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Aunt Jane

by Jennette Lee · English · Gutenberg #43380 · 310,397 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Aunt Jane

Author: Jennette Lee


        
Release date: August 2, 2013 [eBook #43380]
                Most recently updated: October 23, 2024

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK AUNT JANE ***

AUNT JANE




AUNT JANE

BY
JENNETTE LEE
AUTHOR OF "UNCLE WILLIAM,"
"THE WOMAN IN THE ALCOVE," ETC.


NEW YORK
CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS
1915




COPYRIGHT, 1915, BY
CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS


[Illustration]




TO
GERALD STANLEY LEE




I


"Aunt Jane, what are you thinking of?" The young man turned his head a
little on the pillow to look inquiringly toward the door.

It was the door of Room 24 leading into the Men's Ward. Aunt Jane had
been standing there for five minutes, gazing intently before her into
space. The serene face framed in the white muslin cap had a rapt,
waiting look. It reminded the young man of a German madonna that he had
run across last summer in an old gallery corner, whose face had haunted
him. "Aunt Jane, what are you thinking about?" he repeated gently.

She turned slowly toward him, the placid look breaking into twinkles. "I
was thinking I'd better turn Mr. Ketchell's mattress the other end to,
and put a bolster under the upper end. It kind of sags."

For a moment the young man on the pillow looked a little bewildered.
Then he lay back and laughed till the iron bedstead rang and the men in
the ward pricked up their ears and smiled in sympathy.

Aunt Jane smiled too, stepping leisurely toward him.

"There, there," she said as she adjusted the sheet and lowered his
pillow a trifle: "I don't know as I'd laugh any more about that. 'Tisn't
so very funny to change a mattress the other end to."

He raised a hand and wiped the laughter from either eye. "But you looked
as if you were thinking of angels and cherubim and things, Aunt Jane."

She nodded placidly. "I generally do," she responded, "but that doesn't
hinder knowing about mattresses and bolsters.... I wouldn't laugh any
more for a day or two if I was you. The bandages might get loose." She
slipped a careless hand along his forehead, gathered up a cup and plate
from the stand beside him, and slid plumply from the room.

His eyes followed her through the door, down the long ward as she
stopped here and there for a word or a question. Once she raised her
hand sternly at a bed and sniffed. The cap strings bristled fiercely.

"He's catching it," muttered the young man from the private room. "I
knew he would. You can't keep a baccy-pouch in the same room with Aunt
Jane." He sighed a little and glanced, without turning his head, toward
the window where the spring clouds sailed and filled with swelling
whiteness. A breath of freshness stole in softly. On the sill was a bowl
of pansies. He lay looking at them idly. His lids fluttered and
closed--and lifted again and fell shut.

Out in the ward the men were laughing and talking. Sanderson, robbed of
his baccy-pouch, was sullen and resentful and the men were chaffing him.
Aunt Jane drifted through the swing-door at the end of the ward. She
placed the cup and plate on a dumb-waiter and crossed the hall to the
Women's Ward. A nurse met her as she came in the door. "Mrs. Crosby is
worse. Temperature a hundred and four," she said in a low voice.

Aunt Jane nodded. She went slowly down the ward. White faces on the
pillows greeted her and followed her. Aunt Jane beamed on them. She
stopped beside a young girl and bent over to speak to her. The girl's
face lighted. It lost its fretted look. Aunt Jane had told her that she
was to have a chop for her dinner if she was a good girl, and that there
was a robin out in the apple-tree. She turned her gaunt eyes toward the
window. Her face listened. Aunt Jane went on.... A nurse coming in
handed her a slip of paper. She glanced at it and tucked it into her
dress. It was a telephone message from Dr. Carmon, asking to have the
operating-room ready for an appendicitis case in ten minutes.

The girl with the gaunt eyes called to her:

"Aunt Jane!" The voice was weak and impatient.

Aunt Jane turned slowly back. She stood by the bed, looking down with a
smile.

The girl thrust an impatient hand under her cheek: "Can I hear him in
here?" she demanded.

Aunt Jane glanced toward the window.

"The robin? Like enough, if he flies this way. I'll go out and chase him
'round by and by when I get time."

The girl laughed--a low, pleased laugh. Aunt Jane's tone had drawn a
picture for her: The robin, the flying cap strings in swift pursuit, and
all outdoors--birds and trees and sky. She nestled her face on her hand
and smiled quietly. "I'm going to be good," she said.

Aunt Jane looked at her with a severe twinkle. "Yes, you'll be
good--till next time," she remarked.

The nurse by the door waited, impatient. Aunt Jane came across the room.

"Get 15 ready.... Find the new nurse," she said. "Send her to the
operating-room.... Send Henry to the ambulance door.... Tell Miss
Staunton to have things hot, and put out the new ether cones. It wants
fresh carbolic and plenty of sponges."

The nurse sped swiftly away.

Aunt Jane looked peacefully around. She gave one or two instructions to
the ward nurse, talked a moment with one of the patients, smiled a kind
of general benediction on the beds and faces and sun-lit room, and went
quietly out.... At the door of the operating-room she paused a moment
and gave a slow, comfortable glance about. She changed the position of
a stand and rearranged the ether cones.

The next minute she was standing at the side door greeting Dr. Carmon.
The ambulance was at the door.

"It's a bad case," he said. "Waited too long."

"Woman, I suppose," said Aunt Jane. She was watching the men as they put
the trestles in place.

He looked at her. "How did you know?"

"They're 'most always the ones to wait. They stand the pain better'n
men." She stepped to one side with a quiet glance at the litter as the
men bore it past. "She'll come through," she said as they followed it up
the low stairway.

"I wish I felt as sure," responded Dr. Carmon.

Aunt Jane glanced back. A man was standing at the door, his eyes
following them. She looked inquiringly toward the doctor.

"Her husband," he said. "He's going to wait."

Aunt Jane spoke a word to a nurse who was coming down the stairs, with
a motion of her hand toward the man waiting below.

The little procession entered the operating-room, and the door was
shut.




II


It was a current belief that the Berkeley House of Mercy belonged to
Aunt Jane; and I am not at all sure that Aunt Jane did not think so
herself--at times.

The hospital had been endowed by a rich patient in gratitude for
recovery from a painful disease. She had wished to reward the surgeon
who had cured her. And when Dr. Carmon had refused to accept anything
beyond the very generous fee he had charged for the operation, she had
built the hospital--over which he was to have absolute control. There
was a nominal board of directors, and other physicians might bring their
patients there. But Dr. Carmon was to be in control.

The surgeon had not cared for a fortune. Dr. Carmon was not married; he
had no wife and children to tie him down to a fortune. But a hospital
equipped to his fingers' ends was a different matter and he had accepted
it gratefully.

Dr. Carmon had not always found it easy to get on with the surgical
staff of his old hospital; partly perhaps, as Aunt Jane always
maintained, because he was "too fond of having his own way"; and partly
because he was of the type that must break ground. There were things
that Dr. Carmon saw and wanted to do. And there was always a flock of
malcontents at hand to peck at him if he did them.

He accepted the Berkeley House of Mercy with a sense of relief and with
the understanding that he was to be in absolute control. And he in turn
had installed Aunt Jane as matron of the hospital--not with the
understanding that she was to be in absolute control, but as being, on
the whole, the most sensible woman of his acquaintance.

The result had not been altogether what Dr. Carmon had foreseen.
Gradually he had awakened to the fact that the hospital and everything
connected with it was under the absolute control--not of Dr. Frederic
Carmon, but of Aunt Jane Holbrook. Each member of the white-capped corps
of nurses looked to her for direction; and the cook and the man who ran
the furnace refused to take orders from any one else. It was no unusual
sight for the serene, white-framed face, with its crisp strings, to
appear among the pipes and elbows of the furnace-room and leave behind
it a whiff of common sense and a series of hints on the running of the
hot-water boiler. Even Dr. Carmon himself never brought a patient to the
House of Mercy without asking humble and solicitous permission of Aunt
Jane. It was not known that she had ever refused him, pointblank. But
she sometimes protested with a shrewd twinkle in her eye: "Oh, I can't
have that Miss Enderby here. She's always wanting to have her own way
about things!" Then Dr. Carmon would laugh and bring the patient.
Perhaps he gave her a hint beforehand. Perhaps the fame of Aunt Jane's
might had reached her. Perhaps it was the cool, firm fingers....
Whatever the reason, it is safe to say that Miss Enderby did not once
have her own way from the day that she was carried into the wide doors
of the House of Mercy, a sick and querulous woman, to the day when she
left it with firm, quick step and, turning back at the door to fall with
a sob on Aunt Jane's neck, was met with a gentle little push and a quick
flash from the white-capped face. "There, there, Miss Enderby, you run
right along. There's nothin' upsets folks like sayin' good-by. You come
back some day and say it when you're feeling pretty well."




III


Aunt Jane was thinking, as she went along the wide corridor to Room 15,
that the new patient was not unlike Miss Enderby.

It was an hour since the operation and Aunt Jane had been in to see the
patient two or three times; as she had stood looking down at her, the
resemblance to Miss Enderby had come to her mind. There was the same
inflexible tightening of the lips and the same contracted look of the
high, level brows.

A nurse coming down the corridor stopped respectfully.

"Dr. Carmon has finished his visits," she said. "He asks me to say he is
in your office--when you are ready."

Aunt Jane nodded absently. She went on to Room 15 and looked in at the
door. The patient lay with closed eyes, a half-querulous expression on
the high brows, and the corners of her lips sharply drawn. Aunt Jane
crossed the floor lightly and bent to listen to the breathing from the
tense lips.

The eyes opened slowly. "It's you!" said the woman.

"Comfortable?" asked Aunt Jane. She ran her hand along the querulous
forehead and straightened the clothes a little. "You'll feel better
pretty soon now."

"Stay with me," said the woman sharply.

Aunt Jane shook her head: "I'll be back by and by. You lie still and be
good. That's the way to get well."

She drifted from the room and the woman's eyes closed slowly. Something
of the fretted look had left her face.

Aunt Jane stepped out into the wide, sun-lit corridor and moved serenely
on. Her tall figure and plump back had a comfortable look as she went.

One of the men in the ward had said that Aunt Jane went on casters; and
it was the Irishman in the bed next him who had retorted: "It's wings
that you mean--two little wings to the feet of her--or however could she
get along, at all, without putting foot to the floor!"

However she managed it, Aunt Jane came and went noiselessly; and when
she chose, she could move from one end of the corridor to the other as
swiftly as if indeed there had been "two little wings to the feet of
her."

She was not hurrying now. She stopped at one or two doors for a glance,
gave directions to a nurse who passed with a tray, and went leisurely on
to the office.

Over by the window, Dr. Carmon, his gloves in his hand, was standing
with his back to the room, waiting.

Aunt Jane glanced at the back and sat down. "Did you want to see me?"
she inquired pleasantly.

He wheeled about. "I have been waiting five minutes to see you," he said
stiffly.

"The man in Number 20 is coming along first-rate," replied Aunt Jane. "I
never saw a better first intention."

The doctor glared at her. His face cleared a little. "He _is_ doing
well."

"I want you to put Miss Wildman on the case," he added.

"She's put down to go on at eleven," responded Aunt Jane.

"Humph!" He drew out his note-book and looked at it. "I suppose you
knew I'd want her."

"I thought she'd better go on," said Aunt Jane serenely.

"And Miss Canfield needs to go off--for a good rest. I shall need her on
Tuesday. There are two cases"--he consulted his notes--"a Mrs.
Pelton--she'll go into the ward--after a few days."

"Poor," said Aunt Jane.

"Yes. And Herman G. Medfield----"

"He's not poor," interposed Aunt Jane. "He could give us a new wing for
contagion when he gets well."

The doctor scowled a little. Perhaps it was the unconscious "us."
Perhaps he was thinking that Herman G. Medfield had scant chance to give
the new wing for contagion.... And a sudden sense that a great deal
depended on him and that he was very tired had perhaps come over the
surgeon.

Aunt Jane touched the bell by her table. "You sit down, Dr. Carmon," she
said quietly.

Dr. Carmon picked up his hat. "I have to go," he replied brusquely.

"You sit down," said Aunt Jane.

He seated himself with a half smile. When Aunt Jane chose to make you
like what she was doing...!

The white-coated boy who came, took an order for meat broth and
sandwiches and returned with them promptly.

"You're tired out," said Aunt Jane, as she arranged the dishes on the
swing-leaf to the desk. "Up all night, I suppose?"

"No." The doctor nibbled at a sandwich. Then he broke off a generous
piece and swallowed it and drank a little of the hot broth.

She watched him placidly.

He was a short, dark man with a dark mustache that managed, somehow, at
once to bristle and to droop. His clothes were shabby and creased with
little folds and wrinkles across the ample front, and he sat well
forward in his chair to eat the sandwiches.

There was something a little grotesque about him perhaps.

But to Aunt Jane's absent-minded gaze, it may be, there was nothing
grotesque in the short, stout figure, eating its sandwiches.... She had
seen it too many times roused to fierce struggle, holding death at arm's
length and fighting, inch by inch, for a life that was slipping away. To
her Dr. Carmon was not so much a man, as a mighty gripping force that
did things when you needed him.

"I suppose I _was_ hungry," he said.

He picked up the last crumb of sandwich and smiled at her.

Aunt Jane nodded. "You needed something to eat."

"And some one to tell me to eat it," he replied. And with the words he
was gone.

The next minute Aunt Jane, sitting in the office, heard the warning toot
of his motor as it turned the corner of the next street and was off for
the day's work.




IV


In the reception-room a man was waiting. He was thick-set, with dark
hair and eyes and an obstinate chin. He looked up with a doubtful flash
as Aunt Jane came in.

"How is she?" he demanded. He had sprung to his feet.

Aunt Jane descended into a creaking chair and folded her hands quietly.
"Sit down, Mr. Dalton," she said; "I'm going to tell you all about it."

The words seemed to promise limitless details.

He sat down, chafing a little and looking at her eagerly.

She smiled on him. "Hard work waiting, isn't it?" she said.

His face broke a little.

"Has she come out of it?"

Aunt Jane nodded. "Yes, she's got through." She rocked a little in the
big chair. "She's standing it pretty well, considering," she added after
a pause.

"Will she get well?" The question burst at her.

She looked up at him slowly--at the dark eyes and obstinate chin. "I
don't know," she said. She waited a minute. "I suppose you'd rather know
the truth," she asked.

"Yes--yes."

"I thought so." The muslin strings nodded. "When my husband died they
didn't let us know how sick he was. I've always thought we might have
saved him--between us--if we'd known. They wanted to spare my feelings."
She looked at him inquiringly.

"Yes." He waited a little less impatiently. The world was a big place.
Everybody died.... Would Edith die?... He looked at her imploringly.

She returned the look with one full of gentleness. "I don't see how
she's going to live," she said slowly. The face under its white cap took
on a trance-like look. The eyes were fixed on something unseen. She drew
a quick breath.... "But I guess she will," she said with a tremulous
laugh.

The man's lips parted.

She looked at him again. "If I were you, Mr. Dalton, I'd go home and
feel pretty big and strong and well, and I'd hope pretty hard."

He looked at her, bewildered.

She was on her feet. She ran her eye over his face and person. "I'd wear
the cleanest, freshest clothes I could get, and I'd look so 'twould do
her good just to set eyes on me."

He flushed under the two days' growth of beard and ran his hand
awkwardly across his chin. "But they won't let me see her?" he said.

"Well, I don't know," responded Aunt Jane. "It'll do her good--whether
she sees you or not," she added energetically.

He rose with a smile, holding out his hand. "I believe you're right," he
said. "It gives me something to do, anyway, and that's worth a good
deal."

"Yes, it's something to do," she responded, "and I don't suppose any of
us knows just what cures folks."

"Could I see her to-morrow, perhaps?" he asked, watching her face.

She shook her head emphatically. "Not till I think best," she replied
with decision.

His face fell.

"And not then," she said, "unless you're feeling pretty well and strong
and happy."

He gave a little abrupt laugh. "Oh, you've fixed that all right. I
shan't sigh--not once--in a dark room--with the lights out."

Aunt Jane smiled serenely. "That's good." At the door she paused a
moment. "I wouldn't reckon too much on seeing her," she said. "I shan't
let any one see her till she asks. She won't pay much attention for
three-four days yet."

A peculiar look crossed the man's dark face. "That's all right," he
said. "I can wait."

Outside the door he lifted his face a little to the fresh breeze. His
eyes stared absently at the drifting sky. "Now, how did she know Edith
wouldn't want to see me?" he said softly: "how did she find that out?"




V


Aunt Jane bent her head and listened to the heavy breathing. Then she
spoke softly to the nurse in charge, who listened obediently and went
away. It was not an unusual thing for Aunt Jane to assume control of a
case at any moment. Perhaps she was most likely to do this about three
or four o'clock in the morning when all the hospital was asleep and a
chill had crept into the air. The nurse in charge of a critical case
would look up to find Aunt Jane standing beside her, fresh from a cold
bath, with a smile on her big, restful face and a whispered command on
her lips that sent the tired nurse to bed with a clear conscience.

The patients that Aunt Jane assumed in this peremptory fashion always
recovered. Perhaps they would have recovered in any case. This is one of
the things that no one knows. It may be noted, however, in passing, that
the patients themselves as they came into the new day, holding fast to
Aunt Jane's hand, cherished a belief that had it not been for that
firm, plump hand, the new day would not have dawned for them.... They
had no strength and no will of their own. But through the cold and the
darkness, something held them; and when the spirit came creeping back
with the morning, the first thing that their eyes rested on was Aunt
Jane's face.

The woman's eyes opened suddenly. They looked for a moment, dull and
unseeing, into Aunt Jane's. Then they fell shut. Aunt Jane's fingers
noted the pulse and passed once or twice across the high, fretted brow.
Slowly a look of sleep passed over the face and the strained lines
relaxed. Aunt Jane, watching it, gave a nod of satisfaction. Out in the
orchard the robin sang his twilight song, slow and cool and liquid, with
long pauses between, and the dusk crept into the white room, touching
it.

Aunt Jane sat passive, waiting, the eyes under her white cap glowing
with a still, deep look. All the threads of life and death in the
hospital gathered up and centred in the quiet figure sitting there. Not
a pulse in the great building beat, or flickered and went out, that
Aunt Jane did not know it. But she sat waiting while the twilight
deepened, a look of restfulness in her big face. Now and then she
crooned to herself, half humming the lines of some hymn and falling
silent again, watching the sleeper's breath.

The night nurse paused outside the door, and a little rush of gaslight
flickered in. Aunt Jane rose and closed the door and shifted a screen
noiselessly to the foot of the bed. The long night had settled down for
its sleep. And Edith Dalton's soul was keeping watch with death. Slowly
it sank back into the grim hold ... only a spark left, with Aunt Jane
keeping guard over it.... So the night passed and the day, and another
night and another day ... and the third day dawned. Edith Dalton would
have said, as the spark glowed higher and blazed a little and lighted
her soul, and her eyes rested on Aunt Jane's face, that the figure
sitting there had not left her side for three days. Down through the
deepest waters, where death lulled her and heaven waited, she had felt a
touch on her soul, holding her, drawing her steadily back to life; and
now she opened her eyes and they rested on Aunt Jane's face and smiled a
little. Then the lids fluttered together again and sleep came to the
face, natural and sweet.

Aunt Jane's eyes grew dark beneath the white cap. She touched a bell and
gave the case over to the day nurse that came. "She will be all right
now," she said. She spoke in the low, even voice that was not a whisper
and not a tone. "Give her plenty of water. She has been very thirsty.
But there is no fever. Don't call me unless there is a change.... Then
send at once." She departed on her rounds.

No one would have guessed, as the fresh, stout figure moved in and out
among the wards, that she had not slept for two nights. There was a
tradition that Aunt Jane never slept and that she was never tired. Dr.
Carmon laughed at the tradition and said that Aunt Jane slept as much as
any one, more than most people, in fact, only she did it with her eyes
open--that it was only a superstition that made people think they must
shut their eyes to sleep. The Hindoos had a trick worth two of that.
Aunt Jane knew the trick, and she might tell other folks if she would,
and save the world a lot of trouble.

But Aunt Jane only shook her head, and smiled, and went her way. And
when the fight with death came, she went with each one down into that
other world, the world of sleep and faith and unconscious power, on the
border-land of death, where the soul is reborn, and waited there for
life. She had no theories about it, and no pride; and if she had now and
then a gentle, imperious scorn of theorists and bunglers, it was only
the touch of human nature that made the world love her.




VI


It was late Monday afternoon that a card was brought to Aunt Jane--a
thin, slim bit of card, with correct English lettering in plain type on
it.

Aunt Jane read it and glanced up at Miss Murray who was on door duty for
the afternoon.

"He's in the front room," said the nurse. "And there's a woman--came the
same time but separate. I put her in the back room."

"Tell Miss Crosby and Miss Canfield to be ready to go on duty in Number
5 and Suite A," said Aunt Jane.

She said the last words almost with a sniff. If Aunt Jane had had her
way, there would have been no Suite A in the House of Mercy.

For Suite A was a big, sunny, southeast room, with a sitting-room on one
side and a bath on the other--a royal bath, with overhead shower and
side sprays and all the latest words in plumbing and fitting, all the
most luxurious and costly appointments of nickel and marble and tile.

Aunt Jane always went by Suite A with her head a little in the air and
her nose a trifle raised. And woe to the man or woman who occupied Suite
A. For a week or ten days he was left severely to the care of nurses and
doctors. It was only after he had experienced to the full what a
desolate place a hospital may be, that Aunt Jane condescended to look in
and thaw the atmosphere a little.

