“Come in,” said Dr. Tolbridge.

Miss Drane entered; the doctor was alone, but he had his hat in his hand and was just going out.

“I am glad I caught you,” said she, “for there is a part of this page in which I can see no meaning.”

“What is it?” said the doctor.  “Read it.”

Slowly and distinctly she read:—­

“‘The cropsticks of flamingo bicrastus quack.’”

The doctor frowned, laid his hat on the table, and seating himself took the paper from Cicely Drane.

“This is strange,” said he.  “It does seem to be ‘cropsticks of flamingo,’ but what can that mean?”

“That is what I came to ask you,” said she.  “I have been puzzling over it a good while, and I supposed, of course, you would know what it is.”

“But I do not,” said the doctor.  “It is often very hard for me to read my own writing, and this was written two years ago.  You can leave this sheet with me, and this evening I will look over it and try to make something out of it.”

Cicely Drane was methodical in her ways; she could not properly go on with the rest of her work without this page, and so she told the doctor.

“Oh, never mind any more work for today,” said he.  “It is after four o’clock now, and you ought to go out and get a little of this pleasant sunshine.  By the way, how do you like this new business?”

“I should like it very well,” said Cicely, as she stood by the table, “if I could get on faster with it, but I work so very, very slowly.  I made a calculation this morning, that if I work at the same rate that I have been working since I came here, it will take me thirteen years and eleven months to copy your manuscript.”

The doctor laughed.  “If a child should walk to school,” he said, “at the same rate of speed that he takes his first toddling step on the nursery floor, it might take him about thirteen years to get there.  That is, if his school were at the average distance.  You will get on fast enough when you become acquainted with my writing.”

She was on the point of saying that surely he had had time to get acquainted with it, and yet he could not read it; but she considered that she did not yet know the doctor well enough for that.

The doctor rose and took up his hat; then he suddenly turned toward Miss Drane and said, “La Fleur, our cook, came to speak to me this morning about your mother.  She says she thinks that you are not well lodged; that the street is in the hottest part of the town, and that Mrs. Drane’s health will suffer if you stay there.  Does your mother object to your present quarters?”

Cicely, who had been half way to the door, now came back and stood by the table.

“Mother never objects to anything,” she said.  “She thinks our rooms are very neat and comfortable, and that Mrs. Brinkly is a kind landlady, but she has complained a great deal of the heat.  You know our house was very airy.”