away
before he could contradict her.

Perhaps a week! Heavens, that was seven days, and every day had at
least sixteen waking hours. How would it be when it was years, then?
When Dr. Cecil Granthum--(er--no, I won't. The invective attached to
that gentleman's name was something not to be repeated here.) At any
rate, a week was a long, long time to put in without any gray eyes or
any laugh, or any dimples, or, in short, without the Little Doctor.
He could not see, for his part, why she wanted to go gadding off to
the Falls with Len Adams and the schoolma'am, anyway. Couldn't they
get along without her? They always had, before she came to the country;
but, for that matter, so had he. The problem was, how was he going to
get along without her for the rest of his life? What did they want to
stay a week for? Couldn't they buy everything they wanted in a day or
so? And the Giant Spring wasn't such great shakes, nor the Rainbow
Falls, that they need to hang around town a week just to look at them.