It was perhaps her feeling for Suite A that led her to attend to ward
patients and occupants of humble rooms before those of Suite A. "They'll
be comfortable enough when they get to their suite," she had been known
to say.

So it was the back room that she entered first--with the card in her
hand.

A little woman at the side of the room got up quickly. "I came alone,"
she said. She fluttered a little and held out her hand nervously as if
uncertain what might happen to her in a hospital.

Aunt Jane took it in her plump one and held it a minute. "Sit down."

The woman sat down and looked at her. "John wanted to come. But I told
him to stay home," she said.

"Much better," replied Aunt Jane, nodding.

"I told him he'd better kind of make supper for the children. So if they
should miss me!" The look was wistful.

Aunt Jane regarded it comfortably.

"All the happier, when you get back home." She had seated herself in a
large chair and she rocked a little.

The woman's face relaxed.

She looked about her more happily. "It seems kind of like home, don't
it? I didn't think a hospital would be like this--not just like this. I
don't seem to mind being here," she said with a little note of surprise.

"You won't mind it," said Aunt Jane. "You'll like it. Everybody likes
it. Maybe you won't want to go away."

The woman smiled faintly. "I guess I shall be ready to go--when the time
comes," she added slowly.... "There's one thing I wanted to ask somebody
about--it's about paying-- How much it will be, you know? I asked the
doctor once--when he said I'd have to come, but he didn't tell me--not
really."

"Dr. Carmon doesn't think so much about his pay." There was something
almost like pride in Aunt Jane's voice. "You needn't be afraid he'll
overcharge for it."

"It isn't that--only maybe we _couldn't_ pay," said the woman. Her
forehead held little wrinkled lines and her face smiled. "And it don't
seem quite right to be done--if we can't pay for it."

Aunt Jane rocked a minute. Her eyes travelled to the door leading to the
front room. The door was ajar and through the crack there was a glimpse
of a light overcoat lying carelessly across the chair. It had a silk
lining.

Aunt Jane nodded toward it. "There's a man in there----"

"Yes, I know. I saw him. He got here the same time I did--in his
motor-car."

"In his motor-car--that's it! Well--" Aunt Jane smiled. "_He's_ going to
pay Dr. Carmon--for your operation."

"Why--!" The little woman gasped. "He don't have any reason to pay for
_me_!"

"Well--" Aunt Jane rocked, turning it over and making it up as she went
along: "Well-- He's rich. He has a plenty-- And he won't be comfortable
without." She spoke with conviction.

"But he don't know me," said the woman. "Unless maybe he knows John!"
she added thoughtfully.

"That's it," Aunt Jane responded. "Maybe he knows 'John.' Anyway he's
going to pay." She touched a bell.

"Well--" The woman looked down at the hands in her lap, the fingers were
working in and out. "I'm sure I don't know how to thank him!" she said.
She looked up. Her eyes were full of tears. She brushed a quick hand
across them. "I don't know how!" she said softly.

"You don't need to thank him," replied Aunt Jane. "He won't expect any
thanks, I guess."

A nurse stood in the door. Aunt Jane's hand motioned to the woman. "This
is Mrs. Pelton. She's going to be in Room 5. Take good care of her."

The nurse held out her hand with a smile. And the little woman got up.
"I've got a bag here somewhere--? That's it--yes. Thank you! I seem all
kind of upset, somehow. I didn't know a hospital would be like this!"

Aunt Jane watched her with a smile as she went from the room. There was
a gentle look in her eyes. Then she got up, with the card in her hand,
and moved toward the front room. She had become serene and austere.

A tall, thin man rose courteously. "I am Dr. Carmon's patient. I
understand a room has been reserved for me?" He looked up.

"There's a room, yes," admitted Aunt Jane.

The man's face waited. There was astonishment and a little amusement
under its polite gaze.

Aunt Jane rang the bell.

"Won't you sit down," she indicated a chair.

"Thank you. I prefer to keep standing--while I can." He said it
smilingly.

If there was an undertone of appeal for sympathy in the words, Aunt
Jane's face ignored it. She turned to the nurse who entered.

"Show Mr.--?" She consulted the card in her hand with elaborate care.
"Mr.--? Medfield, yes, that's it--show Mr. Medfield to Suite A."

The man bowed and took his coat on his arm. The nurse led the way. And
Aunt Jane watched them from the room, holding the little card in her
hand.

A little later when she entered the name on the card in the hospital
register, she added something after it in tiny hieroglyphics that made
her smile as she closed the book and put it away on its shelf.




VII


Herman Medfield sat in the spacious sitting-room of Suite A, his paper
spread out before him and his breakfast on the invalid table that had
been wheeled up to the window. He had found the table with its tray of
coffee and eggs and toast, an easy chair drawn up beside it, and the
morning paper by his plate, ready for him when he came from his
comfortable bath.

He had opened the paper, but not the eggs.... He read a few lines in the
paper and glanced down at the table with a little scowl and pushed it
from him.

Dr. Carmon had insisted on his being at the hospital for three or four
days before the operation. He wanted to watch him and control
conditions, he had said. It would make his decision easier.

The millionaire sitting in the window frowned a little and drummed with
his fingers on the arm of the chair.

He took up the paper and glanced at it again and threw it down.

One of the conditions had been that he should have no cigars. He had
understood and agreed to it.

But this morning he was impatient with himself and annoyed with Dr.
Carmon. These doctors had no end of theories--useless theories--that did
more harm than good. He should be in no shape for an operation--if he
could not keep his nerve better than this. He really needed a cigar.

He pressed the knob of the electric cord that reached to his chair and
took up the paper again.

When the nurse came in, he glanced up and motioned courteously to the
table.

"You may take it away, please."

She looked at the untouched food and lifted the tray without comment. At
the door she paused, at a word from the window.

The man had turned over his paper, and he glanced down another column as
he said carelessly:

"And--ah--would you be kind enough to telephone to my house for a box
of cigars. I seem to have forgotten to bring any."

The nurse waited the merest fraction of a second. "I will see if they
are on your order," she said quietly, and went out.

He lifted his eyes a trifle and returned to his paper.

The nurse closed the two doors of Suite A noiselessly behind her. She
went down the corridor, bearing the rejected tray.

Half-way down the corridor she encountered a plump figure.

Aunt Jane's mild glance rested on the tray. "Anything the matter with
it?" she asked.

"He doesn't want it," said the nurse. "He said, 'take it away.'" Her
lips smiled, ever so little, as she watched the round face in its cap.

The cap strings did not exactly bristle; but there was a look of
firmness in the plump chin.

"Take it back," said Aunt Jane. "Tell him it is what was ordered for
him. He is to eat it--eat all of it."

She spoke back over her shoulder, half turned away. "I've got a good
many things on my hands this morning. I can't be bothered with fussy
folks and notions." She passed on and disappeared in the door of Room
18.

The nurse, with her tray, returned to Suite A. She opened the door
softly and went in.

Two minutes later, she emerged, still with her tray--and a high, clear
color in her face.

Aunt Jane coming out of Room 18, caught a glimpse of her and stopped.

The nurse shook her head, the color in her cheeks mounting. "He doesn't
want it." Her eyes twinkled a little in spite of the color that flooded
up.

Aunt Jane reached out her hands for the tray. She gave a half-impatient
click. "More bother'n they worth!" she said. "Always are in that room!"

She bore the tray before like a charger, and entered Suite A without
parley.

Herman Medfield looked up and saw her, and rose instinctively.

Aunt Jane set the tray on the table and pushed the table gently toward
him. "Sit down," she said.

He sat down in his chair by the window, looking up at her inquiringly.

"Everything's there," said Aunt Jane. She glanced over the tray. "You're
to eat it all--all there is on the tray."

The man laid down his paper and smiled at her quizzically.

"But, madam, I have no appetite," he said courteously.

Aunt Jane regarded him mildly over her spectacles. "Folks that come here
don't generally have appetites," she said. "They come here to get 'em."

Something crossed in the air between them and the millionaire's eyes
dropped first. He drew his chair toward the table.

A half smile hovered on Aunt Jane's lips. She took up the coffee-pot and
reached to the sugar. "How many lumps?" she asked pleasantly.

"Two, please," responded Herman Medfield.

She placed them in the cup and poured in cream and filled the cup with
coffee. "Looks like good coffee, this morning," she said quietly. "You
got everything you want?"

"I think so, yes." He looked at the tray with a little more interest and
pecked at an egg.

Aunt Jane nodded shrewdly and kindly and went out.

It was only after she had gone that Herman Medfield remembered he had
not spoken of the cigars. On the whole, he decided to wait until
to-morrow for his cigar.




VIII


In Room 5 Mrs. John Pelton lay staring at the wall, with quiet face.
From a clock-tower came the sound of the striking of the hour. She
counted the strokes--nine o'clock. She wished it were ten and Dr. Carmon
had come.... After he came and things began--the operation was only
"things," even in the background of her mind--after Dr. Carmon got there
and things began, it would not be so hard, she thought. It was the
waiting part that was hard.

She had had a restless night. There had seemed so many hours; and she
had thought of things that she ought to have done before she left
home.... She had forgotten to tell any one about Tommie's milk. He
always got upset so easy! She wondered if Mrs. Colby would know. It had
been good in Mrs. Colby to say she would come in and look after the
children a little. But Mamie was really old enough to cook for them....
And she did hope John would be all right--and not worry about her....
He would be at work at ten--when "things" were going on. That was
good!... Mrs. John Pelton knew that it was work that would carry John
over the hard place--work that would take every nerve and thought for
itself. John was a puddler and they were to "run" at ten o'clock--or
about ten. He would have his hands full--enough to think about and not
worry--till things were over.... He would come, after work hours, to see
how she had got through.

Then she had fallen asleep and dreamed she was slipping down a steep
place--down, down, and couldn't stop--and some one had caught her
arm.... And it was the nurse, waking her gently for something. And then
she had dozed a little and wakened and wondered about the children
again....

And no one had brought her any breakfast--not even a cup of coffee.
"Nothing to eat this morning," the nurse had said, smiling, when she had
plucked up courage to ask for something. The nurse was a nice girl--a
good girl, Mrs. Pelton thought--but hardly older than Mamie, it seemed.

That older woman was so good yesterday! Aunt Jane's look and cap came
floating hazily to her; and she slipped a hand under her cheek and fell
asleep, thinking of it.

The thin face on the pillow, with the hair drawn tightly back and
braided in its two small braids, had somehow a heroic look. There were
lines of suffering on the forehead, but the mouth had a touch of
something like courage, even in its sleep--as if it would smile, when
the next hard thing was over.

Aunt Jane, who had come in silently and stood looking down at it, called
it "the woman look."

"They always have it," she sometimes said--"the real ones have it--kind
of as if they _knew_ things would come better--if just they could hold
on--not give up, or make a fuss or anything--just hold on!"

The woman opened her eyes and smiled faintly. "I didn't know as you came
to see us--in the rooms," she said.

Aunt Jane nodded. "Yes, I'm 'most everywhere."

She seated herself comfortably and looked about the room. "You've got a
good day for your operation," she said. "It's a good, sunny day."

The woman's startled eyes sought her face. She had been living so alone
in the hours of the night, that it seemed strange to her that any one
should speak out loud of--"the operation."

Her lips half opened, to speak, and closed again.

Aunt Jane's glance rested on them and she smiled. "Dreading it?" she
asked.

The lips moistened themselves and smiled back. "A little," said the
woman.

Aunt Jane's face grew kinder and rounder and beamed on her; and the
woman's eyes rested on it.

"You never had one, did you?" said Aunt Jane.

The woman shook her head.

"I thought likely not. Folks don't generally dread things that they've
had--not so much as they do those they don't know anything about.... You
won't dread it next time!" She said the words with a slow, encouraging
smile.

The woman's face lighted. "I hope there won't be any next time," she
replied softly.

"More than likely not. Dr. Carmon does his work pretty thorough." Aunt
Jane made a little gesture of approval. "He does the best he knows
how.... You won't mind it a bit, I guess--not half so much as you mind
thinking about minding it."

"Do they carry me out?" asked the woman quickly. All the troubled lines
of her face relaxed as she asked the question.

It was the look Aunt Jane had been waiting for. The blessedness of
talking out was a therapeutic discovery all Aunt Jane's own.

Long before scientists had written of the value of spoken expression as
a curative method--long before "mental therapy" was fashionable--Aunt
Jane had come to know that "a good talk does folks a lot of good."

"Let them kind of spit it out," she said, "get it off the end of their
tongues 'most any way.... It seems to do them a world of good--and it
don't ever hurt me-- Seems to kind of slide off me."

She watched the light break in on the tense look, with a little smile,
and bent toward the bed.

"No, you don't have to be carried--not unless you want to. I guess
you're pretty good and strong; and you've got good courage. I can see
that."

"I'd rather walk," said the woman quickly.

"Yes, I know." Aunt Jane nodded. "I'll go with you--when the time comes.
We just go down the hall here a little way--to the elevator. The
operating-room's on the top floor-- It's a nice, sunny, big room. And
you'll have the ether in the room next to it. There's a lounge there for
you to lie on and a nice comfortable chair for me."

"Shall you go with me?" It was a quick word.

"Yes, I'm going up with you. I go, a good many times, with folks that
want me----"

"Yes, I want you."

The small face had grown relaxed; the eyes were clear and waiting. The
unbleached nightgown, with the bit of coarse edging at neck and wrists,
seemed a comely garment.

Something had taken place in Room 5, for which scientists have not yet
found a name. At ten o'clock Dr. Carmon would perform his difficult
operation on the frail body of Mrs. John Pelton. But the spirit that
would go under the knife was the spirit of Aunt Jane, smiling and
saying placidly:

"There, he's just come. That's his car tooting out here. Now we're ready
to go."




IX


The room had a sunny stillness. The sun poured in at the window on the
whiteness and on the figure lying on the couch and on the young doctor
bending toward it and adjusting the ether cone with light touch, and on
Aunt Jane rocking placidly in her chair by the couch.

"You won't mind it a mite," said Aunt Jane. Her hand held the thin one
in its warm clasp. "You won't mind.... Dr. Doty'll give it to you, nice.
He's about the best one we've got--to give it."

The doctor smiled at the words--a boyish, whimsical smile at flattery.
He adjusted the cone a little. "Breathe deep," he said gently.

There was silence in the room--only a little burring sound somewhere,
and the soft creak of Aunt Jane's rockers as they moved to and fro.

The door of the operating-room stood open. Through the crack Aunt Jane
could see a round, stout figure, enveloped from head to foot in its
rubber apron, bending over a tray of instruments. The great arms, bare
to the shoulders, the exposed neck, and round head with short bristling
hair, a little bald at the top, gave a curious sense of alert power and
force.

Aunt Jane had never seen a picture of St. George and the Dragon, or of
St. Michael. She had scant material for comparison. But I suspect if she
had seen through the open door of the operating-room, either of these
saints fastening on his greaves--whatever greaves may be--and getting
ready for the dragon, he would have seemed to her a less heroic and
noble and beautiful figure than the short, square man, bending over his
case of instruments and selecting a particularly sharp and glittering
one for use.

The young doctor leaning over the figure on the couch moved a little and
lifted his head. "All right," he said quietly. He nodded toward the door
of the operating-room.

A nurse appeared in the doorway.

Aunt Jane pushed back her chair; and the nurse and doctor, at either
end, lifted the movable top of the couch by its handles and carried the
light burden easily between them to the open door.

Aunt Jane watched till the door was shut.... Her work began and ended at
the door of the operating-room.

Inside that door, Dr. Carmon was supreme. Elsewhere in the hospital Aunt
Jane might treat him as a mere man; she might criticise and advise, and
even rebuke the surgeon for whose use the hospital had been built and
endowed. But within the operating-room he was supreme. She allowed
patients to enter that door without word or comment, and she received
them back from his hands with a childlike humility that went a long
way--it may be--toward reconciling the surgeon to her rule elsewhere.

"Aunt Jane knows what she knows--and what she doesn't know," Dr. Carmon
had been heard to say. And if she regarded him as a mere man, it is only
fair to say that he, in turn, looked upon Aunt Jane as a woman; a mere
woman, perhaps, but remarkably sensible--for a woman.

When the door of the operating-room closed upon her, Aunt Jane stood a
minute in the sunny room, looking tranquilly about. She drew down a
shade and returned the rocking-chair to its place and went quietly out.

In the corridor, nurses were coming and going with long, light boxes or
tall vases and great handfuls of fragrant blossoms. The florist's wagon
had just come; the corridor was filled with light and movement and the
fresh scent of flowers. Aunt Jane beamed on it all and passed on.

It was one of the pleasantest hours of the day for Aunt Jane. She knew
that scrubbing and sweeping and dusting were done--every inch of the
hard floors clean with carbolic and soap, every patient bathed and fed,
and the beds freshly made--everything in order for doctor's visits--and
inspection. Through an open door, here and there as she went, she caught
a glimpse of a black-coated shoulder or arm by the side of some bed.
Aunt Jane had no fear of adverse criticism on her hospital or of
complaint of her way of doing things.

She moved serenely on.

Then, at a door, she stopped. It was at the far end of the corridor; and
through the half-curtained glass of the door she looked into a great
sunny room that extended across the width of the house and opened on one
side to the sky and all outdoors.

It was filled with small cots and beds and cribs.




X


Aunt Jane stood in the doorway a minute, smiling and looking down the
long room. Presently from somewhere there came a piping cry:

"Aunt Jane's come!"

And then another cry--and another: "Aunt Jane's come! Aunt Jane's come!"

No one knew who had started the custom. But some child, some sunny
morning, had broken out with it when Aunt Jane appeared. And the others
had taken it up, as children will; and now it had become a happy part of
the day's routine, as regular as the doctor's visit--or the night
nurse's rounds.

"Aunt Jane's come--Aunt Jane's come!"

They broke off from picture-books or blocks, to look up and call out and
pass the word along. Then they chanted it together.... And the newcomer
in the ward, a boy lying with bandaged face and eyes half closed,
turned a first curious, questioning look--to find the white-capped face
smiling down at him.

At the top of the house, at either end of the long corridor--in Dr.
Carmon's operating-room and here in the Children's Ward--Aunt Jane was
not the implacable personage that ruled elsewhere in the hospital.

She beamed down the ward.

A dozen hands reached out to her and she smiled to them and nodded and
scolded a little and fussed and drew them all into a happy sense that
this was home--and Aunt Jane a kind of new and glorified mother for
little children. All the sick ones and lame ones, and the bruised ones
and bandaged ones were Aunt Jane's children-- It did not seem like a
hospital, as one looked down the sunny room, so much as a place where
children were gathered in; pinched faces lighted up--for the first time
in life, perhaps--with round, shrewd, loving smiles for Aunt Jane;
delicate bandaged faces looked out at her wistfully and happily; and
laughing, rosy ones turned to her.

There were no unhappy ones there. "Children suffer and don't know," was
Aunt Jane's comment.

Sometimes as she stood among them she marvelled a little at the quiet
unconscious force that ignored pain, or adjusted itself to twinges. Some
child, with a look almost of impatience, would shift a bandaged leg or
foot to an easier position, as it listened to the story she was telling
or entered into some game of her contriving.

Sometimes it was a guessing game that was played by the whole ward at
once--a kind of twenty questions, shouted at her as she came in, her
hands held carefully behind her.... And, curiously, it was always some
little one that guessed first; some feeble one, just beginning to take
notice, that had a glimpse of Aunt Jane's broad back as she turned
casually with a serene unconscious look, or moved a little and revealed
the hidden thing behind her.

The whole ward was interested this morning in Jimmie Sullivan's new leg.
It was a frame-leg that got in the way when he walked and tripped him
up. He was a little proud of it, but more annoyed, as he came hurrying
down the ward to meet her.

Aunt Jane adjusted her spectacles and looked.

"Well, well!" she said.

Jimmie glanced down at it, a little proud and abashed. "It can't walk,"
he admitted.

"Want me to carry you?" asked Aunt Jane.

"No, sir!" He slipped a proud hand into hers and stumbled happily and
awkwardly along.

Aunt Jane moved toward a bed where a child lay strapped on his back,
hands and feet and head held fast, only his eyes free to turn to her
with a smile.

"How's Alec?" said Aunt Jane.

"All right," replied the child. "You going to tell a story?"

"Well--maybe. I don't know as I know any new stories," she said slowly.
She considered it.

"Tell an old one," said the boy. "Any old story," he added with a grim
smile under the crisscross bandages of the stiff face.

"Tell about the little red hen," piped a voice from the next bed.

"No--about billy-goat," from across the room.

"Tell about the old lady that runned away," came shrilling close at
hand.

Aunt Jane put her hands over her ears. "I can't hear anything," she
announced.

Their faces grew still and alert till she should move her hands a tiny
crack and they could shout again: "Billy-goat!" "The little red hen!"
"The lady that runned away!"

Jimmie Sullivan, half leaning against her, looked at them reproachfully.
"She can't tell nuthin' while you make such a racket!" he said.

"She likes it!--She likes it!--_She_ don't care!" They returned.

Aunt Jane looked at them and smiled. She took down her hands.

"Let me see--" She glanced from one bed to the other. "I am going to let
Edna choose.... She can whisper it to me." She went to a bed across the
room, Jimmie Sullivan's frame-leg clanking happily beside her, and bent
to the pillow.

The girl lifted a thin arm and threw it about Aunt Jane's neck to draw
her close.

