Looks more like his father every day he lives." She had hardly slept all night, thinking of the pleasure in store for her.

She had dressed herself, too, in her most becoming breakfast gown--one she had worn when Jack first arrived at Corklesville, and which he said reminded him of a picture he had seen as a boy.

There were pink rosebuds woven in its soft texture, and the wide peach-blossom ribbon that bound her dainty waist contrasted so delightfully, as he had timidly hinted, with the tones of her hair and cheeks.
It was the puffy, bespectacled little doctor who shut out the light.
"No, your father has still one degree of fever," he grumbled, with a wise shake of his bushy head.

"No--nobody, Miss MacFarlane,--do you understand?
He can see NOBODY--or I won't be responsible," and with this the crabbed old fellow climbed into his gig and drove away.
She looked after him for a moment and two hot tears dropped from her eyes and dashed themselves to pieces on the peach-blossom ribbon.
But the sky was clearing again--she didn't realize it,--but it was.
April skies always make alternate lights and darks.

The old curmudgeon had gone, but the garden gate was again a-swing.
Ruth heard the tread on the porch and drawing back the curtains looked out.