Poor Maggie paid for her good nature. On Sunday morning she was so
decidedly worse that William King, to the disgust of his Martha, was
summoned from his breakfast-table.

"Women who can't look after a simple sore throat without bothering
their doctors are pretty inefficient creatures," she said coldly.

William thought of women who were so efficient that they did not
hesitate to advise their doctors; but he only agreed with proper
seriousness to Martha's declaration that it was too bad, for he would
be late for church--"unless you hurry, William!" she called after him.

Perhaps he hurried when he was with Maggie, but certainly he displayed
no haste when giving his directions to Mrs. Richie, nor even later
when just as he was about to drive off, Mr. Pryor hailed him from the
garden.

"How's your patient, doctor?"

"Pretty sick. She didn't obey your sister's orders and keep in bed
yesterday. So, of course, she's worse to-day."

Mr. Pryor leaned a comfortable elbow on the green gate. "That's a nice
prospect! What am I going to have to eat?" he said, good-humoredly.

Yet behind the good humor there was annoyance. It came into William
King's mind that this fellow would not spare his sister his
irritation, and with a sudden impulse of concern for her, he said,
"Well now, look here, why don't you and Mrs. Richie come in this
evening and take tea with us? I don't know what you'll get, but come
and take pot-luck."