Aunt Jane listened and lifted her head and smiled. "All right," she
announced.

The room was so still you could hear a pin drop. A nurse passing the
lower end of the ward, with a dish in her hand, paused and looked down
the quiet room. Every eye was fastened expectantly on the motherly
figure moving serenely about.... It crossed to the side of the room and
adjusted the skylight shade and brought a big rocker and placed it in
the middle of the room under the skylight and put a low chair for Jimmie
Sullivan, and another beside it for the child that was limping slowly
across to her.... A girl in a wheeled chair propelled herself swiftly
down the ward and came to a stop as close to the big rocker as she could
get.

Aunt Jane glanced slowly about the ward--at the expectant faces looking
at her from every bed.

"Now, the rest of you stay where you are!" she said severely.

They laughed and adjusted themselves, and then they were quiet again,
watching her intently.

She sat down in the big chair and rocked a little.

"Let me see--" She sat smiling thoughtfully; the smile ran along the
pillows--waiting.

"Once when I was a little girl----"

The pillows nestled a little and sighed happily and settled down; and
Aunt Jane's voice went on with the tale and the nurse at the end of the
ward passed out with her dish. The door swung to behind her.

The great sunny room was left to happiness and to Aunt Jane and to the
children and: "Once when I was a little girl."




XI


In Suite A, Herman Medfield had eaten the last of his breakfast. It
might almost be said that, sitting in the window with the paper spread
before him and the sun shining in, he had enjoyed his breakfast.... It
was a long time since Herman Medfield had eaten a complete breakfast
served in the ordinary way. The road to the House of Mercy was strewn
with a vast wreckage of fads and hopes and breakfast foods. There were
long vegetarian streaks that excluded milk and eggs; and gusts of
Fletcherizing--chewing wind hopefully and patiently; and there were wide
negative deserts--forbidden fruits--no starches-and-sweets together, no
sweets-and-acids, no potato-and-meat, no proteids-and-carbons. A long,
weary, hopeless watching and coaxing of gastric juices, and infinite
patience and cunning toward the vagaries of indigestion. He had "rolled
the stomach gently," and he had lain with "a pillow under his back and
head down." He had become a finical, peripatetic amphitheatre of
constant, cautious experiment and investigation. And it had brought him
at last to Suite A and the sunny window.

And now in a breath, it seemed, in the Berkeley House of Mercy Aunt
Jane's touch had broken the habit of years. He felt like a very small
boy, who has been taken up and set down gently in his chair--and told to
eat his breakfast and keep still.

He had thrown caution to the winds and had eaten like a hungry human
being. He had drunk great swallows of the delicious brown coffee--with
cream and sugar in it--without a thought of diluted gastric juice, or
secretions, or fads, or fermentations.... He felt almost well as he ate
the last of his toast and read his paper and basked in the sunny quiet.
And behind it all was a sense of security and protection; no telephone
could get at him, no clicking of the tape could reach his ear and set
his tired brain to work.

So he had finished his breakfast and read his paper and had been almost
happy.

But now he had read the paper through three times, gleaning last scanty
bits of news; he had opened the elaborate writing-desk across the room
and investigated the neat assortment of pens and blotters and paper and
ink--each sheet with its neatly stamped heading of the House of Mercy;
and he was feeling a little bored.

He stood looking down at the desk and fingering the keys in his pocket.
Then he went over and stood by the window and looked out, and turned
away and paced the room once or twice, fingering absently at the keys in
his pocket. He wondered whether perhaps his breakfast had not been a
little heavy, after all--two eggs for a man who had been dieting!

And all the time his restless fingers--whether thrust deep in the
pockets of his black velvet coat, or twisting a little as he walked, or
jingling the keys--were rolling imaginary cigarettes and reaching toward
a swiftly struck match--and the fragrant in-drawn breath of smoke.

It had not occurred to him when Dr. Carmon had told him that he would
probably have to undergo an operation and that he must have him at the
House of Mercy for a few days to watch the case--it had not occurred to
Herman Medfield that he would be a prisoner in the House of Mercy.

He stepped impatiently to the window and looked out again and shrugged
his shoulders.... It was all very well to have an operation--very likely
he did need something of the sort.... But this coming beforehand and
being shut up by himself--while his machinery was going, full tilt--all
this fuss was ridiculous!... Down in the yard a maid was hanging out
clothes; he watched her strong arms lift the wet sheets and swing them
to the line; the wind blew her hair a little.... It was more than likely
it was largely for effect--this having him come beforehand and shutting
him up like a prisoner in a cell, and taking away his tobacco--it was
more than likely that it was all for effect. Herman Medfield knew most
things that could be known about advertising and about the value of
advertising methods.... It might very well be a good card for the
hospital and for Dr. Carmon to have him there, and to get the
advertising that would come from having it known. The reporters were
sure to get hold of it.... It flitted across his mind that there might
be an interview.... It was years since Herman Medfield had granted an
interview. But even a reporter would relieve the monotony a little. He
glanced at his watch and felt a little cheered at the thought of the
reporter.

Then something occurred to him. He wondered whether the efficient
Person, who seemed to have charge of the Berkeley House of Mercy, would
_allow_ him to see a reporter!... He had eaten his breakfast--and, on
the whole, he felt better for it--the eggs seemed to be taking care of
themselves after all.... He foresaw that for the next three or four
weeks he was not going to do what he chose, but what the Person thought
best for him. Then his sense of humor came to the rescue. He recalled
the cap strings--and smiled.

It would not be such bad sport, matching one's wits against the cap
strings.... But there was still the morning to get through!

He wandered across and stopped again by the elaborate writing-desk and
looked at it. He might write to some one. He sat down and drew a sheet
of paper toward him and looked at the neatly cut inscription across the
top--"The Berkeley House of Mercy"--his prison cell, he thought grimly.
His fingers reached out for a half-smoked cigar--and drew back and
smoothed the paper thoughtfully and took up the pen and dipped it in the
ink and waited.

He would write to Julian. He had not written to Julian in his own
handwriting--not since the boy was a pupil at Exeter--that was ten years
ago.... He was his own secretary those days.

He wrote: "My dear Julian." Then he waited. He was seeing Julian as he
used to look when he was at Exeter; he had been such a fresh,
clear-faced boy; he had been proud of him--and Julian's mother.... The
millionaire was living over those first days of life together--the time
when Julian was born--he had not thought of it for years--all her pretty
ways in the house--and the garden he had made for her, and her coming to
meet him when he came from the office at night.... And then the days
when she had seemed to fade like a flower and they had carried her out
of the house--and there had been no one but the boy to come running to
meet him when he came home-- But the boy had hurt him and he had sent
him away ... and the loneliness since.... The empty house at night, and
the great void spaces of life that opened on every side. He had thrown
gold into them--and he had reached out for more gold--great heaped-up
masses of gold and bonds and thrifty investments; and the gold had
mounted higher every year--till it seemed to shut him off from every
one.... No one came to him now except for money--or about money. Even
Julian hardly wrote except to ask for a check or to acknowledge one. And
he only knew the boy's address through his bankers.... It was somewhere
on the Riviera, the last time. He dipped the pen again in the ink.

There was a knock at the door and he turned. It was Miss Canfield, the
nurse who had been assigned him. She carried a long, light box. She held
it out.

"Some flowers for you."

He reached up his hand, half pleased. He had not expected any one would
send flowers to him.

She undid the wrapper and handed him the box.... On the top lay a card
edged in black. He put on his eye-glasses and took it up.

"Mrs. Cawein----"

His face fell a little. She was his partner's wife--his late partner's
widow, that is--she had a right to send flowers to him, of course--if
she chose.

He set the box down on the desk and took up his pen. The nurse brought a
large vase and placed it beside him and arranged the flowers. They were
huge yellow roses, with long stems and crisp leaves--a kind of
salmon-pink yellow. Herman Medfield glanced at them grudgingly. It
seemed to him they were a singularly displeasing color. He had not
supposed there were any roses of that shade of yellow! He grew roses
himself, and he knew something about them. He shrugged his shoulder a
little toward them and took up the pen.

"Put them somewhere else," he said irritably.

A little clear color flushed up in her face. "Would you like them on the
table?" she asked.

"Yes--please."

She removed the vase and placed it on the table across the room and went
out.

He stared at the heading on the paper: "My dear Julian." After all, what
was there he could say to the boy? He could tell him he was in a
hospital. But that might seem weak--as if he wanted sympathy--because he
was down.... Herman Medfield never asked for sympathy; his heart was
especially hard toward men who did. They were always the devils who were
down and out--that asked for sympathy--and hoped to get some of his
money to waste--as they had wasted their own. He would give hundreds to
a man who stood up to him--when he would not give a dollar to the one
that whined.

He dipped the pen again and wrote rapidly--a mere note, telling the boy
that he was away from home for a while--under the doctor's orders,
nothing serious, nothing to worry any one; he should be around again in
a few days. He signed it grimly and hunted up the banker's address and
directed and sealed it.... That was done! He pushed the letter from him.
He was tired. He wanted a cigar.

There was a quick knock at the door. Dr. Carmon had finished his
operation and made his round of visits in the hospital and he was doing
Suite A.

Herman Medfield greeted him with relief. "Come in," he said. "Come in
and sit down.... I am sorry I cannot offer you a cigar," he added with a
little humorous sigh.

The doctor sat down. "Hard work, is it?"




XII


He drew his chair in front of Herman Medfield, leaning forward a little,
with his elbows on his knees.

"Find it hard, do you?" he asked pleasantly.

"I've known easier things," replied Herman Medfield dryly.

The doctor regarded him without comment. He reached out a hand to his
pulse and took out his watch and sat with bent head a minute. Then he
slipped the watch back into his pocket and stood up.

"I'd like to put you on that couch a few minutes," he said. "That's
right--over there." He rolled up the window-shades and moved the couch
nearer to the window. Herman Medfield lay down, half grudgingly.

"Now, if you will relax and breathe easily--" The doctor's face had
grown absorbed. He seemed not to see Herman Medfield, but something that
might have been an abstraction--the essence, or spirit, of Medfield.
And while he gazed at this Medfield abstraction, Dr. Carmon's hands were
busy. They thumped the liver and sounded the heart and pounded the back
of Herman Medfield with quick, absorbed movements that left no depth
unsounded.

"Um-m!" he said at last.

And then--"Ah!"

He straightened his back and beamed down on Herman Medfield from behind
the spectacles.

"All right--am I?" asked Medfield.

"You'll be all right--in three or four days," responded Dr. Carmon, with
his round, successful diagnosis smile.

"You won't have to operate?" Medfield's face lighted.

"Operate--? Oh--! Yes--I shall operate." The doctor spoke absently. It
was the tone of one to whom it could never occur not to operate. "I
shall operate. It's fine!"

"Better than you thought?" asked Medfield hopefully.

The doctor's absent-minded gaze broke. He smiled. "Worse! Much worse
than I thought. You could not live three months--as you are."

Herman Medfield sat up.

Dr. Carmon surveyed him proudly. "And in three months you'll be a new
man--made over--top to toe!"

"When do you operate?" asked Medfield a little dryly.

"Um--this is Wednesday? Yes--about Friday, then." He got up. "There is
something I want you to do meantime." He rang for the nurse and called
for a roll of bandage.

When she brought it, he asked her to send Aunt Jane to Suite A.

"Do you know where she is?" he asked.

"In the Children's Ward, I think," said Miss Canfield.

"Very well. Ask her to come. I want her to have special charge of this
brace for me."

He turned back to the window. "Now, if I may have you here. I want to
take measurements, please."

The man stood straight as a tailor's dummy while the surgeon's hands
flitted over and around him. The tall figure outlined against the
window had a singular grace and charm; and the short, square one moving
jerkily around it, taking measurements and jotting down figures had an
added absurdity from the contrast.... Now, Dr. Carmon was on his hands
and knees on the floor; and now, stretching tiptoe to pass a
tape-measure over the tall, thin shoulders of the aristocratic figure.

It was thus that Aunt Jane saw the two men as she opened the door. She
stood for a moment in the doorway. Then she closed the door and came in.

But between the opening of the door and the closing it, she had seen for
the first time Dr. Carmon as he really was--a homely and grotesque and
brusque little man. It added, perhaps, a touch of severity to the
expression of the round face and its crisp cap strings.

He looked up quickly from his thumb that marked a place on the
tape-measure, and glanced from one to the other.

"You know Mr. Medfield?" he said.

"I met Mr. Medfield when he came--yesterday," said Aunt Jane safely.

"Yes, we have become acquainted," rejoined Herman Medfield, with a
little polite gesture of the hand.

Aunt Jane's face was non-committal.

Dr. Carmon turned to it. "I want a brace made--for temporary use. Here
are the measurements. Be sure to give it plenty of room here--and here."
He drew a few lines and jotted down the figures and handed the paper to
her.

She received it in silence.

The millionaire stood at his ease, smiling at her. He did not look like
a man condemned to die in three months. His eye was keen and there was a
little line of firmness under the smile of his lips.

"I want to see my lawyer," he said. "I will go to my office in the
morning. There are things to arrange."

Dr. Carmon paused abruptly. "I thought you attended to all that before
you came." His tone was brusque. "I told you----"

"I did not understand," said the millionaire quietly. "I did not think
you knew." He looked at him.

"Well--of course--if you have to--" Dr. Carmon's gaze was reluctant and
his brow puckered itself.... Standing beside the millionaire and
looking up at him with the puckered forehead, he may have seemed an
awkward and fussy and ineffectual little man.

"He can't go!" It was Aunt Jane's voice, prompt and decisive--and the
two men turned and looked at her.

"He can't go," she repeated calmly. "He's got to have this on." She
motioned to the paper she held in her hand. "He's got to have it on
right away and go to bed."

"But--" said Herman Medfield.

"You can't go to bed and go to an office, too," replied Aunt Jane
firmly.

The millionaire looked at her. His glance travelled to Dr. Carmon's
face. There was the merest hint of a twinkle behind the round
professional glasses, and Herman Medfield regarded it.

"Do I understand that this is _your_ order?" he asked politely.

"It's better for you--not--to wait," admitted Dr. Carmon slowly.

"You mean I'm taking chances?"

"Yes."

The millionaire's glance fell. "Very well. I shall do as you say, of
course." He moved a little away and sat down.

Aunt Jane's glance followed him--the look in it changed subtly.
Something that had been in it up in the Children's Ward came back.

"You can have your lawyer here," she said almost kindly. "We've got
plenty of pens and paper and ink. And you can tell him all you want to
without going to any office, I guess. Now I'll go get this made for you;
and you be ready to have it on when I come back."

She opened the door and went out.

The two men looked at each other like two boys--and smiled. Both boys
had had mothers. Herman Medfield's mother had worn a cap, an
aristocratic affair of ribbons and lace that had little relation to the
clear-starched whiteness of Aunt Jane's muslin strings; Dr. Carmon's
mother had never known what it was to cover her smooth-parted hair under
a cap--she had been a hard-working woman and far removed from Mrs.
Oliver Medfield's way of life. But the two men, as they watched Aunt
Jane disappear, had a sudden common sense of motherly protection and
wisdom; and they smiled across to each other in almost shamefaced
understanding.

"It really _is_ better not to wait--" said the doctor, half
apologetically: "It _might_ be all right. But we're taking chances
enough as it is--without that."

The professional look had come back to his face. He was looking absently
before him at something unseen.




XIII


It was the sixth day, and Edith Dalton was doing well--the wound was
doing well. As for the woman, she lay with indifferent eyes looking at
the white wall of her room and waiting recovery. The only time that the
look in the eyes changed was when Aunt Jane appeared in the doorway for
a moment, or sat by her bed. Then it would deepen to a question and
flicker toward hope.

"Doing well?" Aunt Jane would say. "They give you good things to eat,
don't they?"

The woman smiled faintly. "Yes."

"That's right. Eat and sleep. And hope don't hurt--a little of it."

"Aunt Jane?" The voice had a sharp note. The invalid was resting against
the pillows that had been raised on the bed.

"Yes?" Aunt Jane turned back.

"Hasn't he been to see me--once--my husband?" There was a shamed,
half-imperious note in the words.

Aunt Jane sat down comfortably by the bed and looked at her. Then she
shook her head chidingly.... "I've never seen a sick person yet that
wasn't unreasonable," she said.

The woman's face relaxed. "I know," she said apologetically, "but when
one is sick the days are long."

"You told me, that was four-five days ago," said Aunt Jane, "that you
didn't want to see him or hear his name mentioned. At least, that's what
I understood."

The woman was not looking at her.

"So when he's been here, time and again--three times a day, some
days--I've told him you couldn't see anybody--not even your husband....
I thought that was what you wanted."

"Yes," said the woman faintly.

Aunt Jane nodded. "And now you're acting hurt and keeping yourself from
getting well."

The woman flushed a little. "I don't think I am."

"Yes, you are," said Aunt Jane comfortably. "Of course it don't make any
real difference. You'll get well sometime.... Only it seems foolish.
Well, I must be going on my rounds. Keep up good courage." She stood up
and moved toward the door.

"Aunt Jane."

"Yes."

"You haven't time to stop a few minutes?"

"Why, yes. I've got plenty of time, if you want me. There's two
operations this morning, but everything's ready."

"Two operations?" The woman's lips grew white.

"One's a man with five children. Got to lose his leg.... His wife's
plucky. She's gone right to work earning money. But she's coming this
morning to be with him for the operation. She says he'll stand it
better. I guess she's right. They seem pretty close together.... That's
the only thing I really envy in this world," said Aunt Jane slowly, ...
"having a husband that loves you and cares." She sat quietly watching
the locust leaves outside the window. They shimmered in the light.

The woman raised a hand. "You don't understand," she said.

"Like enough not," said Aunt Jane. "It's hard work understanding other
folks' feelings. I don't more'n half understand mine.... I suppose you
were kind of disappointed in him...?

"I don't know--" The words faltered.

"They be, mostly."

"Is every one unhappily married?" the voice flashed at her.

"Well, I didn't say just that. But most of 'em find it different from
what they expected--men being men.... Women are women, too. I'll have to
go now. It's time for the man, and she'll be waiting in the parlor. I
told her to wait there." She rose slowly. "You don't want to see him, if
he should happen to come to-day?"

"No." The lips trembled a little and closed over the word.

"All right," said Aunt Jane soothingly. "Take plenty of time to get
well. He can wait. He's a good kind to wait, I can see that." She had
drifted out.

The woman's eyes followed her eagerly with a question in them. She put
up her hands to cover them. "Yes," she said softly, "he can wait."

As Aunt Jane opened the waiting-room door the man sprang to his feet. He
was radiant with a look of courage, and his eyes glowed as he came
toward her.

She shook her head, smiling a little. Then she turned to a young woman
waiting by the door. She was strong and fresh and a look of purpose
gleamed in her face. Aunt Jane looked at her approvingly. "Go down to
Room 20, Mrs. Patton, on the left-hand side. I've told Dr. Carmon you're
to be there. It's all right."

As the young woman left the room she turned to him again.

"Won't she see me?" he asked.

"Have patience three or four days more," she said slowly. "She'll be
wanting to see you before long now."

"How do you know?" He reached out a hand.

"I don't know, but I seem to feel it in my bones. She's most well....
She's well all through."

And she left him standing there, a glad light in his eyes, while she
went down the corridor to the man waiting in Room 20.




XIV


In Herman Medfield's room, the night-light was carefully shaded. Through
the dimness one guessed rather than saw the figure lying straight on the
high bed, motionless under the blanket, and the night nurse standing
beside it. The nurse bent a little toward the figure and listened.
Through the half-opened window a breeze came in, swaying the curtains,
and the night-light cast reaching, moving shadows across the ceiling and
along the bed.

The figure on the bed stirred a little and moaned, and the nurse spoke
softly. There was no response--only an inarticulate sigh, and quickened
breath for a moment, and rigid silence again. The nurse touched the
clothes gently, straightening them, and returned to her chair by the
table. The light fell on her face, the fresh face with clear features
and half-reddish hair gathered up under its white cap. She sat bending
forward, her hands relaxed in her lap. The breeze from the window came
in and mixed with the shadows and crept through the room toward the bed.

A thoroughly successful operation, Dr. Carmon had said. But he had been
in twice since to look at the motionless figure, and the nurse sitting
by the table had careful instructions to call him at any moment.... The
operation had been a success, but who knew what subtle forces had been
attacked, perhaps overthrown, in those sharp, fierce minutes in the
operating-room while the knife was at work? Dr. Carmon knew that he
could cut clean and quick and sure; he knew that he could follow a nerve
almost as a dog follows a scent, without fear or flinching; but it was
something within the nerves, the unseen, unguessed something--that was
life itself--that might undo his work and leave him helpless.... He
could only look at the silent figure and repeat again his careful
instructions and go away and leave it to the power that no man
understands, and no man can help or hinder.

The curtains moved in the breeze; and the nurse rose now and then as the
night wore on and went to the bed and waited a minute and returned to
her chair. Then some movement in the room--something unseen, drew her
and she went again to the bed. She moved the light so that it fell,
half-shaded, on the pillow, and bent forward and looked. Her hand sought
the wrist under the blanket and held it a minute and she lifted her face
and turned the light quickly away.

She was moving toward the door--but it had swung softly back into the
shadowy room, and Aunt Jane was nodding to her and smiling--with a
subdued half-gesture toward the bed.

"I'll take him now," she said in her low voice.

"Shall I call Dr. Carmon?"

"Not yet." She went on toward the bed and the nurse passed out.

