"I hardly think your collection of the last named article is very large,"
retorted Chip.

"Still, I added to the collection to-day," pursued Miss Whitmore, calmly.
"I shared my seat in the train with J. G.'s silent partner (I did not
find him silent, however), Mr. Duncan Whitaker. He hired a team in Dry
Lake and we came out together, and I believe--please don't mention Dr.
Cecil Granthum to him, will you ?"

Chip wished, quite savagely, that she wouldn't let those dimples dodge
into her cheeks, and the laugh dodge into her eyes, like that. It made
a fellow uncomfortable. He was thoroughly disgusted with her--or he
would be, if she would only stop looking like that. He was in that
state of mind where his only salvation, seemingly, lay in quarreling
with some one immediately.

"So old Dunk's come back? If you've got his heart, you must have gone
hunting it with a microscope, for it's a mighty small one--almost as
small as his soul. No one else even knew he had one. You ought to
have it set in a ring, so you won't lose it."

"I don't wear phony jewelry, thank you," said Miss Whitmore, and Chip
thought dimples weren't so bad after all.

The Little Doctor was weaving Silver's mane about her white fingers and
meditating deeply. Chip wondered if she were thinking of Dr. Cecil.

"Where did you learn to draw like that?" she asked, suddenly, turning
toward him. "You do much better than I, and I've always been learning
from good teachers. Did you ever try painting?"