When the doctor heard from the nurse of Mrs. Hartwell's visit and what had come of it, he only gave a discreet¹ smile, as befitted himself and the occasion; but to his wife privately², that night, the doctor said, when he had finished telling the story:

 

“And I couldn't have prescribed a better pill if I'd tried!”

 

“Pill—Mrs. Hartwell! Oh, Harold,” reproved the doctor's wife, mildly.

 

But the doctor only chuckled³ the more, and said:

 

“You wait and see.”

 

If Billy's friends were worried before because of her lassitude and lack of ambition, they were almost as worried now over her amazing alertness and insistent⁴ activity. Day by day, almost hour by hour, she seemed to gain in strength; and every bit she acquired she promptly⁵ tested almost to the breaking point, so plainly eager was she to be well and strong. And always, from morning until night, and again from night until morning, the pivot⁶ of her existence, around which swung all thoughts, words, actions, and plans, was the sturdy little plump-cheeked, firm-fleshed atom of humanity known as Bertram, Jr. Even Aunt Hannah remonstrated⁷ with her at last.

 

“But, Billy, dear,” she exclaimed, “one would almost get the idea that you thought there wasn't a thing in the world but that baby!”

 

Billy laughed.

 

“Well, do you know, sometimes I 'most think there isn't,” she retorted unblushingly.

 

“Billy!” protested Aunt Hannah; then, a little severely⁸, she demanded: “And who was it that just last September was calling this same only-object-in-the-world a third person in your home?”

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