In the dimness of the room, nothing had happened. The curtains swayed a
little in the breeze--the motionless figure on the bed lay rigid as
before under its blanket--and the shadows crept toward it and back. But
in the turning of a minute, forces had ranged themselves in the quiet
room.

Aunt Jane turned off the light and pushed back the curtains from the
window and brought a chair to the side of the bed, and sat down quietly
with the forces. She had moved with the certainty of one who sees what
is to be done. She knew that presently there would steal out from the
shadows something that has neither name nor shape.

She slipped her hand along inside the blanket and found the lifeless one
and rubbed it a little and touched the wrist with firm, quick fingers
and clasped the hand close.

Then she sat with her head bent, as motionless as the figure beside her.
The moments came and went. Outside, the clock-tower boomed the hour
softly, and then the half-hour; and somewhere in the distance a rooster
crowed--a shrill, clear call, like light.... Something ran through the
figure on the bed--the man stirred a little. Half-way through the
lifeless fingers something crept toward warmth, and lay chill--and went
slowly back and came again--and Aunt Jane's hand closed on it, clean and
soft.... The man stirred and opened his eyes and stared vaguely out.

The shadows in the room were clear gray--the east light had touched
them. The eyes looked out on the light, unseeing, and fell shut. A half
sigh fluttered to the parched lips and escaped and the man turned his
head. Aunt Jane bent forward, waiting. The eyes opened and saw her and
closed, and an even breath came through the lips. Then a deep groan
broke from them and Aunt Jane smiled.... It was a quiet, brooding smile
like the light of the morning that was flooding in through the room....
The man groaned again.

Aunt Jane nodded happily and got up. She opened the windows wide and let
in the freshness and stood for a moment breathing it in. Then she went
back to the bed.

The man's eyes regarded her dully.

"You feeling all right now?" she said cheerfully, bending over him.

He turned his head with a groan and Aunt Jane touched the bell.

It was the nurse with the reddish hair who responded, fresh from her
nap.

"How is he?" she asked. She looked toward the drawn face on the pillow.

"He's all right," said Aunt Jane. "He's just begun to suffer. He'll get
along all right now."

"You don't think we need to send for Dr. Carmon?" she asked doubtingly.

"No, we don't need Dr. Carmon," replied Aunt Jane. "He did _his_ work
yesterday. It's our turn now-- It's Mr. Medfield's turn." She nodded
toward the bed and smiled and went out.




XV


Through the open door of Room 5, Aunt Jane heard voices and stopped to
listen. Then she went in.

"This is my husband," said the little woman on the bed. "He says they're
getting along real well."

The man by the bed rose awkwardly, turning his stiff hat in his hands.
He wore a high collar with sharp points turning back in front and a
bright-blue necktie. A large stick pin was thrust through the tie, and
his hair was combed carefully in a wide, flat curl on his forehead. He
stood with his feet close together, and bowed to Aunt Jane over the hat.

She held out her hand. "How do you do, Mr. Pelton?-- Your wife is
getting along first-rate!" She nodded toward the bed.

The little woman's face flushed with clear color. "The doctor says I can
go in ten days!" she announced.

Aunt Jane considered it. "Well, you can go as soon as you can go--it may
be ten days and it may be eleven. I wouldn't begin to say just how many
days 'tis--if I was you. We mean to make you comfortable as long as you
stay here." She looked at her benignly over her glasses. "You're
comfortable, aren't you?"

"Oh, I'm comfortable!" said the woman. "Everybody's real good to me,
John." She turned to him. "Tommie don't miss me, does he?" It was
wistful.

John tugged at something in his pocket. "He kind of misses you, I guess.
But we're getting along _fine_!... I got these for you--so's you could
see." He put a fat envelope in her fingers and she received it
doubtingly. She held it up and looked at it.

"I don't know where they put my spectacles--I can't see very well."

"You don't need to see--not for them. Here--I'll show you." He took the
envelope proudly and stiffly and drew out a card and held it toward her.
"There you be!"

She took it in questioning fingers.

"Why, it's Mamie!"

She turned her face to Aunt Jane and held up the card to her: "That's my
oldest girl--that's Mamie!" Her voice had a happy tone--with quick tears
somewhere in it.

The man smiled broadly. "I've got another one!" He took it from the
envelope and extended it. "And here's two more!" He held the group of
pictures spread before him like a fan in his big hand and gazed at them.

"Why, John Pelton! You don't mean you had 'em all done!"

"The whole family," he said proudly.

"John--_Pelton_! Here--let _me_ see!"

She took the pictures from him, one by one, and her fingers trembled
with them. "That's Tommie! He's got on the little sack Aunt Minnie made
for him!

"He looks nice--don't he?" She held it toward Aunt Jane.

"And that's Wesley. His tie don't set quite straight." Regret and pride
mingled over the tie and smiled at it fondly. "And that's Lulie! It's
the whole family!"

"Well, I _am pleased_!"

She lay back and looked at them, proud and content, and Aunt Jane
praised the children.

"I've got another one here," said the man. He looked half shamefaced as
he drew it out.

Aunt Jane took it and smiled, and glanced from the picture to his face.

"Yes, it's good-- Looks like you," she said.

The woman raised a curious hand to it----

"Why--John!"

He stood smiling almost bashfully.

"I thought you'd better have the whole family while you were about it,"
he said.

She gathered her family into eager hands. "I'd rather have them than
anything in the world!" she said softly.

"They didn't cost much," he volunteered. "Twenty cents apiece--the kind
you send on post-cards, you know."

"I don't care what they cost!" said the little woman. "It's worth it!...
The doctor says I'm going to be real well, John, when I get up."

She was looking at the baby, in his knitted sack. "But there won't be
any more babies," she said half wistfully.

John blew his nose violently and looked out of the window.

"I'd better be going," he announced.

"Yes--time for you to go," said Aunt Jane. She moved with him toward the
door.

In the corridor he turned to her. "Tickled most to death, wa'n't she?--I
was kind o' 'fraid she'd think it was foolish."

"If more men were foolish, the world would get along a good deal
better," said Aunt Jane cryptically.

She beamed on him. "You better not come again for four-five days now,
Mr. Pelton. She'd ought to keep quiet and not think about what the
children are doing and what's going on.

"She can think about her pictures for a while," she added kindly as his
face fell. "There's times when picture children help more than real
ones--more handy for sick folks sometimes."

"I guess that's so," said the man. "I don't know as I ever saw her look
so pleased--not since before we were married," he added thoughtfully.

Aunt Jane watched him march happily down the corridor. Then she turned
back to the room.

The woman had spread the children in a little row along the ridge of the
blanket, and was looking at them with happy eyes. She turned her gaze to
Aunt Jane as she came in.

"Wa'n't that just like a man!" she said deprecatingly.

"Just like a man," assented Aunt Jane. "One of them senseless things
that comes out all right!"

She sat down comfortably by the bed. "Sometimes I think men don't know
any more'n big grampuses--they just go blundering along!" She looked
benevolently at the row of faces on the blanket.




XVI


Half-way down the corridor Aunt Jane encountered Miss Canfield.

The nurse stopped her with a word. "Mr. Medfield keeps asking for you."
She raised her chin a little as she spoke.

Aunt Jane regarded it mildly.

"Anything the matter with him?" she asked.

Miss Canfield hesitated. "He's irritable," she said safely.

Aunt Jane nodded. "That's good for him---- That won't hurt any! He's got
his Suite and he's got the best 'special' in the house on his case."

Miss Canfield's face softened subtly.

"You tell him I'm busy," said Aunt Jane. "Tell him I'll come by and by,
when I get around to it---- There's Miss Manners with a baby! I was just
looking for a baby!" She hurried off.

Miss Canfield watched, with amused face, while Aunt Jane gathered the
baby into her ample arms and disappeared in Room 15. Then she turned
back to report to Herman Medfield in Suite A that Aunt Jane would come
when she was not so busy.

Aunt Jane gazed shrewdly over the little bundle of blankets in her arms
at Edith Dalton, sitting propped against her pillows and scowling a
little discontentedly.

Aunt Jane sat down and undid the blanket. "They're such cute little
things," she said. "It don't seem as if there'd ever be enough of _him_
to make a man of, does it!" She held up the coming man in his long white
gown.

Edith Dalton glanced indifferently--and glanced away.

The baby, out of his blue eyes, gazed at something unseen.

"I always do wonder what they're looking at and what they're thinking
about!" said Aunt Jane. She had gathered the baby comfortably up against
the curve of her breast and was rocking gently back and forth.

"I don't suppose they think about anything," said Edith Dalton with a
look of unconcern.

"I used to think maybe that was so," said Aunt Jane. "But since I've had
so many of 'em----"

"How many have you had?" asked the other quickly.

"Of my own--you mean?" Aunt Jane paused. "I never had but one of my
own," she said regretfully. "But here--I've had three hundred and
sixty-nine."

Edith Dalton smiled a faint smile.

Aunt Jane watched it and rocked.

"It's different when you've a good many," she said placidly. "You begin
to see what they mean--just plain baby! Not because it's _your_ baby,
you know--but what they're like and what they mean."

"They don't mean much of anything, do they--except to cry?" The
indifferent look held itself, but something had stirred in it.

"Yes, they cry!" Aunt Jane was silent.... "They cry, good and hard
sometimes.... And that means something, too. Folks don't let 'em cry
half enough, _I_ think! I don't know what it means--their crying so,"
she admitted. "But it sounds as if it meant something--something more
than just tummy-ache.... And their smiling's like that, too. It isn't
just smiling at something you do to them, or something you say. It's
more as if they were smiling at something inside--kind of as if the
whole world was a joke to 'em, and being alive was a kind of beautiful
joke--if we could see how 'tis." She was looking down at the bundle in
her arms and smiling to it.

Edith Dalton eyed it curiously.

Aunt Jane shook her head reproachfully at the baby, still smiling a
little. She looked significantly at Edith Dalton. "He's trying to get
his thumb in," she said. "They won't let him do that in there." She
nodded toward the other wing.

"He kind of knows, I reckon. He knows his Aunt Jane will let him do
it--if he can." She watched him happily.

"There! he's done it!"

The woman glanced at the baby indifferently and then at Aunt Jane's
face, and the softness crept out a little.

"You think a great deal of babies and children, don't you?" She said it
almost jealously.

"Yes, I love 'em," said Aunt Jane. She rocked happily. "You didn't ever
have any children, did you?"

"No."

Aunt Jane's face made no comment. She rocked a minute. "I reckon women
always wants children.... Every woman wants 'em--even when she doesn't
know.... She wants 'em--way in back somewhere; she kind o' misses 'em."

She rocked again--slowly.

"I only had that one baby myself--and he died. But I've always been
thankful I had him--even if he died.... That was a good many years ago.
But even now, every once in a while, I'll dream I'm holding him in my
arms; and then I'll wake up--and I'm not holding anything.... When I
wake up like that, when I've been dreaming, I generally throw on my
wrapper and run down to the Mother's Ward and wander around a spell,
tucking 'em in and seeing that everybody's comfortable. Then I can
generally go back and go to sleep all right."

Her face was beautiful and gentle as she talked, and Edith Dalton
watched it wistfully. She had relaxed a little, and rested back against
the pillow.

"You don't want children unless you have a home for them," she said half
rebelliously.

"That's so. Children do need a home! I guess that's what homes are
for--little children playing round in 'em."

The two women were silent and the room grew darker. Aunt Jane watched
the face on her arm.

"He's going to sleep," she said. "I'll have to take him back to his
mammy."

She got up quietly and moved toward the door, jogging her arms as she
went. At the door she paused and looked back, over the sleeping child,
to the woman on the pillows and smiled to her--as if they knew something
together.

Then she went out. And Edith Dalton lay staring at the wall. Slowly her
eyes filled with tears that sobbed and ran down her face. She covered
them with her hands and sobbed again and nestled to the pillows and
cried happily--as if her heart were breaking in her.




XVII


"Mr. Medfield is asking for you again," said Miss Canfield.

Aunt Jane, coming out of the Children's Ward, stopped and looked at the
nurse and smiled. "I suppose he's fussing and tewing a good deal?" she
asked.

"He is," admitted Miss Canfield.

"Well, I'll be in by and by. You can tell him I'm coming."

She went leisurely on. When she had made the rounds of the top floor and
had descended to the office and entered a few items in her day-book and
given directions for linen and had a conference with the cook, she
turned toward Suite A.

She knocked on the outer door, and bent her head a little to listen--and
as she listened she had a sudden sense of the room on the other side of
the door--she saw it lying in the darkness, and she heard the rooster's
clear, shrill call through the window, and saw the straight form on the
bed. It all came before her and vanished as she put her hand on the door
and knocked.

"Come in!" The voice was sharp and a little imperious.

Aunt Jane opened the door.

A burst of light and color greeted her. The shades were rolled to the
tops of the windows. And there were flowers everywhere.... Roses on the
table, a great bunch of carnations on the desk, violets on the stand at
the head of Herman Medfield's bed, foxgloves and snapdragons filling the
window-sill and spilling over into the room. It was a riot of color; and
in the midst of it, propped on his pillows on the high white bed, the
millionaire looked out with a scowl.

He wore an embroidered Chinese shoulder coat of blue and gold; and his
hair, carefully combed, stood up a little on his forehead. The Vandyke
beard was clipped to a point.

"You look pretty as a picture," said Aunt Jane cheerfully.

The scowl deepened a little--then it broke. "Will you sit down?" said
Medfield politely.

Aunt Jane drew up a chair.

He watched her descend into it and his brow cleared. "I have been
wanting to see you."

Aunt Jane nodded. "I've been meaning to come. There's a good many things
to do in a hospital." The chair adjusted itself--"Was it anything in
particular you wanted to ask me about?"

The millionaire's eyes had been resting on the quiet face. They turned
away, a little startled. "Why--um--yes! I was thinking--I was
thinking--" His eyes fell on the roses and he swept a hand toward them.
"These flowers--all of them!" he said.

Aunt Jane turned a little in her chair and beamed. "They look nice,
don't they?"

"They're well enough," said Medfield grudgingly. Then--with petulance:
"I'm tired of them. I want them taken away--all of them!"

"Sick folks get notions," said Aunt Jane placidly. "Where shall I take
'em to?"

"Why, take them--" He looked about impatiently. "Take them where you
usually take flowers!"

"We generally take them to the folks they're sent to." She leaned
forward to the violets and touched them with cool, gentle fingers,
looking at them kindly.

"There's something about violets makes me think of home places," she
said.

"Would you like them?" said Herman Medfield. He was watching the cool,
firm fingers with a quiet look--almost a pleasant look.

"Me?--Mercy, no!" The fingers withdrew to her lap. "You couldn't _send_
'em to me. I'm here."

"Yes, you are here--that's so!" He almost smiled at her. His eyes
returned to the fingers resting in her lap. "I have not had a chance to
thank you--for your great kindness the other night."

"You are welcome," said Aunt Jane.

"It wasn't any great kindness," she added after a minute, "I always do
for folks that need me."

"I suppose you know--" He stopped a moment, as if he could not quite
speak of the thing that was in his mind. "I think you _made_ me--come
back," he said slowly.

"It makes a difference whether somebody cares," admitted Aunt Jane.

"Did you care?" The sharp, pointed face was turned to her. "Did you
care--!"

"Yes, I cared," said Aunt Jane.

"But--" He looked at her, bewildered, and was silent--looking before
him.

Aunt Jane regarded him and smiled. "There didn't seem to be anybody
_but_ me--to care," she said cheerfully.

"No--there wasn't."

"But I see now that there's a good many of them--" She motioned to the
flowers. "I don't know as I ever see anybody have more flowers the first
week."

"Flowers don't care--the people those came from don't care!"

The tone was scornful, almost bitter.

"Don't they!" She beamed on the flowers. "Somehow I can't ever believe
flowers don't mean what they look," she said thoughtfully.

"These don't!" His little cynical smile rested on them. "Those roses
there--They must have cost ten dollars at least----"

"I never saw bigger ones," assented Aunt Jane.

"My partner's widow sent them.... She sent them for business."

"_Did_ she!" Aunt Jane looked at the roses with interest.

"Mere business!" said Medfield. "And the carnations on the desk
there--are from the men in the office----"

"There's always something fresh about carnations." She got up leisurely
and went over to them and lifted the vase and brought it to him.

"Just smell of those!" She held them out. "Aren't they just about the
freshest things you ever smelled!"

He sniffed at them reluctantly and motioned them aside.

"And those foxgloves there----"

He was talking out all the bitterness that had been in him as he had
lain and watched the great boxes opened and the flowers ranged about
him--"exactly as if I were a funeral!" he finished up at last.

Aunt Jane smiled to him. "What would you like me to do with them for
you?" she asked tranquilly.

"Do whatever you like. _I_ don't care!" His indifference had returned
and he looked tired.

She leaned forward a little. "I'm going to take out that head-rest," she
said, "so's you can lie down."

She removed the frame from behind the pillows and shook them a little
and let them gently back. "There--now you can lie down and have a good
rest; and pretty quick now you're going to have some broth and then
you'll go to sleep.... It don't do any good to get stirred up over
folks' flowers," she said quietly.

"No." There was a little smile on his lips. He looked up at her, almost
like a boy, from his pillow. "But it did me good to tell you!"

"I reckoned it would," said Aunt Jane. "Now I'll go get your broth for
you."

She disappeared from the room and Herman Medfield's eyes closed--and
opened again to find her standing beside him, the cup of broth in her
hand.

She gave it to him through the crooked tube and watched the liquid lower
in the cup with benignant eye.

"Just a little mite more," she said as he turned away his head--"Just a
mite. There! You've done first-rate!"

She set the cup on the stand.

"Now I'm going to take all these flowers--" she gathered the carnations
in her hands as she spoke: "I was thinking about it whilst I was heating
your broth for you--I'm going to take them up to the Children's Ward.
They'll be happy enough--when they see 'em!" She held the flowers at
arm's length and looked at them with pleased eyes. He watched her with a
faint smile and a look almost of interest.

"And I'm going to tell them that Mr. Medfield sent them----"

He raised a quick hand. "No----!"

She turned in surprise. "Don't you want me to tell them?"

"No."

He waited a minute.

"You can say a man sent them."

"Yes, I can say that--" Aunt Jane's face cleared. "I see how 'tis-- You
don't want them to know about you--who you are."

"No." He was looking almost embarrassed.

She considered it a minute. "What is your first name?" she asked.

He cleared his throat like a boy. "Herman," he said meekly. "Herman G.
Medfield."

Aunt Jane smiled. "I remember about it now--'Herman,'" she said it
softly, as if it pleased her. "Herman-- That'll do! We don't need the
G.--just Herman.... I'll tell them Mr. Herman sent them." She smiled at
him cheerfully.

"Very well."

Aunt Jane went over to the window and gathered up the foxgloves--as many
as her hands could hold--and turned to the door.

"I'll come back for the rest."

But the door had opened and the white-coated boy was standing, holding
out three large boxes and grinning pleasantly.

Herman Medfield, from his pillow, groaned.

Aunt Jane glanced toward him with reassurance in her look--"I shall take
them all-- You don't need to worry. You won't be bothered. You go get
the wheel-tray, Preston, and we'll take 'em all at once."

They filled the cart--the three great boxes underneath and the loose
flowers on top covering them and trailing over the sides and ends: and
Preston wheeled it out the door.

Aunt Jane, still with her hands full of blossoms, looked back with a
smile. "Now you'll rest comfortable," she said.




XVIII


When the wheel-tray appeared in the door of the Children's Ward and Aunt
Jane--with her arms overflowing--close behind it, there was silence for
a breath, and then a cry----

"Look there!"

"My goodness!"

"See the flowers!"

They leaned forward with eager hands, or raised themselves on a hand or
elbow, as she went down between the beds, pushing the wheel-tray before
her.

She smiled and nodded and came to a full stop by the big table in the
centre of the ward. She laid her armful of flowers carefully on the
table and turned to the tray.

The room was in a joyful bubble. "Where did they come from? Look at the
roses. My!"

They reached out hands to her--"Where'd they come from, Aunt Jane?"...
"Who sent them to us?"... "My! Look at the vi'lets!"

She smiled and heaped the blossoms on the table and disclosed the three
boxes beneath. There was a hush of expectancy. There were always flowers
in the ward--a bunch or two here and there--but not such a feast as
these!

They waited, impatient.

Aunt Jane took her time. She polished her glasses and returned them to
her nose and adjusted them carefully. Then she took up one of the boxes
and read the florist's name printed on the top--"J. L. Parker & Co. He
always sends nice flowers," she said heartily.

"Did he send them to us?"

"Well, they came from his greenhouse. He raised them--planted them and
took care of them, and so on." Her fingers were busy with the tape,
untying it. "But another man _sent_ them--a man by the name of--Herman."

"Mr. Herman sent them!" They waited.

She lifted the cover and held out the box and a little cry went up from
the ward, half repressed and full of awed delight.... It was a happy
thing to see a great trayful of blossoms come rolling in; and it was a
still more beautiful thing to have the cover lifted from the box, and
all that color and fragrance leap out!

They watched with eager eyes.

Aunt Jane lifted a card from the top of the flowers and looked at it and
tucked it away in the pocket of her big apron. The card had a narrow
black edge.

"What did it say, Aunt Jane? What was on it?"

Aunt Jane looked at them over her glasses. "Just the name," she said.
"The name of the one that sent them. People always send names with
flowers, don't they?" She lifted a handful of the blossoms and shook
them loose till they filled and overflowed the box. "They send names--so
you'll know who it was sent them."

