He won the bet. For the first time since we had been seen at Broussac, Adrienne Bixby was at the breakfast table the following day, and the healthy color in her cheeks and the clear sparkle of her lovely eyes told of a long, restful sleep.
Two more days passed, each seeing a marked improvement in her spirits and appearance. The purple semicircles beneath her eyes faded to a wholesome pink, her laughter rippled like the sound of a purling brook among the shadows of the château’s gloomy halls.
“I gotta hand it to you, Doc,” Bixby complimented me. “You’ve shore brought my little girl round in great, shape. Name your figger an’ I’ll pay the bill, an’ never paid one with a better heart, neither.”
“Dr. Trowbridge,” Adrienne accosted me one morning as I was about to join de Grandin in the libr