"Mr. Herman sent these, didn't he?"

"Yes, Mr. Herman sent them and you're going to each have one for your
own. I'm going to let you choose."

There was laughing and chatter and a happy stir as Aunt Jane carried the
boxes from bed to bed.

She watched the hands reach to the choosing--and hesitate--and the eyes
fill with light--and little smiles come as they sank back contented....
She had a sudden glimpse of Herman Medfield in his blue-and-gold Chinese
coat, waving them away.

"Seems a pity he can't see them," she thought, watching the faces.
"They're all different--just as different as the flowers be!"

For some of them held the flowers in both hands; and some of them laid
them on the pillows and some were smelling them and some were only
looking; and one blossom was caught into the iron framework of a bed
where the sun fell on it and the child was looking at it with
wonder-filled eyes.... It was her own--her flower--that some one had
sent--a crimson rose with soft dark color clear to the heart of it where
the sun went in. It nodded down to her.

Aunt Jane, looking at her, thought of the people who had sent the
flowers to Herman Medfield.

"I guess they didn't any of them think anything quite as nice as this
would come of their flowers!" she said to the nurse who had brought the
vases and jars for the flowers and was standing beside her at the
table.

The nurse glanced down the ward. "They like them, don't they? But it
seems a pity, almost, not to have them in water. They fade so soon!"

"Well, I don't know"--Aunt Jane surveyed the room slowly--"I guess
they're doing about as much good now as they ever will. There's
something about a flower--about holding it right in your hand--that does
something to you. It isn't the same thing as having it in water."

"I don't see why not." The nurse glanced again, a little puzzled, down
the room.

"Well, I don't know why _not_," said Aunt Jane. "Seems as if it would be
the same.... But it isn't! When it's in water somehow you know it's
safe--_your_ rose.... You know it's going to keep--just as long as it
can; and you look at it--kind of on the outside. But when you have it in
your hand--it's all there! Maybe you know it can't last very long and
you just take it in all over----"

The nurse laughed out.

"Yes, I know that sounds foolish," Aunt Jane nodded. "But we don't any
of us know just what happens to us." She was looking down the ward as
if she saw something beyond the beds and the sun shining in on them.

The nurse gathered up the bits of leaves and the stems and litter from
the floor and table and threw them on the wheel-tray and pushed it from
the room.

The children's eyes watched it go and returned to their blossoms.

Jimmie Sullivan had clumped over to Aunt Jane, carrying his carnation.
His new leg worked better to-day. He reached up an arm and Aunt Jane
bent her ear.

She listened and shook her head. "No, I can't tell stories to-day. I'm
going to hold Susie a little while, and then I've got my work to do. I
can't be bothering with you children all the time!"

She went over to the bed where the crimson rose was and held out her
arms. The child climbed into them and laughed. She was a gay little
thing--not four years old. To-morrow she would be sitting up and the
next day she would go home.

Aunt Jane knew the home.... The father and mother drunk, perhaps. The
child had been broken, between them, and had come to the House of Mercy
for repairs.... She held her in her arms and rocked a little--and
thought.... Something must be done to protect the child.... Dr. Carmon
must do something. He always did things--if he had to. Aunt Jane rocked
back and forth, thinking. She must take him when he was in good
humor--to-morrow morning perhaps.

The child raised her hand to Aunt Jane's face. "You don't smile!" she
said imperiously.

Aunt Jane looked down at her severely.

The child laughed out, and nestled close and presently they were playing
a game. It was not a new game in the ward; other children played it
sometimes. But you were only allowed to play it if you had been very ill
and were getting well; or perhaps if you were going home--day after
to-morrow, and father and mother might be drunk and might break tables
and chairs--and perhaps a child's arm if it got in the way of their
playfulness.... The game was to catch Aunt Jane off guard and take off
her spectacles and cap--and see how she looked.

The child reached up a quick hand and laughed.... Aunt Jane dodged and
shook her head, and escaped the hand. And then--perhaps because Susie
was going home day after to-morrow--she had caught off the spectacles
and Aunt Jane's cap lay on the floor and the hair was escaping from its
pins and coming down all about her face and shoulders--and the child was
lying back against her arm, looking at her and laughing happily.

The door from the corridor swung silently, and Dr. Carmon stood looking
into the room.

The children in the beds turned merry eyes to him.

But his hand made a gesture and they held their breath, laughing as he
came down between the beds and stood looking sternly at the figure in
the big chair.

Aunt Jane was groping at the tumbled hair and she was laughing gently,
watching the child's face.

Then she looked up----

"Mercy sakes!" Her hand reached for her cap.

But Dr. Carmon had bent to the floor and picked up the cap. He was
holding it and looking at her. "How old are you, Aunt Jane?" he said
sternly.

Aunt Jane, out of the maze of her hair, looked up. "I am forty-five
years old," she said. "Give me my cap!"

"Say, 'please,'" said Dr. Carmon gravely, holding it at arm's length.

From the beds, the children looked on with shining eyes.

Aunt Jane looked at the cap--and at the child in her arms--and felt the
eyes encircling her--and smiled a little.

"Please," she said meekly, and her hand reached up.

But Dr. Carmon held it still at arm's length. "Say, 'please, Frederic,'"
he insisted.... Not even the nearest bed could have guessed the words
that went with the laughing gesture of the hand holding the cap.

But Aunt Jane's face flushed swiftly.

She gathered the child in her arms and carried her to her bed and put
her down gently. Then her hands caught up the tumbled hair and fastened
it in place and smoothed it down, and she came placidly back to Dr.
Carmon.

His face was very grave. But something in behind his eyes laughed.

He held out the cap with a low bow.

She took it and put it on her head, with dignity, and looked for her
spectacles.

"They're on the table," said Dr. Carmon.

He handed them to her and she put them on and gazed at him in serene
competence. "I'll send Miss Simpson up to you--I suppose you'll want
her," she said.

"Yes--_please_," said Dr. Carmon, polite and grave.

Aunt Jane hesitated a second. Then her hand motioned to the beds. "The
Lord never see fit to let me have any of my own--not to grow up.... I've
always thought he was making it up to me this way," she said, and there
was something almost like an appeal in the quiet words.

The doctor looked at her, and then at the children's faces. "I should
say he's making it up to _them_," he said gruffly.

He watched the serene figure as it passed through the swinging doors....
His face, as he went among the children and questioned them and listened
absently to their replies, was full of gentleness and kindness, and a
little, shy, flitting happiness that beamed on them.




XIX


The cards Aunt Jane had taken from the boxes of flowers remained
untouched in her apron pocket.

She had intended to take them to Herman Medfield at once. But the days
that followed the flowers in the Children's Ward had been busy ones.
Serious cases had come in and Dr. Carmon's face had been severe and a
little anxious. No one would have guessed from its puckered gaze as he
looked at Aunt Jane and gave minute directions for the case in Room 18
that he had ever seen the correct muslin cap except as it looked now,
framing her serene face.

He gazed at it absently and fussed at his pocket and took out his notes
and consulted them. "I am to be sent for, you understand, if there is
the slightest change!" He looked at her severely.

"We'll send for you," said Aunt Jane quietly, "same as we always do."

There was a tap on the office door and she went leisurely across to open
it.

It was the laundress with three cards in her wet thumb. She half drew
back as she caught a glimpse of Dr. Carmon's bulky form.

"I found 'em in the pocket of your apron," she announced in a stage
whisper. "They got a little mite wet, but I dried 'em off."

Aunt Jane received the cards and returned to Dr. Carmon.

He glanced at them inquiringly.

"Some cards that came with flowers." She laid them on her desk.

"Somebody been sending you flowers!" He relaxed a little over the joke.

"Mr. Medfield's flowers," said Aunt Jane tranquilly.

His pencil stopped and he regarded the cards stiffly.

"How many cards does he send you with flowers?" he asked.

Aunt Jane smiled. "He didn't send them. They came with some flowers for
_him_."

"Umph!" Dr. Carmon's pencil went on with its notes. When he had gone and
Aunt Jane was alone in the office--she took up the cards and looked at
them. She might take them up to Mr. Medfield now, before dinner--There
would be time.

Herman Medfield had summoned Aunt Jane several times during the hurried
days, and she had sent back word each time that she would come when she
was not so busy.

She smiled a little as she looked down at the cards. She could see him,
fuming and giving instructions that she was to come at once, and Miss
Canfield's face as she took the message.

She put the cards in her pocket and went along the hall to Suite A.

Herman Medfield propped up in bed, surrounded by books and papers,
looked up with a little scowling frown.

Aunt Jane glanced at it and crossed the room. She gathered up the books
and papers from the bed and carried them to the table and laid them
down. "I guess you won't want these any more, will you? It's most
dinner-time."

She sat down by him.

His face relaxed. "I haven't seen you for four days," he remarked
dryly.

"I've been busy," returned Aunt Jane. "A good many folks suffering."

He was silent. She watched the face with a shrewd, kindly smile.

"You hadn't thought as anybody _could_ suffer, maybe--anybody except
you?"

"No--I hadn't thought of anything." He looked ashamed, but he held his
point. "_I've_ suffered--horribly!" he said.

"I thought likely you would." Aunt Jane was placid.

He stared.

"You're the kind that's liable to suffer," she said slowly, "--all sort
o' tewed up inside.... That kind has to suffer a good deal."

He looked down at his hands. Probably no one had ever spoken to Herman
Medfield just as Aunt Jane was speaking.

She held the cards toward him--the black-edged one on top. "They came in
your flower-boxes."

He took them without seeing them. Then he glanced at the black one and
pushed them away.

"The same one that came before--isn't it?" remarked Aunt Jane serenely.

"Yes."

"I thought it was the same name. The flowers were nice that came with
it--roses--red ones."

He was silent.

"I gave Susie Cannon a bunch of them to take home with her. Her folks
drink--both of 'em."

He stared at her. Then his face smiled a little. "It's a new cure for
the drink habit, isn't it--red roses?" He laughed a little cynically.

Aunt Jane regarded him impartially.

"Your folks didn't ever any of 'em drink, did they?"

"You mean--?" His face was politely puzzled.

"Get drunk, I mean-- You don't come of a drinking family, do you?"

"No." His eyes were still a little amused.

"I reckoned not. Steve Cannon does--and his wife drinks. They'd broke
Susie's arm between 'em. So she came to us."

He was looking at her thoughtfully. "How old is she?"

"Three," said Aunt Jane, "three--going on four."

"Good God!"

She nodded. "Yes, He's good. But somebody's got to look after Susie."

He waited a minute. Then he spoke, almost hesitatingly. "I don't suppose
that money would do--any good?"

She shook her head. "I don't know what'll do good. Dr. Carmon's got to
find out and do it. He generally does--when things get too bad."

There was a knock on the door.

"Your dinner, I guess," said Aunt Jane.

But it was Preston--with a box. When he saw Medfield's eyes he half
retreated. Aunt Jane held out her hand.

"I'll take care of it," she said. She laid it on her lap. "Miss Canfield
said you wasn't having 'em brought here any more.... I guess Preston
made a mistake, maybe."

"_I_ 'guess' he did," replied Medfield. His eye was on the box,
balefully.

Aunt Jane took it up and undid it slowly. When she looked in she smiled.
She took out a black-edged card and handed it to him. "She's sent
another one!"

He groaned softly.

"I don't know what we'll do--if they keep coming in like this," she was
fingering the blossoms tranquilly and looking at them.

He lay back on his pillows. "That's your affair!" He smiled more
cheerfully. "You said _I_ should not be bothered!" He closed his eyes.

"The Children's Ward is full," said Aunt Jane thoughtfully. "It's a
regular flower-garden--every bed a posy-bed." She laughed comfortably
and looked at him. "You'd ought to have seen the way they looked when
they got your flowers. They were tickled most to death with 'em!"

"I am glad they enjoyed them," said Medfield tamely.

"I felt as if it was 'most a pity they couldn't know you sent 'em," she
added.

He started a little and Aunt Jane put out a hand. "Don't you worry, Mr.
Medfield. I didn't tell 'em. I just said it was a man--by the name of
'Herman'.... But maybe you'll get it, all the same."

He stared at her. "Get--it?"

She nodded. "They'll be thinking about that Mr. Herman--and kind of
talking about him and loving him.... I reckon it'll do him
good--whoever he is." She was looking at 'Mr. Herman' in space,
regarding him with kindly gaze.

Medfield smiled grimly. "I don't suppose you know what it is--not to
want any one to know who you are?"

She looked at him. "I should hate terribly not to have folks know I'm
Jane Holbrook!"

She was thoughtful a minute. "Seems as if it wouldn't be _me_--not more
than half me--if folks didn't know I was Aunt Jane!" She was looking at
him questioningly.

He shook his head.

"You've never been in my place." The words were dry.

"No.... I have a good many things to be thankful for," she added
impersonally.

His eyes were looking at something before him and there was a little
hard smile in their gaze. "Let some of them try it awhile," he said, as
if answering an accusation. "Let them try!" He turned to her.

"I can't go in a street-car or a restaurant or a store in town--I can't
walk along the street like other men--without being beset by people with
axes to grind." He looked at Aunt Jane as if he thought she might have
an axe concealed somewhere about her person. "They carry them around
with them in their pockets," he said savagely, "ready the minute they
see me coming down the street. They line up with them and wait for me to
appear. The minute a man hears my name, he doesn't think of _me_--he's
thinking what he can get out of me." His mouth set itself close. "I'm
not a _man_--I'm money!"

Aunt Jane's look was full of twinkling sympathy that went out to him.
"It's a pity you didn't think about that sooner, wasn't it?"

He stared.

"You might 'a' give away most of it--if you'd thought in time."

The stare broke. "You think it is easy, don't you?" he scoffed.

Her face grew sober. "No, I don't think it's easy.... Money seems to
stick to folks' fingers--kind o' glues 'em together, I guess."

He rubbed his thin fingers absently and looked down at them.

"It seems to me I could find a way, but I suppose I should be just like
the rest, if I had it--holding on to it for dear life!" She smiled at
him.

He was silent a minute, looking before him. "Sometimes I think I would
give every dollar I have in the world," he said slowly--"to have some
one think of me apart from my money!" He looked at the face in its
muslin cap. He knew he had never spoken to any one as he was speaking to
Aunt Jane. He had a sense of freeing himself from something.

He watched the face in its cap.... "I don't suppose any one can
understand--" He broke off with a sigh.

"Yes, I understand, I guess." She was looking down at the box of flowers
in her lap. "We all have our besetting sins. I have 'em! I guess money's
a kind of besetting sin!"




XX


"If I felt the way you do, Mr. Medfield, I'd do something."

"What would you do?" He watched her face.

"Well--I'd find things." The face in its cap filled with little thoughts
that came and went.... "Dear me! There's so many things, I wouldn't know
which to do!"

"Suppose you tell _me_ a few."

"Well--there's things.... Jimmie Sullivan needs a new leg, for one
thing. He needs it the worst way----"

"_Who_ is Jimmie Sullivan?" asked the millionaire.

"He's in the Children's Ward. Belongs to nobody--as you might say. We're
kind of carrying him along till he gets on his feet."

"Gets on his legs, you mean?" His face had lost its fretted look; it was
smiling a little.

"It's a frame leg he needs--one of the kind that lets out and stretches
as he grows. Dr. Carmon's made him one--a sort of make-shift leg.... A
good one costs two hundred and twenty-five dollars."

"Would you mind giving me a pencil and paper?" said Medfield.

Aunt Jane brought it from the table and he made a note.

"Two hundred and twenty-five, you said?"

She nodded. "If he don't have it--a good frame one--his leg will be the
kind that flops all round.... I've seen beggars with 'em sometimes,
selling pencils and so on. I can't hardly bear to see 'em that way!"

"I should think not! Horrible!"

"Then, there's Mrs. Pelton----"

"I don't seem to remember--Mrs. Pelton?" he said politely.

"Why she's the one you're--" Aunt Jane stopped suddenly.

"Yes?"

"She's a woman that came the same day you did," she said safely.

"Oh!" His mind seemed to be looking back--to the day when he came to the
House of Mercy, perhaps.

Aunt Jane did not disturb him.

Presently he took up his pencil with a little sigh. "What were you
saying about a Mrs. Pelton?" he asked.

"She came the day you did and _she's_ sitting up! And her case was a
good deal worse than yours." She was looking at him almost severely.

"But-- She had her operation sooner--than I did! _I_ had to wait--almost
a week--You know I had to wait!" He was like a sick boy--with his
excuses and his injured look.

"Yes--she was operated on--a day or two sooner--maybe. But she's acted
better than you have, every way." She looked at him over her spectacles.
"And she's a little mite of a thing. Don't come up to your shoulder
hardly."

He smiled ruefully and took up the pencil. "I am going to try---- What
about this Mrs. Pelton? What would you do for her if you were as badly
off--as I am?"

She gave him a quick smile, out of her cap. "Why--I'd--I'd--I declare I
don't know just what you could _do_ for her! She's got so much pluck,
it 'most seems as if you couldn't do much.... But I can kind of see
her--" She was looking at it. "I can see that if she had, maybe a
hundred dollars, say--of her own, unexpected like--when she left the
hospital--I can just see the things she would do with it! There's four
of the children and a kind of fiddling husband--_good_, you know-- But
the way men are----"

"Yes, I know." His pencil was making absent notes. "What's his
business?"

"She told me--he's a puddler. I don't know just what puddling is.... He
works in a shop. You know, maybe, how they 'puddle'?"

"I've heard of puddling, yes."

"It's a respectable business, I guess. It sounds something the way he
looks."

"The way he looks!"

She nodded. "'Puddler' makes me feel the way he does. It's a kind o'
queer word."

He glanced at his paper. "Is there anything else you happen to think of
for me to do?" The tone was dry, but a little amused.

"Well, there's folks--plenty of folks. You don't have to be in a
hospital very long before you begin to know about folks--and begin to
wish you was made of money."

"It's a good place for me, then.... I may get cured all through!" He
laughed a little harshly.

"I hope you will," said Aunt Jane. She was looking at him with a deep,
big kindness that suddenly broke through the little crust of cynicism in
his face. He leaned forward and held out his hand.

"Thank you," he said.




XXI


"I wonder what I'd better do with these." She looked at the flowers in
the box in her lap. "They're about the prettiest ones she's sent
you--forget-me-nots." She lifted a handful of the blossoms and held them
out.

He regarded them cynically. "I'm not likely to forget!" he said.

She looked at him over the flowers and smiled. "_She_ doesn't seem to
forget either.... I guess she thinks a good deal of you," she added
quaintly.

He shook his head. "You'd be wrong. She doesn't care any more for me
than--that clothes-pole there!"

Aunt Jane looked at it uncritically.

"She sent those--" He motioned to the flowers, "to Herman Medfield's
money! She began on the boy," he said scornfully. "She's a dozen years
older than Julian and twice as clever. I packed him off to Europe when I
found out--then she started in on the old man!"

Aunt Jane looked at him with interest. "I didn't know as you had a
boy--how old is he?" she said quickly.

"Twenty-two," said Medfield.

"That's an interesting age, isn't it?" Aunt Jane was thoughtful. "That's
just the age my boy would have been--if he'd lived. I'm always wondering
what he would be doing now." She was silent a minute. Then she looked at
him and smiled. "Europe isn't so very far off," she said.

She gathered up the flowers in her lap, and glanced toward the door.

Herman Medfield's dinner was being brought in.

Miss Canfield carried the big tray in both hands. Aunt Jane glanced at
it and got up.

"I guess I'll give your flowers to Mrs. Pelton," she said slowly. "She
doesn't happen to have any flowers. Nobody's sent her any--yet. She'll
be real pleased with 'em."

She cast another glance at the tray. "They've brought you a good dinner
to-day--beefsteak and onions and green peas."

From the door she looked back. "I'll tell her Mr. Herman sent them."

The nurse who was bending over Herman Medfield, tucking the napkin into
his coat, saw a quick flush come in the thin face. She seemed not to
notice it as she placed the tray before him.

"Shall I cut your meat?"

"Yes--please."

He watched the efficient fingers cut the juicy steak in strips and he
glanced at the face bending above the tray. The reddish hair drawn
trimly up under the cap and the look of competence in the face and in
the firm hands.

She gave him the knife and fork and glanced at the tray. "You have
everything you need? Here's your bell."

She placed the cord where he could reach it and turned away.

But Herman Medfield's look stayed her. "You didn't know my name was
Herman, did you?" He said it with a little quizzical smile.

"I thought it was Medfield," replied the girl. She looked at him with
clear, straight eyes. "The flowers come to Herman Medfield."

"That was a mistake," he said. "They got it wrong when I came--on the
books--And it was in the papers, I suppose.... It's quite a joke that I
should have had all Herman Medfield's flowers." He chuckled a little.
"He's a distant relative of mine--Herman Medfield-- But quite a
different sort of man," he added quietly. "I don't see any salt
here----"

She glanced quickly at the tray and went out to bring the salt.

He smiled at his dinner blandly and began to eat. He would get rid of
the incubus of Herman Medfield's money for a while--and see how it felt.

His whole body relaxed as the weight of Herman Medfield went sliding
from his shoulders.... No more suspicions, no more watching while people
talked to him, for the inevitable money to crop up, or for some
philanthropic scheme to put its hand in his pocket, on the sly.... They
seemed to think, if a man had money, that he doted on orphan asylums and
libraries and dormitories! He wished, fervently, that he might never
hear of another college or foundation, or any sort of institution for
doing good. He longed to be rid of it all. He wanted to be like other
men--a human being--for a month, for six weeks.... He began to wonder
how long a patient could stay in the Berkeley House of Mercy--how sick
he had to be?... They shouldn't turn him out _too_ soon. He could invent
an ache or two. He would take a long vacation from his money.

Miss Canfield brought the salt. She looked at his face as she put it
down. "You're feeling better, aren't you?" she said.

He relaxed the cheerful look. "A little better," he admitted. "Some pain
still."

She smiled. It was only in the Children's Ward that they were glad to
let the pains go--that they ignored them or forgot them as quickly as
they could.... Men were all alike--men and women were the same in
cherishing their pains and the memory of their pains--women a little
more reluctant than men, perhaps, to see them go. Men were more like
children.

This gray-haired man, eating his dinner happily, was a little like a
child, she thought as she watched him. He seemed to have grown
younger--even in a day.... It was curious they should have got his name
wrong on the books.... It was probably because of the aristocratic look.
He was a very stately figure, leaning back there against the pillows, in
his embroidered Chinese coat, with his gray hair and little pointed
beard.... She turned to go.

"Won't you sit down? Can't you stay?" said Medfield politely.

"There's another patient waiting. They've put me on double special since
you are better." She nodded to him and went out.

He watched her go, almost regretfully. It was wonderful what a
difference it made, wanting to have people around--now that money could
not get between.... He would have liked to talk with the girl. Ask her
about her family and how she came to be a nurse. He wondered what sort
of a home a girl like that had come out of, and what she expected to do.

More than once, as he had watched her moving about the room, absorbed in
her work, he had thought of Julian.... It occurred to him to wonder what
Julian would be like now. He had not seen the boy for two years--not
since he sent him off to Europe. He glanced a little resentfully at the
black-edged card lying on the stand beside him.... If it had not been
for Julia Cawein and her airs and fascinations, the boy would be here
now.

His thought recurred to the girl who had just left him. He had never
seen any one work just the way she worked--as if she loved it. She moved
quietly and easily, as if there were plenty of time to do all that must
be done in the day.... She would make a good wife for some man.... And
it suddenly struck him that a rich young fellow would be lucky to marry
a girl like that.... He wondered when Julian would be coming home.




XXII


He had finished his dinner and pushed aside the tray. He wondered where
Julian was--whether he had got his letter and whether he would care--a
little.... It was ten days now since he sent the letter--just before the
doctor told him ... that was the day Aunt Jane took charge of his case.

He smiled a little, thinking of Aunt Jane and her ways.... Since she
took him in hand, he had eaten and breathed and slept only as she
permitted.... But, after all, it was a relief to get rid of thinking and
do what one was told--like a boy.... He wished his own boy were here--to
play with.... He found his imagination always coming back to Julian. He
had hardly thought of the boy before as an individual; he had been a
responsibility--some one to be kept out of scrapes--and, in a vague way,
he was the successor to the Medfield fortune and business.... Now he
wondered what the boy was really like.... Two years might have changed
him--body and soul almost.

He closed his eyes a little wearily, and rested back against the
pillows. The room was quiet and filled with sunshine. He felt suddenly
at home in it--as he had never felt at home in his own house across the
town.... The rooms were very lonely there.... He rested quietly.

A knock came on the door--perhaps the nurse for the tray. He did not
turn his head or open his eyes. He was resting in the quiet.

A light step crossed the room and stopped--and presently Herman Medfield
looked up.

The boy was smiling down at him. "Hallo, Father!"

He put up a swift hand to brush the vision away.

And the boy took it, and bent down and kissed him, almost shyly.

Then Herman Medfield reached out both hands. "Why--Julian! I was
thinking about you!" He threw his arms around him hungrily. "I was
wishing you would come!"

"Were you?" The young man laughed happily and drew up a chair to the
bed. "I'm just in time, then."

He sat looking at his father; and it came to Herman Medfield that the
boy was fond of him. There was a look in the clear eyes of affection and
pride.

He gazed at it. "You didn't get my letter?"

"Which? The one with the check for three thousand?"

"The one telling you I was--here."

The boy shook his head. "I got Ballantine's cable, and took the next
boat."

"I didn't know Ballantine cabled," said Medfield thoughtfully.

"It came ten days ago--the thirtieth, wasn't it--just as I was starting
for Norway. I'm pretty glad it didn't miss me!"--They sat quiet a
minute. Then the boy looked at him. "You're looking fine, sir!"

"I'm all right! Doing splendidly!"

He felt suddenly that he could let his pains go. The house across the
town was not so empty, after all. He had a sudden vision of Julian
running up the long stairs--two at a time--and he looked at him happily.

The boy leaned forward. His eye fell on the black-edged card; he looked
at it and smiled and half reached out a hand, incredulous.

"How is--" He hesitated. He had always been afraid of his father. But
the man on the pillows was, somehow, a different sort of father; he
leaned forward with a swift twinkle at the card.

"How is the--widow?" he asked.

"Very well, I suppose," said Medfield. "It is some time since I saw
her." He spoke a little formally. But his heart leaped at the touch of
comradeship.

"How about this?" said Julian. He touched the black-edged card.

Herman Medfield's face flushed--almost guiltily. "Flowers," he said.

"I say!" The boy whistled softly. Then he laughed. "I say!" He put down
the card and looked at it.

"Three boxes!" acknowledged Medfield.

The boy held out his hand. "Would you mind shaking hands, sir?"

Herman Medfield took the hand, laughing a little, and his eyes filled
with quiet pride and happiness. "I am glad you've come home, Julian."

"Looks to me about time!" said the youth. He glanced again at the card
and chuckled.

Then he stood up.

It was Miss Canfield for the tray.

She came around to the other side of the bed; and Herman Medfield looked
up at her--and glanced from her to his boy.

"This is my son, Julian, Miss Canfield." He was watching the two faces
that confronted each other across the bed.

The young man's had lighted with a little look of admiration.

He held out his hand across the bed. "It's a long-distance introduction,
isn't it?"

The girl took the hand quietly. "How do you do, Mr. Herman," she said
pleasantly.

"I'm glad to meet you," said Julian out of a puzzled look; and the two
hands fell apart.

Herman Medfield flashed a twinkle at her. "His name is not Herman," he
remarked dryly. "Nor mine," he added after a minute. "'Herman' is for
the hospital-- Aunt Jane invented it."

"I see." The girl held it. "I wondered a little----"

"Don't let anybody else wonder," said Medfield. "I want to get rid of
myself--for a while."

The young man smiled whimsically. "Where do I come in, sir?"

"You stay where you are," said his father tolerantly. "You're well
enough as it is--if you behave!" He was looking with satisfaction from
his son to the young girl. She had turned to the tray and her fingers
were busy with the dishes.

"She takes good care of me," said Medfield, with a little gesture toward
the competent fingers.

"I don't doubt it, sir.... I might almost say I wouldn't mind being
ill--myself!" A kind of shyness in the words redeemed them and the girl
smiled.

"People who are not ill, generally think they wouldn't mind," she said
quietly.

She lifted the tray and set it aside.

"I'll take out your pillows now. It's time for you to rest." She
removed the pillows and shook them a little and placed the fresh one
beneath his head and straightened the clothes for him, with her firm,
competent, comfortable hands.

The boy's eyes followed the white figure as it left the room, carrying
the tray lightly. They came back to his father's face.

"I think I've had my orders," he said laughingly. "I'm to go now, I
understand. I'll be back by and by, sir--when you are 'rested.'" He
hesitated a minute. Then he bent down and kissed his father, almost
shyly, and left the room.

The door closed behind him and Herman Medfield fell asleep and
dreamed--"as if he really cared," thought Herman Medfield, as he drifted
away into sleep.




XXIII


In Room 5, Mrs. Pelton was sitting in a big rocking-chair by the window,
her feet on a hassock and her eyes fixed on the great bowl of blue
forget-me-nots on the table beside her.

She had been looking at the forget-me-nots ever since Aunt Jane appeared
with the big box, just before dinner.... She could hardly eat her dinner
for looking at them. She had had the bowl of flowers set on her
tray--where they crowded the soup and vegetables, and made her happy....
She wished John could see them, and the children could see them--or that
there was somebody she could divide with. The beauty of the
forget-me-nots was too much for her. It was such a great bunch--it
filled the bowl and overflowed the sides. She had never seen so many
forget-me-nots in one bunch!... Now and then, sitting in the big chair,
she reached out a hand to them and touched the flowers delicately. She
wished she were bigger--the happiness of the flowers crowded on her.
Perhaps if she were bigger, she could enjoy them more.

Aunt Jane had not seemed overcome by the flowers when she brought them
in. She had taken them from the box and shaken them apart with brisk
fingers and arranged them in the bowl and moved the stand over by the
window close to Mrs. Pelton's chair.

"There!" she had said. "Makes you quite a nice bunch, don't it!" She
stood off and admired them.... Mrs. Pelton was thinking now of Aunt
Jane, and she was thinking that she did not even know who had sent
them--"A man by the name of Herman," Aunt Jane had said.

Mrs. Pelton had gone over in her mind all the people she had ever
known--but there were no Hermans that she knew, or that John knew. It
seemed very strange for any one to send a great bunch of flowers to
her--any one she didn't know!

She wished she could thank him. She wished Mamie could see them. Mamie
loved flowers so. She looked at the flowers and thought of Mamie and
the children and John--and her face was happy. She looked at the row of
photographs ranged along the bureau in front of the mirror.... It had
been such a comfortable time at the hospital. And she had dreaded it so
before she came! And there wasn't anything to dread. Somehow, it was a
beautiful place.... And there was the man who was going to pay for her
being here.... She had gone over and over it, in her mind--his paying
for her--wondering about it.... They had worried, she and John, and they
had turned and twisted every penny, and after all there was not
enough.... But of course she had to come. The doctor had said it
wouldn't do to put it off; and so she had come, worried and anxious
about it all--and right in the room next to her, while she waited--was
the man who had offered to pay everything.... It was a beautiful
place--with such a good man in it--and Aunt Jane, always doing something
for her--and the forget-me-nots. She sighed happily, her eyes on the
flowers.

Aunt Jane appeared in the doorway, and surveyed her shrewdly. "Tired?"
she asked.

"Not a bit." Mrs. Pelton shook her head. "I don't feel as if I could
ever be tired any more."

She was dressed in a long blue garment--one of Aunt Jane's
wrappers--that enveloped her from head to foot. Her parted hair, smooth
and shining, was combed close to her head and she looked very small in
the big rocking-chair, but resolute and brave.

Aunt Jane regarded her mildly. "I reckon you'll get around to being
tired, after a while--like the rest of us." She glanced at the bowl of
forget-me-nots. "You enjoy your flowers, don't you!"

"They make me 'most _too_ happy--they're so beautiful!"

"I guess they won't hurt," said Aunt Jane. "Being happy don't
hurt--though sometimes it feels as if it hurt," she added thoughtfully.
"--as you just couldn't hold any more."

"Yes. That's it! That's the way I feel!" The little woman spoke eagerly
and sat up.

"I've been thinking--" she waited a minute, looking at the flowers.
"Maybe I ought to go in the ward. I always meant to go in the ward, you
know."

Aunt Jane regarded her. "You like it here, don't you?"

"I like it--yes!" She looked about her with grateful eyes--at the
photographs and flowers and then at Aunt Jane's face. "It's beautiful!"
she said softly.

"Well, I don't know as it's so beautiful." Aunt Jane was looking
thoughtfully before her. She was thinking of Suite A, perhaps. "It's a
good, comfortable room and you get a little sun--along toward sunset."
She glanced at the window, where the streak of sunshine was creeping in
on the sill, and a little glow came from the sky. "It's a comfortable
room--yes."

"The ward would be cheaper," said the woman. She hesitated. "It don't
seem quite fair to him--the man that's paying, I mean--not to get along
as cheap as we can."

"I wouldn't worry about getting along cheap," said Aunt Jane. "Some
folks need one thing, and some another. What _you_ need is to keep still
a spell and rest.... You don't feel lonesome, do you?"

"Lonesome! Oh, no!" She gave a little sigh. Her thin hands were clasped
in her lap. "It is so _good_ to be quiet!" she said.

"I thought likely," Aunt Jane nodded. "You just sit still and enjoy your
quiet and get well ... you don't need to worry about the man that's
going to pay. He wouldn't want you to worry. He's comfortable and he'd
want _you_ to be comfortable. _He's_ got a good room."

The woman's eyes brooded on it. "I can't thank him, or do anything," she
said a little wistfully. "I'd like to have him know how we feel about
his doing it."

"Well, you can thank him by and by, when you get round to it--if you
want to," said Aunt Jane. "I guess he'll let you thank him. You want to
get well first."

"Yes." Her eyes were on the forget-me-nots and she reached out a hand to
them. "I might send him some of my flowers," she said eagerly.

Aunt Jane's face wrinkled at the forget-me-nots--a little perplexed and
surprised and amused look.

"I _could_ send them to him, couldn't I? It would be proper to send them
to him?"

"Yes--I guess it's proper," said Aunt Jane dryly. "I don't believe he's
got any flowers in his room." Her eyes twinkled.

"I'll send them to him now--right off! You pick out a nice bunch for
him." She reached to them with a happy gesture.

Aunt Jane bent over the forget-me-nots, her smile full of gentle
chuckles. "We'll make him a nice bunch," she said cheerfully. She
selected a few meagre blossoms here and there.

"You're not getting the best ones!" The little woman was excited and
eager. "They're better on this side. See--there's one--and there!" Her
face had the soft, clear color of happiness.

Aunt Jane drew out the flowers with half-reluctant touch and arranged
them slowly. "Seems 'most too bad to spoil your bunch," she said.

"Oh, I like it!" The woman laughed a little tremulously. "I told you it
kind of hurt me to have so many, and it's a way of thanking him, isn't
it? Here, take this one!"

Her eyes were shining. "Don't they look nice! You tell him I thank him,
please, and I hope he's doing well."

"I'll tell him," said Aunt Jane. Her eyes rested on the flowers. "I
shouldn't wonder if he'd be real pleased with them." She held them off
and surveyed them thoughtfully. "I'll tell him what you said and I guess
maybe he'll get a good deal of comfort out of it. He needs flowers--and
some one to think about him--as much as anybody ever I see."




XXIV


Aunt Jane came in, bearing the forget-me-nots before her.

The millionaire raised a hand. "Take them a----!"

But she came tranquilly on.

"They were sent to you--special." She held them out.

He scowled at them. Then his look broke to bewilderment and a little
amusement.

"They're the ones you carried off!" he exclaimed.

"The same ones," replied Aunt Jane with satisfaction. "A woman sent them
to you."

"I know who sent them!"

"You don't know this one--it's a Mrs. Pelton."

He stared at her. "The one I sent them to--the one you took them to?"

She nodded. "She's sent 'em back."

"Didn't she like them?" His tone was hurt--almost stiff.

"Oh, she _liked_ 'em. She said they made her 'most _too_ happy." Aunt
Jane was arranging the flowers and smiling at them. "She only sent part
of them you see. She's divided with you."

"I see!" He looked at the flowers vaguely.

"She didn't know it was you that sent them," said Aunt Jane. She stood
off to get the effect.

"Who did she think sent them?" he demanded.

"Why--'Mr. Herman,' I told her.... You know about Mr. Herman?" She
looked at him.

"Yes," meekly.

"I told her about him. So she's feeling thankful to him." Her eyes
twinkled a little.

"But why should she send flowers to _me_?" He looked at her almost
suspiciously, as if he had caught her.

Aunt Jane shook her head reprovingly. "She sent them to you because you
happened to come the same day she did. She saw you through the door
whilst she was waiting for me to come in, and it made her feel
acquainted with you, coming the same day--so--and both having suffering
to go through with---- There, they look nice, don't they!" She gave a
final touch to them and sat down.

He glanced at them grudgingly.

"I'll take them out if you say so--if you'd rather not have them?"

"No, leave them.... I--want them." The words came almost quickly.

"I thought you'd like them," she said placidly, "when you'd made up your
mind to it. It's hard for any one to make up his mind sometimes."

The millionaire was looking at the flowers. "I've been thinking about
what you told me this morning," he motioned to the bowl of
forget-me-nots, "--about Mrs. Pelton.... This hospital business must be
a big bill for a workingman to meet.... I was wondering if it couldn't
be arranged so that I could pay--without their knowing, of course," he
added hastily.

Aunt Jane was silent a minute. Then, a little guiltily, she looked at
him. "You _have_ paid already," she said.

He had been looking dreamily before him, pleased with Aunt Jane, and
with the flowers--and with himself--pleased with everybody. He moved
irritably and stared.

She nodded, the little wrinkles gathering about her eyes. "I didn't mean
that you should find it out--not right off.... But it's just as well, I
guess."

"What do you mean?"

"Well." She rocked a little. "She was kind of anxious--the day she came,
you know.... I see, as soon as I came into the room that she was
worrying--" Aunt Jane rocked placidly, looking back to Mrs. Pelton's
worrying face. "Pretty soon it came out--they hadn't got the money; and
she'd been just drove to come--as you might say--Dr. Carmon makes 'em
come whether they want to or not, you know?" She looked at him
inquiringly over her glasses.

"Yes, I know." The words were remote and dry.

Aunt Jane smiled a little. "And just then I caught sight of you through
the door, and your coat lying on a chair--it was a silk-lined coat, you
know--your clothes are all pretty good." She looked at him with
satisfaction.

A glint of amusement crossed the remote face.

"So it came to me, then and there, just the way the things do--the right
ones, when you're bothering--and I said to her that _you_ were going to
pay for her."

She sat looking at him.

"Well?"

She roused herself. "You never see anybody change so--right in a minute,
that way.... I do wish you could have seen her!" She gave a pitying
glance at the handsome figure on the pillow.... "It seems a pity, 'most,
to do so much for everybody and not have the good of seeing it!"

"How do you know I will pay the bill?" asked the millionaire grimly.

She turned and stared--and a little gleaming smile twinkled at him.
"Why--you _have_ paid already! Leastways, your lawyer's paid. He sends a
check every week--the way you told him--to pay the bill; and I've made
it out big enough for two, right along." Her face was complacent and
kind.

"Do you call that business?" He asked it almost sharply.

"No--not business--just good sense, I guess--and decency."

"I call it crooked dealing!" said the millionaire. Something of the old,
gripping look came into the shapely hands lying on the bed.

Aunt Jane surveyed him and rocked on. "How much do you reckon your life
is worth, Mr. Medfield?" she said after a little pause.

"I'm insured for--" He stopped.

She nodded. "That wasn't what I meant--but it will do. Whatever you're
insured for--you're worth it, I guess." She paused and regarded him
doubtfully.... "You're probably worth as much as you are insured for--"
Her look considered it, and let it go.... "Whatever it is, we've saved
it for you--among us. We've given you the best care we knew how....
You've had good care, haven't you?" She bent a solicitous look on him.

"The best of care," he said courteously. Then, after a minute: "Money
could not pay for it--the kind of care you have given.... I have not
forgotten the night--when I went down into the dark--and you held me."
He was looking at something deep and quiet--then his gaze turned to
her.

Aunt Jane returned it a minute--and looked away.... There was something
in the face of the millionaire that she had not seen in it before. She
got up and went to the window. "Looks as if it would be a good day
to-morrow," she murmured.

She straightened the curtains a little and shook them out and came
leisurely back. She glanced at the forget-me-nots.

"What I meant was," she said slowly, "some folks get big bills when
they're here--and some folks get little ones, and some don't get any. It
depends on what the Lord has given 'em; and we mean to take good care of
'em all."

He smiled. "Well--the Lord has given me plenty. I ought not to
complain!"

"I didn't expect you would complain," said Aunt Jane. "I put it in the
bill under Suite A--enough for two. And I told Dr. Carmon to make _his_
bill big enough for two--I guess he'll do it. He's a pretty sensible
man." She rocked placidly.

Herman Medfield relaxed a little and looked at her whimsically. "It's a
human way to do," he said thoughtfully. "And I do get _something_ for
my money. This is a pleasant room."

"It's pleasant enough. But I've thought a good many times it's a pity
you can't be in the ward."

"Me--in a ward!"

She nodded. "You're lonesome, aren't you?"

He looked at her with sudden thought. "You didn't know my boy has come!"
he said.

Aunt Jane stopped. "Your boy?"

"My boy--Julian! I told you!"

"You said Julian was in Europe--" replied Aunt Jane.

"He came this morning!" The millionaire's voice laughed. "Walked right
in through that door--without a word!" He nodded to it--as if still
seeing the boy coming toward him.

Aunt Jane looked at the door and then at the man's face, and smiled.

"I told you Europe wasn't so very far off," she said. "But I didn't know
it was _quite_ so near you as that!"




XXV


Herman Medfield, wrapped in a dark-blue quilted gown, was sitting in the
sunny window that looked down into the back yards.... He remembered the
day--only three weeks ago, was it--that he had watched the servant-girl
hanging sheets on the line. He remembered how strong her arms were as
she swung the sheets on the line.... He looked down into the yard. She
was there now--singing just as she had then; the window was open and her
voice came drifting in with the scent of the flowers that grew down by
the fence.

He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. He was tired; more
tired than he had thought he should be. Sitting in bed, he had felt
strong--almost well. And he had demanded his clothes.

"We'll let you wear a dressing-gown the first day or two," Aunt Jane had
said with a twinkle. "You've got a real pretty silk one, I see."

So she had brought out the quilted gown and laid it on the bed; and he
had dressed slowly and come out here to the sunny sitting-room, where
the big chair was drawn up in the window.

He had looked down into the yard, with a feeling of strangeness and
newness, and had wondered a little whether it was the change in the
foliage that made the yard look different, or whether the change was in
Herman Medfield's eyes.

Then he had closed his eyes and leaned back.... Perhaps he had slept a
little--with the fresh air coming in and the girl's voice singing and
the sound of doves cooing from a roof near by--for when he opened his
eyes again, Julian was sitting at the desk, writing.

He looked up and encountered his father's gaze and came over to the
window.

"How are you feeling, Dad?"

"First-rate. It seems good to get on my legs again." He was looking
eagerly at the boy, taking in his fresh young strength.... It had been
several days since Julian came; but Herman Medfield was not yet used to
his being there, or to the little proud feeling that came over him as he
looked at this young man who was his son. He had never thought Julian
was handsome. But something seemed to have happened to him.... He
carried himself more like a man; and there was a look behind the lines
of his face.... He thought of the boy's mother, as he watched it....
Europe had brought out the best that was in him. It had been a wise
move--sending him off like that, to get him out of Mrs. Cawein's way....
And then it came to him that Julian was looking even better than the day
he arrived.... Perhaps, after all, he was fond of his old dad! They had
had many talks together--and had sat silent for long spaces of quiet;
and the boy came and went as if his father's room were home to him.
Every one in the hospital had come to know the quick step and light
figure and the laugh that ran through the hall.... He went across the
town to the vacant house to sleep. But his meals were served with his
father's--when he could persuade Aunt Jane to send them in--and when he
could not coax her to send in the extra tray, he went to a restaurant
near by.

Aunt Jane and he had been friends from the minute he held out his hand
to her, and she had taken it in hers and patted it and looked at him out
of her muslin cap. "You're just the age of my boy," she had said,
looking at him. "I always wonder what he'd be doing now--if I could see
him."

And the young man had reached up an arm--before she could catch the
meaning of his look--and thrown it around her neck and kissed her, just
under the muslin border of her cap. "I guess that's what he would do
first," he said. And Aunt Jane's eyes had filled with quick tears as she
turned away.

"That's great foolishness!" she had said softly.

But the boy had won his place; and he was always asking for her when he
came. She appeared now in the doorway with a card in her hand--looking
at it doubtfully. Her glance ran to the figure in the window in its
stately dressing-gown, and returned again to the little black-edged
card.

The young man's eye fell on it and his eyebrows lifted a trifle. He came
over.

"For me?" He held out his hand.

She ignored the hand and passed on to the millionaire, extending the
card. Her face was impersonal and severe.

The boy's quick laugh broke across it.

"Caught, Dad!" he chuckled, looking at the card.

The millionaire glanced down and his face darkened.

"Tell her I cannot--" He stopped abruptly-- Suppose she had heard that
the boy was home! His father's room was the best place for him--and for
her to see him! He sighed and laid down the card.

"Very well. Tell her to come in."

The young man watched her go, and laughed out and then chuckled softly;
his father smiled grimly.

The door opened and the widow entered. She was dark, with a white throat
and white hands and bewildering bits of jet that twinkled as she moved.
They tinkled softly as she came in.

Aunt Jane, following discreetly, closed the door behind her and went to
a table across the room.

The widow stood looking at the two men with a charming smile.

Julian came forward. "How do you do, Mrs. Cawein?" he was holding out
his hand and smiling.

"How-de-do, Julie!" She touched the hand lightly and fluttered by him
toward the chair in the window-- "And how is the dear man!" she cried.

Julian, the little smile still on his lips, watched the comedy. Aunt
Jane from across the room regarded it mildly.

The millionaire half rose as if warding off something----

But the dark lady only pressed his hand as it reached out; she lighted
on a chair near by and twinkled a little and shone beamingly on him.

Herman Medfield sank back in his chair.

"It's so good to see you!" she exclaimed softly. "And do you know I
might have missed you altogether!" She had clasped her hands and was
looking at him reproachfully.

"There was a nurse person met me in the hall, and she said you were not
here--that it was all a mistake in the name!" She spread her hands
dramatically; the jets twinkled fast like little eyes all over her....
"She said you weren't here--that they'd got the wrong name!... Then
_this_ good woman--" The little jewels on her hands glinted at Aunt Jane
lightly. "This good woman met me--or I shouldn't have got in at all!"

Herman Medfield cast a glance of due appreciation at "this good woman."
Her face was expressionless and cheerful; she was regarding the widow
with uncritical eyes.

"It was very good in her, I am sure," murmured Herman Medfield.

"Wasn't it!... I've quite been dying to see you, you know!" She leaned
toward him a little and sparkled for him.

"I think I must have been dying to see you," responded the millionaire
politely. "Though they told me I was doing very well." He said it
reflectively, leaning back in his chair and smiling at her.

The boy watched the play with amused eyes. He had no idea his father
could be so courtly with women.

The visitor bridled to it and used her eyes. "It's a mercy you're
better! Think of the interests you represent!"

"I try not to think of them," said Medfield dryly.

"Of course!-- You must not!" She quite cried out about it.

Then she turned to Julian. "And where have you been--naughty boy?"

The young man blushed and stammered. She had not held him at finger ends
the last time he saw her.

"I've been--been _everywhere_!" he said with a laugh.

Aunt Jane had slipped quietly into the next room and through the doorway
her ample figure could be seen shaking up pillows and moving softly
about. The widow's eyes followed the figure reflectively and watched it
disappear through a door that led into the corridor.

"Julian--dear----"

The boy jumped a little.

She was speaking over her shoulder to him and she leaned back smilingly.
"Would you mind, Julian, getting my bag for me? I left it in the car--
So stupid of me!"

"With pleasure." The young man went toward the door. He glanced casually
as he passed her at the chair she sat so airily upon.

There was a little smile on his lips as he closed the door.




XXVI


The widow's eyes followed him. "He is a dear boy," she said, with a
motherly glance at the softly closing door.

Then her look changed and she leaned forward and touched the bowl of
forget-me-nots with lightest finger-tip.

"Mine?" she said archly.

"If you would like them," said the millionaire graciously.

"Naughty man!" She shook the finger at him and then pointed it at the
forget-me-nots.

"Who sent them to you?" Her chin tilted the question.

He regarded it gravely. "A woman sent them," he said.

She nodded and the little jets dingled at him.

"This woman?" She placed the finger on her chest and looked at him
reproachfully.

The millionaire's look broke in startled confusion. He glanced swiftly
at the flowers. "Why--yes--of course!... I ought to have thanked you....
But--I have not been well, you know." He smiled whimsically.

She motioned it aside. "I don't mind being thanked--so long as you got
them!" Her eyes travelled about the room. "They are the only ones you
have!" she said reflectively.

The millionaire's glance followed hers.

"There were--others," he said vaguely.

"But you have not kept them!" She leaned forward.

"No." He admitted it.

"These are the only ones--" she paused, looking at them pensively. "You
don't know how happy you make me!" she said--and sighed it away.

"I am glad to have pleased you," responded the millionaire feebly.

"You don't know--" she touched the flowers as if they were something
precious that must not be disturbed. "You--don't know how happy--you
make me!"

The millionaire glanced uneasily about.

The door opened and Julian flashed in. "I say! I couldn't find your bag,
you know!"

"Never mind!" She was sweet with it. "Perhaps I didn't bring it, after
all."

"You don't think it is possibly--in your chair," he suggested, smiling a
little.

He had come over and was standing quite close to her.

She glanced at him deprecatingly. "How clever in you, Julian!"

Her hand groped in the chair for the bag and found it--and she held it
out, laughing at her mistake.

The two men smiled.

"So stupid--in me!" She took out a tiny handkerchief and shook it and
the faintest scent of violets flew about the room.

The door opened. It was Miss Canfield, with a glass of water on a small
round tray. She came across to the millionaire. "It is medicine time,"
she said quietly.

The millionaire drank it off and returned the glass to the tray and
thanked her.

She looked down at him. "Is there anything else--you would like?" There
was a clear, faint color in her cheeks, like a rose-leaf.

The widow's eye rested on it.

"Nothing, thank you," said Medfield.

"You have sat up a little longer than the doctor said-- You must not get
too tired."

She left the room, carrying the little tray lightly before her, moving
with noiseless step.

Three pairs of eyes watched her from the room.

"They take good care of you, don't they?" said Mrs. Cawein
patronizingly. Her eyes were still reflectively on the door.

"The best of care!" responded Medfield.

"Well--" she sighed brightly and shook the handkerchief. "I think I was
told to go?" She nodded archly. "Yes--she told me!-- I feel sure of it!"

She got up. "You must get well fast!" Her hand touched his lightly and
whisked away, and the violet scent was wafted about him.

She moved toward the door, drawing Julian into her wake.

Herman Medfield's eyes watched them. His lips grew a little compressed.
"You have forgotten your hat, Julian," he said sharply.

The boy glanced back over his shoulder and flashed a smile at him. "I'm
seeing Mrs. Cawein to her car. I'll be back in a minute, sir----"

She murmured deprecation as they went. "You really--do not need to come
with me, Julian."

"But I want to," said the young man. He shifted his feet quickly and
caught step with her as she plumed along beside him.

"Your father's looking very well!" she said.

"Isn't he!" The reply was absent.

She glanced at him sharply. "You must come and see me--I have missed
you!"

His eye went past her to the car that was waiting. "It is very kind in
you," he murmured.

She tripped a little on the step and he caught her arm to save her.

She glowed to him. "Be sure to come," she said softly. "We must take up
old times."

Julian looked at her and smiled ever so faintly.

He opened the door of the car and put her in and bowed ceremoniously and
closed the door. She nodded brightly through the window.... The car
rolled away.

He stood looking after it, smiling with a little amusement. Then he ran
lightly up the steps.

The long corridor lighted by a great window stretched before him, and a
figure at the end was outlined against it--a slender figure that carried
itself very light and straight. She was walking from him, her face
toward the window, and the white uniform and the cap glowed softly....
The reddish hair under the cap caught little glints of light. He watched
till the figure disappeared in the distance. Then he turned to the door
of Suite A.

The light of the reddish, shining hair was still in his face as he came
in.

Medfield grunted and stirred a little in his chair. He glanced at the
absorbed face.

"You find her attractive?" he said dryly.

The young man stared at him. He had forgotten Julia Cawein and her car;
he had forgotten everything except the window of the long lighted hall
and the girl's head lifted against it.

"I think she is charming!" he cried.

"Don't you?" he added after a little, uncomfortable pause.

"No," said his father shortly.

"What is the matter with her?" asked the boy. He was watching his
father's face.

"Nothing is the matter if you don't happen to see it."

"I don't!"

The man was silent a minute. "Sherwood Cawein died of a broken heart,"
he said at last.

The boy stared. Then the look in his face broke and danced. "I was not
thinking of Mrs. Cawein," he said quietly.

"You were not speaking of Julia Cawein?" His father sat up, his hands on
the arms of his chair, and looked at him.

"No, I was not thinking of Mrs. Cawein. I'll tell you some day, Father,
what I was thinking of. But--" he looked at him straight. "I'd like you
to trust me a little if you will, please."




XXVII


"I'm not going to bed!" said Medfield irritably. "I don't want to lie
down. I'm tired of lying down!" He looked out of the window and scowled.

The nurse was silent a minute, regarding him thoughtfully. Then she laid
a light, cool hand on his wrist and her fingers found the pulse and held
it.

"There's nothing the matter!" he said crossly.

"No, there doesn't seem to be." She released his wrist and went quietly
out.

The millionaire's eyes followed her.... A shrewd flash came into them.
The little annoyance had left his face; it had the keen, concentrated
look that men who knew Herman Medfield did not care to see on his
face--if they had business with him. It was the look that meant he was
on the track of something or somebody.

He reached out to the bell.

Miss Canfield came. She waited with an inquiring look.

"I should like to see Mrs. Holbrook," said Medfield politely.

"Aunt Jane?" The nurse hesitated. "She's in the Children's Ward. Is it
something that can wait--or something I can do for you, sir?" Her face
was troubled.

He smiled at her reassuringly. "I want to see Aunt Jane-- She will come,
I think--if you tell her." He settled back comfortably in his chair and
waited.

He did not look up when Aunt Jane came in. His head rested against the
chair and his face was drawn in the look of pathetic distress and
helplessness that calls for pity.

Aunt Jane took in the look with kindly glance.

"You've been having too much company," she said.

"I do feel rather done up," admitted Medfield weakly.

"Well, you better go right to bed--" Aunt Jane moved toward the door of
the adjoining room.

"I'm not going to bed," said Medfield.

Aunt Jane stood arrested----

"I want the doctor," added Medfield warily.

"I'll send for him--soon as you get in," she said placidly. "You come
right along."

"No." He put his hands on the arms of the chair and looked at her like a
spoiled child.

Aunt Jane regarded him calmly. She went into the corridor and sent word
for Miss Canfield to come to her office. Then she went on to the office
and took up the receiver and called Dr. Carmon's number; and stood
waiting, with bent head, her cap strings reflective.

The head lifted itself--and her face focussed to the little black cup on
the desk before her.

"It's about Mr. Medfield--Herman G. Medfield--yes." She said it severely
into the blackness. "He won't do as he's told!"

Her ear listened. "Well, that's all right. But you'll have to come....
No, I don't know. He's cross--for one thing!... In half an hour, you
say?... Well, that will do, I guess--I can handle him that long." She
smiled and hung up the receiver and turned to Miss Canfield and looked
at her through her glasses.

"What is the matter with him?" she asked.

The nurse shook her head. "He was all right until half an hour ago. I
took him his medicine then," she replied.

"It's the widow!" said Aunt Jane.

Miss Canfield glanced at her inquiringly. "The one who was----?"

"Visiting him--yes. You saw her?"

Miss Canfield smiled. "Yes."

Aunt Jane nodded. "She's done it, somehow." Her face grew reflective. "I
hadn't ought to have let her in," she said softly. "You had more sense
than I did about that."

"I wondered a little why you did it," said Miss Canfield safely.

"Well--" Aunt Jane considered. "I thought maybe he needed stirring up a
little--so he would get along faster. I didn't mean to stir him up quite
so much," she added reflectively. "I didn't know he'd act like this....
He's always making a fuss!" she added disapprovingly.

Miss Canfield's face grew defensive. She turned it away. "I had thought
he was a very good patient," she said quietly.

Aunt Jane's glance flashed at her. The muslin cap covered a question. "I
don't know as he's any better than any other patient," she said,
watching her critically.... "He ought to be good--with his Suite--and
everybody running and waiting on him all the time!"

A bell tinkled and buzzed on the board in the hall.

Aunt Jane's cap turned toward it. "That's him now, I suppose, wanting
something!"

The nurse went to the board and scanned it. She reached up and threw off
the number and turned down the hall toward Suite A.

Aunt Jane's gaze followed her reflectively. Then she turned to her desk.
When Dr. Carmon arrived she was sitting quietly at work on her books.

"What's up?" he said brusquely as he came in.

"I hope you'll find out," said Aunt Jane. Her tone was tranquil.

He shrugged his shoulders and removed his coat--throwing it carelessly
across a chair. He took up his little black bag.

Aunt Jane regarded the coat disapprovingly. She went across and shook it
out and laid it in neat folds.

"I think likely--it's a woman," she said, smoothing the coat.

He stopped abruptly and looked at her. "Anybody been here?"

"Yes--a widow."

The doctor grunted a little. "Who let her in?"

"Well--I don't _know_ that she upset him," said Aunt Jane. "Something
did! You can find out, I guess." Her gaze was approvingly mild.

He relaxed a little.

"You want I should come with you?" she asked.

"No," hastily, "I'll send for you--if I need anything. Miss Canfield's
around, I suppose."

"Yes, she's there, I guess. She's there most of the time," said Aunt
Jane. Her face was non-committal.

But he glanced at it sharply. Then he went down to Suite A.

Herman Medfield, still sitting in his window, with the blue quilted gown
wrapped about his legs, wore an unhappy expression.

Dr. Carmon scanned it. He set down the black bag and drew up a chair.

"What seems to be the matter?" he asked. He seated himself firmly in the
chair and looked at his patient through keen glasses. All the little
fine unconscious fibres that diagnosed a case for Dr. Carmon were alert
and reaching out for signs; but the doctor himself looked as impassive
as a stone jug, sitting in his chair, a hand on either knee--surveying
Herman Medfield.

"What is the matter?" he said.

"I don't know." Medfield's tone was indifferent. "I feel worse--general
distress--heaviness."

"Any pain?" The doctor's hand burrowing in his pocket had brought out
the stethoscope.

He adjusted it to his ears and hitched his chair a little nearer.
Medfield made an obliging movement forward.

"Stay where you are," said the doctor gruffly. He leaned forward and
placed the little metal disks on the blue quilted gown and bent his
head.

The two men were silent. Medfield with his head against the back of the
chair and his eyes closed was wondering guiltily what the two little
flexible tubes were revealing to the listening ears.

And Dr. Carmon, behind an impenetrable scowling mask, was wondering what
the devil had gone wrong with Herman Medfield. And he listened--not so
much with his ears, as with those little inner senses that never
deceived him if he trusted them.

He slipped off the stethoscope and sat up. "Did you say you had pain?"
he asked.

"A little." The tone was weary.

Dr. Carmon looked at him sharply. "Whereabouts?"

Medfield turned his head restively. "Everywhere," he said. "Up my back
and shoulders--the right one--and in my head."

"Your head aches, does it?" That was the outside question; and inside,
all the little therapeutic fibres in Dr. Carmon's stubby figure were
saying to him: "His head is as good as yours is, this minute! What's
the matter with him? Buck up--and find out!"

He put his hand on the patient's wrist. "What would you like for
dinner?" he asked.

"I couldn't eat anything," said Medfield passively.

"Not a nice chop--with some asparagus and mayonnaise?" The doctor was
watching the face.

Medfield shook his head resolutely. "I don't feel like eating."

"Very well." Dr. Carmon sat back and looked at him. "I think you'd
better go to bed--and stay there for a while."

"You think I got up too soon?" Medfield's voice was patient and full of
acquiescence; it was very meek.

"I don't think anything," said Dr. Carmon gruffly. "But when a man can't
eat, he'd better be in bed.... There's nothing the matter with you."

Medfield's heart gave a quick little jump, and the doctor's hand that
had strayed again to his wrist, counted it grimly.

"You're tired. That's all! Had company?"

"Some one came in--yes. She only stayed a few minutes," he added
virtuously.

"Well." Dr. Carmon got up. "That didn't hurt you--probably. You'll be
all right. How's the boy?"

"All right. He's generally here," replied Medfield.

"Doesn't tire you?"

Herman Medfield's eyes opened quickly. "I want him here!" he said
sharply.

Dr. Carmon's thought followed the look swiftly. "It isn't the boy, but
it's something about him. I'll see the boy."

He rang the bell. "I'd get to bed right away if I were you."

It was Aunt Jane who came leisurely in, glancing at the two men. "Miss
Canfield's at dinner. She'll come pretty quick--if you need her."

"We don't need her. He's to go to bed for a while." The doctor nodded to
Herman Medfield, who had got up from his chair, and was standing beside
him.

The millionaire in his blue silk robe with the velvet girdle and tassel
was a stately figure; and, for the second time, Aunt Jane had a lively
sense of Dr. Carmon's short, uncouthness and rumpled clothes--there was
a large grease spot on the front of his vest. Her mind made a quick note
of the spot while her eyes travelled placidly to Herman Medfield.

"I'm glad you've made up your mind," she said pleasantly.

He was moving toward the door of his bedroom. He stopped. "It isn't _my_
mind. It's the doctor's mind that's made up," he replied suavely.

Dr. Carmon watched him and smiled a little and Miss Canfield, coming in
the door, wondered what Dr. Carmon's smile meant.

Aunt Jane and the doctor returned to the office.... She faced him.

"What's the matter?" she said.

He shook his head. "Just one of those things to keep you guessing." He
shrugged his shoulders.

Aunt Jane's eye rested on the grease spot. "Soap and water will take
that off!" she said practically. She laid a finger on the spot.

The doctor doubled his chin to look down on himself.

"Have the water hot--and plenty of soap," said Aunt Jane.

He grunted, and drew his coat over the spot. "When I get time," he
replied.




XXVIII


Aunt Jane was in her office. It was Monday morning and the wheels had
gritted getting under way. She had poured a drop of oil here and another
drop there, as it seemed needed, and had come back to her office for a
general survey before starting again.

It was well known in the House of Mercy that the times when the whole
hospital force went scurrying about, under some sudden emergency, were
often the times that Aunt Jane chose, for some unknown reason, to sit
quietly in her office, doing nothing.

Hurrying by the office door, with tense look and quick-running feet,
they would catch a glimpse of Aunt Jane sitting placidly at ease; and
they would slow down a little, perhaps, and wonder what she could be
thinking of to sit there as if nothing were wrong.... And then, somehow,
through the hospital would run a quiet, steadying force that seemed to
hold them in place and use them for its ends; and they would be
conscious, as they worked, of being bigger than they had guessed.

Aunt Jane was not thinking now of any crisis. The troubles this morning
were petty ones--"pin pricks," she called them. She was wondering about
the millionaire--and wondering whether she would better go to Suite
A.... Miss Canfield had reported a good night and Dr. Carmon would be
coming soon.

She looked up. The doctor's figure was in the doorway. He nodded gruffly
as he took off his coat. "Everybody all right?"

Aunt Jane's tongue clicked a little. She went to a corner of the room
and moved back the screen and turned on the hot water.

"Come here," she said.

The doctor looked at her inquiringly.

"You didn't clean your vest! It's a perfect sight!" She tested the water
with her hand and took up the soap.

Dr. Carmon glanced down at the expanse of vest guiltily. He scowled.
"I'm too busy--to fuss." He reached for his bag.

"Come here!" said Aunt Jane.

And while he fidgeted and grumbled, her firm, efficient fingers scrubbed
at him with soap and hot water and a bit of rough cloth. Satisfaction
shone on him. "I never knew a man that could keep himself clean!" she
said briskly.

"There!" She stood back a little. "It doesn't show much now. I'll do a
little more on it--when it's dried off so I can see."

He backed hastily away. "I'll send it to the tailor. I'll do it
to-night."

"You don't need to waste money on tailors," she said calmly. "A little
soap and--" But he was gone.

Aunt Jane smiled to herself and put back the soap and hung up the cloth
and replaced the screen. She moved with the ample leisure of those who
have plenty of time.

A nurse came in from the waiting-room. "A man is here--a Mr. Dalton. He
wants to know if he can see you?"

"Yes, I'll see him," said Aunt Jane.

"He said he could come again if you are too busy." The nurse waited.

"No, I'm not busy--no busier than I always am, I guess. You tell him to
come in."

He came in with quick step and a little light in his face--as if a glint
of sun shone on a dark field.

Aunt Jane looked at him approvingly. "You're doing first-rate!"

He laughed. "I don't have to try. Luck is coming my way now!"

"Folks generally have to go fully half-way to meet it," said Aunt Jane.
"You seen your wife?"

He nodded. "She has been telling me--I want to thank you!" He said it
impulsively and came nearer to her; his dark face worked with something
he did not say.

"Sit down, Mr. Dalton. You don't need to thank _me_," said Aunt Jane.

"Edith told me----"

"Yes, I don't doubt she told you. She thinks I did something, maybe. But
I didn't.... When folks get well," she was looking at him and speaking
slowly. "When folks get well they _get_ well--all over; and then no
matter _who_ comes along and says to 'em, 'Why don't you do
so-and-so?'--they think it's something special.... Maybe it's just as
well to let them think it--" she was smiling to him--"if it helps any."

"But it's true!" he said stoutly. "I've known Edith longer than you
have--she hasn't ever been the way she is now."

"I'm glad for you, Mr. Dalton!" said Aunt Jane heartily, "and I know
you'll be good to her. I can see it in your face--that you treat her
well."

The face clouded. "I mean to--but I never seem to know just how she'll
take things----"

"What's been the trouble?" asked Aunt Jane.

"She didn't tell you?"

Aunt Jane shook her head. "We didn't talk much--just visited together a
little and got acquainted."

He seemed thoughtful. "I think the real trouble is something that never
gets put into words; and it isn't so easy to put in words.... I'm a
failure, I guess!" He looked up apologetically. "I don't know that you
will understand. But I've had chances--every sort of chance--and I've
never made good."

"Never made money, you mean," said Aunt Jane placidly.

He looked up quickly. "That's it!"

"What seemed to be the matter?"

"I don't know." He was looking before him. "When I got through college,
I thought I was going to get on all right--thought I should be a big man
some day." He looked at her and smiled.

"You look pretty big and strong," assented Aunt Jane.

He laughed out. "I'm big enough this way!" He reached out his arms from
the broad shoulders and clinched the hands a little. "I can tackle
anything in sight. But--" he leaned forward--"it's the things that are
out of sight that I can't seem to come to grips with."

"That's what bothers most folks, I guess--men folks special," said Aunt
Jane. "I've known a good many men, and I like them.... I like men
better'n I do women," she added a little guiltily, "but sometimes it
seems to me, when I'm with 'em, as if they were blind--a little mite
blind about what's going on inside."

She rocked a little.

"Maybe it's just because they're slow," she said reflectively. "They
can't see quick, the way women can, and they're kind of afraid of what
they can't see--some like children in the dark." She was smiling at him.

He nodded. "You've got it! I shouldn't wonder if that's the way Edith
feels. She's never said it just that way. But she doesn't seem to
understand what I'm after; and I can't tell her--because I don't know
myself," he added candidly.

"So while you're figuring it out, she calls it something else?" said
Aunt Jane.

"That's it! And then we get--angry, and I can't even think. It seems to
paralyze me, some way."

Aunt Jane was smiling to herself. "'Most seems as if it would have been
a better way to have men folks marry men folks--" She looked at him
shrewdly. "They'd get along more comfortable?"

He shook his head and laughed. "I want Edith just the way she is. But I
wish----"

"Yes--we all do." Aunt Jane nodded. "We like what we've got--pretty
well. But we're always wishing it was a little mite different some
way.... I like my work here; and I do it about as well as I know how.
But some days I wish--" She broke off and sat looking before her.

The young man's face regarded her attentively. He leaned forward. "I'm
taking too much of your time. I didn't think how busy you must be. I'll
go now. And thank you for letting me talk." He stood up.

Aunt Jane reached out a hand.

"Sit down, Mr. Dalton. That's what my time is for--to talk about
things.... What was it you said you wished?"

He sat down. "I'd like to tell you--if you really have time.... And it
won't take so long--" He was looking at it thoughtfully. "You see, I've
never made good, because I've never stayed long in one place. That is
what frets Edith--what she can't understand."

"It's hard for a woman--always changing round," said Aunt Jane. "Hard on
the furniture."

He smiled. "We haven't changed house so many times. It's been mostly in
the city here. But each time I've had to start all over.... After we
were married, I went in with Clark & Lyman; that's Edith's
father--George B. Lyman; and I thought I was fixed for life. And it
wasn't six months before I had to move on."

"I suppose you'd done something they didn't like," commented Aunt Jane.

He laughed. "It was what I _didn't_ do! They said I didn't take my
chances. Edith's father said I didn't."

"Take risks, you mean?"

"No.... Chances to make money--he said I let the best chances go by."

"Why did you do that?" asked Aunt Jane. Her face, turned to him, was
full of kindly interest.

He sat with his hands thrust in his pockets, looking at her.

"That's what I've never been able to tell Edith," he said slowly. "But I
think I can tell you--if you'll let me.... I've been thinking about it a
good deal since she's been ill and I think it's because I always see
something ahead--something bigger--that I'd rather work for." The hands
thrust themselves deeper into his pockets and his face grew intent. "I
feel it so strongly--that it seems wasteful to stop to pick up the
twopenny bits they're scrambling for."

He threw back his shoulders. "Well, I'm going to try.... I've made up my
mind--She means more to me than anything in the world and if she can't
be happy, I'm going to give it up.... That's all! And thank you for
letting me talk it out. It's done me more good than you know!" He held
out his hand.

Aunt Jane took it slowly. "I don't quite think I'd give up, Mr. Dalton."
She was looking at him through her glasses, and the young man had a
sudden sense that her face was beautiful. "I don't think I'd give
up--not quite yet--if I was you."




XXIX


Dr. Carmon and Aunt Jane stood in the sitting-room of Suite A. The door
to the bedroom was ajar, and through it Miss Canfield could be seen
moving about and waiting on Herman Medfield.

Aunt Jane went quietly to the door and drew it together with noiseless
touch. "How is he?" she asked.

"All right. There's nothing the matter--that I can find out." Dr. Carmon
shrugged his shoulders a little. "Temperature normal--no change, you
see." He pointed to the chart lying on the table, and ran his finger
along the lines. "Pulse good. Slept like a top, Miss Canfield says."

"She's to go on ward duty to-day," said Aunt Jane.

He looked up quickly. "I want her!"

"You said, yesterday, I could have her for the Men's Ward," replied Aunt
Jane. She was looking critically at the spot on his vest and he drew his
coat quickly together.

"That was yesterday," he said gruffly. "I can't spare her now."

Aunt Jane sighed. "It doesn't seem right for one person to have
everything."

"He'll have to have things--for a while," replied Dr. Carmon. "He'll
have to have what he wants--till I find out what's wrong with him.... He
wants Miss Canfield--and I can't take the risk of having him upset!" He
spoke a little brusquely at the end.

Aunt Jane's feathers ruffled themselves. "I don't know what call he has
to expect to have any particular nurse!" she said. "We shall take good
care of him, whatever nurse he has!"

"Yes--yes--of course." Dr. Carmon was testy and placating. "But I told
him he could have Miss Canfield--till he was out of bed--and she'll have
to stay."

"You told him--he could have Miss Canfield!" Aunt Jane's eye held
something and looked at it. "When did you tell him that?" she asked at
last, letting it go.

"I told him yesterday--when you sent for me.

"After the widow was here?"

"Yes." He looked at her. "Anything wrong about that?" Dr. Carmon was not
in his best humor. He felt Aunt Jane's eye boring through to the
offending spot and there was subtle disapproval in her manner--something
he did not quite fathom. "She'll have to stay!" he said--and the tone
was final.

Aunt Jane's only reply was a little chuckling laugh.

He glared at her and went out.

Her smile followed him from the room. She went over to the window. From
the next room came the sound of voices--Miss Canfield's low and
quieting, and Herman Medfield's expostulating and fretful--and then
silence.

Aunt Jane went across and opened the door. She looked in on Herman
Medfield. He was lying with his eyes closed and an almost peaceful
expression on his countenance. Miss Canfield was not in the room.

He opened his eyes and saw Aunt Jane and closed them quickly. His face
changed subtly and swiftly to mild distress.

Aunt Jane came leisurely in.

The eyes did not open or respond to her questioning look.

She sat down by the bed.

"Good morning," he said feebly.

Aunt Jane smiled. "I didn't think it was good--not very good--not from
what Dr. Carmon told me," she said slowly.

Medfield sighed. "Some pain," he admitted. He turned his head
restlessly.

"Well, we must expect _some_ pain." Her voice was as big and breezy as
all outdoors.

Medfield's face relaxed under it--to a kind of meek patience.

Aunt Jane watched it kindly.

"What you need, Mr. Medfield, is a good wife----"

The eyes flew open--and stared--and closed again quickly.

She nodded. "That's what I've been thinking--some one that has sense and
can do things--not just talk about 'em."

He smiled faintly. "I'm taken very good care of," he replied politely.
"I couldn't ask for better care than I've had here." The eyes closed
themselves again.

"Yes--Miss Canfield's a good nurse." She was watching the face and the
closed eyes. "She takes good care--and she's got sense.... What I was
thinking was, that you could go home now--if you had somebody to go with
you to look after you and take interest--if you had a wife."

"I'm not well enough," interposed Medfield quickly.

"Oh, yes--you're well enough, I guess."

"The doctor said I was to stay in bed!" His defense was almost spirited.

"You and Julian could go together," went on Aunt Jane ignoring it.
"_He'll_ look after you some."

Medfield groaned. And Aunt Jane reached out a hand to his forehead. Her
cool touch rested on it.

"Your head feels all right," she said, smoothing it slowly.

The little wrinkles went out of Medfield's brow and Aunt Jane watched it
relax.

"Better tell me all about it," she said gently. "You'll feel better to
get it off your mind, maybe."

"I _don't_ feel well, you know." It was almost apologetic.

"No--and next thing you know, you'll be down sick--just pretending....
I've been thinking about it," she said slowly. "Ever since you were took
down yesterday--but I didn't sense what was the matter--not till this
morning."

"You don't know now!" Herman Medfield's tone was guilty and a little
apprehensive.

Aunt Jane smiled. "Yes, I reckon I see it just about the way it
is--now.... You don't _want_ to get well--not yet."

"No." He admitted it feebly.

"And you don't want we should take Miss Canfield off your case."

He said nothing.

"Well, we're not going to take her off."

His face brightened a little.

Aunt Jane laughed softly. "That's right! You can chirk up--all you want
to!... You _do_ need a good wife--much as anybody ever I see."

He opened his lips--and stared at her--and closed them. "I--I believe I
do!" His eyes rested on the fresh childlike color in Aunt Jane's face
and the little lines that twinkled at him.

"I believe I do!" he repeated softly.

Aunt Jane nodded sagely, "That's what you need."

She got up leisurely. "Well, I must go do my work."

He put out his hand. "When will you come again?" he asked.

"Oh--along by and by." She was moving from him. "You just tend to
getting well.... You'll be able to sit up some time this afternoon
maybe." She nodded to him from the door and was gone.

He lay looking at the place where she had disappeared. A little wonder
held his face; a gentleness had come into it and the eyes watching the
closed door smiled dreamily.

When Miss Canfield returned she glanced at him in surprise. "You're
looking better!" she exclaimed.

"I feel better!" said Medfield almost gayly. "The pain is entirely
gone."

"That's good! We'll have you up--in a day or two."

"I don't see why Julian has not been in," replied Medfield.

She paused. "He did come," she spoke slowly. "But we thought perhaps it
was better not to disturb you.... You were sleeping when he came--you
seemed to be asleep."

"Did _you_ see him?" demanded Medfield.

"Yes." The little dear color that was always in her face mounted a
trifle. "He's coming after dinner," she added quietly.

Medfield's face was cheerful. "I want to see him when he comes-- If I am
asleep, you tell him to wait."

"Very well, sir."

"You tell him, yourself. Don't trust any of those people out there!" He
made a motion of distrust toward the hospital in general. "You have him
wait--see him yourself."




XXX


In the linen-room at the end of the corridor Miss Canfield was busy with
supplies for Suite A. She stood on a chair in front of a great cupboard;
and her shoulders were lost in the depths of the cupboard.... A sound
behind her caused her to withdraw her head.

Julian Medfield, standing in the door, looked at her.

"What is the matter?" she said quickly. She got down from the chair.

"I thought I should find you," replied the youth.

"Did you want me?"

"Yes."

"What has happened?"

He watched her smilingly. "I didn't say anything had happened.... I said
I wanted you."

The color mounted swiftly and she turned to the pile of linen on the
table and gathered it up. "I am rather busy this morning," she said
quietly. "I thought you meant your father needed something."

"No--he doesn't need anything, I guess. They told me in the office, that
_you_ wanted _me_--they said you had left word for me. They made a
mistake, perhaps." He spoke half teasingly and she lifted her chin.

"That was your father," she replied. "He didn't want to miss you." She
sorted out the sheets impersonally. She had not looked at him after the
first flurried minute.

"Do you want me to go away?" he said quietly.

She looked up, startled. "Why?"

"I didn't know."

Her fingers returned to their work. "I think your father is awake," she
said in a businesslike tone. "I will go and see." She placed the linen
in the cupboard and closed the door and locked it.

His hand made a little gesture. "Would you please----"

She waited.

"I can't say anything if you look like that!" he said whimsically.

She moved from him to the window. "There isn't any need to--say
anything!"

The reddish hair was lighted up against the window as he had seen it
before, and he watched it.

"That's the way _I_ feel!" he said softly.

"How do you feel?" She wheeled about and looked at him.

"As if there wasn't any need to say things. As if----"

She had turned back to the window. He went toward her.

"You've known all along!" he said.

He addressed the little locks gathered up under her cap.

He was quite near to her now.

"You knew--the first day I came--when I saw you--in father's room," he
declared to the little locks of hair. "Didn't you?"

There was no reply.

"And every time I've seen you since!" he said exultingly. "And now that
I've got you alone for a minute--you pretend----"

"I'm not pretending!" The shoulders shrugged a little.

"And turn your back on me," he added quietly.

"It's very thoughtless!" she said, speaking to the window. "You make it
awkward for me.... I hoped you would have sense enough--not to say
anything!"

"I haven't any sense," said the young man. "And you have so much....
That's why I like you. I fell in love with your sense--the first day!"

She had turned and faced him now. "Of course you don't care!" she said
indignantly. "It is just a joke to you--to come, interfering with my
work----"

"I didn't mean to stop you!" He glanced helplessly at the
linen-cupboard.

"I mean my nursing!" she said with dignity. "I can't take care of your
father if you're looking at me--and saying foolish things--all the
time!"

He reached out a hand. "I'm not saying foolish things," he said quietly.
"And you know it----"

A little bell buzzed somewhere and she lifted her head. "He's ringing--"
she said quickly. "It's his bell! I'll have to go!"

Then she waited.

And he took her hands and looked down at them, and bent and kissed them
gently, and watched the little color come dancing into her face.

"Pretending you didn't care!" he said.

He crushed the two hands hard and she cried out and drew them away--and
lifted them to her face and began to cry into them--little hard sobs
that shook her. And he held her close and patted the troubled shoulder.

"There, there!" he said. His voice was very young and happy and
surprised.

And she looked up and smiled--a queer little reddened smile--under her
crooked cap.

The bell tinkled--and rang a long shrill burr.

"I shall have to go! I know I look like a fright!" She reached to the
cap.

"You look dear!" said the young man exultantly.

But she was gone and he was speaking only to the white wainscoted panels
of the linen-room and to the sunlight flooding in.




XXXI


Herman Medfield glanced at her sharply as she came in.

"I've been ringing some time," he said dryly.

"I was in the linen-room. I'm sorry. I came as soon as I could."

He looked at her face. "What is the matter?" he asked.

"Nothing." She shook her head.

"You look as if you had been crying," he said, studying her.

"I haven't anything to cry about. I am very happy!" She returned his
gaze serenely, with a little fluttering look that came and went
underneath.

"You look happy," he admitted. "But I could swear you'd been crying."

"It doesn't matter how I look, does it?" She straightened the clothes a
little and shook out his pillows. "Can I get you something, sir? I'm
sorry you had to wait."

"It doesn't matter. But I woke up, and thought of Julian--I was afraid
he would go away.... I told you to have him wait, you know; and it's
after three--he ought to be here by this time." His tone was petulant.

"I'll see if he is here," she replied.

But the door of the sitting-room had opened and they caught a glimpse of
the young man crossing the room.

"There he is!" said his father with satisfaction. "Now, don't you go--I
may need you."

The boy came and stood in the doorway. "Hallo, Father! How do you do,
Miss Canfield." He bowed to her.

"Come in, Julian," said Medfield impatiently. "I missed you this
morning. How did you find things at the office?"

"All right, I guess." The young man crossed the room slowly. "I
shouldn't know if they weren't right.... I know as much about the
business as"--he looked about him and smiled--"as that brass knob over
there!" He nodded to it.

His father smiled contentedly. "You'll learn." Then he looked at him
quickly. "You like it, don't you?"

"Oh, I like it," said the young man comfortably. "I like it better than
anything I've ever done--I feel as if I belonged there. I feel like my
own grandfather, I guess." He laughed happily.

"Of course they treat me a good deal like a kid," he added.

"You're not so very old!" responded Herman Medfield with a twinkle.

The young man's eye rested impersonally on the nurse who was moving
about the room. "I'm growing up every day," he declared cheerfully.

Miss Canfield's face was not responsive. She was studying Herman
Medfield's chart. She took it up and left the room.

Medfield's eyes followed her. "There's a young woman who knows her
business," he said with approval.

Julian sat down. "She seems very competent," he responded.

His father shot a keen glance at his cheerful indifference.

"She's more than competent," he said severely. "You want to be tied up
like this for a while--to find out what people really are."

"I don't think I should mind it--so much." The boy smiled at him
frankly. "You look very comfortable, sir."

"I am better," admitted Medfield.

"What put you back yesterday?"

Medfield looked at the ceiling. "Nobody seems to understand just what it
was," he said quietly, "unless, maybe, Aunt Jane knows.... I think
perhaps she understands the case--better than the doctor."

"She's a nice old woman!" said Julian pleasantly. "Comfortable to have
around."

His father's glance was amused and a little critical. "How old do you
suppose she may be, my son?"

"Oh--I don't know--fifty! Any age!" said the boy. "You don't think of
age--with a woman like that. You just love her!"

His father smiled. "You have _some_ sense, I see...."

"No, I don't want it!" He held up a warning hand. Miss Canfield had
returned with his medicine. "I don't want it!" he said.

Miss Canfield smiled. "The doctor said you were to have it, sir."

"Set it down," said Medfield. "I'll take it by and by.... I'm not sick,"
he grumbled. "I don't need medicine!" He glanced at it with aversion.

His son looked on with amused smile.

Medfield's eye rested on him and then on Miss Canfield. His face
cleared. He motioned to her. "I want my son to see that catalogue that
came this morning--the rose catalogue, you know. Will you show it to
him, please. It's in the other room."

She started toward the door. "I will bring it."

But he held up a hand. "No, I don't want it in here. I'm tired."

He turned to Julian. "It's the catalogue of foreign roses, from
Rotterdam--the firm that Munson orders from. He wants to send in orders
for fall delivery--right away. I looked it over and made out a list....
I showed Miss Canfield. She understands----"

He closed his eyes. "I think I'll rest a few minutes," he said. "She'll
show the list to you and tell you what I said, and you can give it to
Munson to-night. Don't forget it."

He waved them away and lay with closed eyes.... Presently he opened his
eyes and smiled a little.... Through the open door he could see two
heads bending over the catalogue. The murmur of voices came to him
soothingly.

He drew a sigh.... It was almost as if the boy were stupid! A girl like
that--one in a thousand--right before him, every day for over a week
now!... He lay listening to the voices--there were long silences, it
seemed to him, and pauses.... The heads had moved a little. He could not
see them and the gaps of silence irritated him.... His thoughts ran back
to his own youth. _He_ had not been backward! He held it with a flitting
smile. In less than two weeks from the day he met her, she had promised
to marry him.... Young people nowadays had no spirit--no fire! He fumed
a little. It would probably take Julian six months to discover that the
girl was even pretty!... He could not lie in bed six months, waiting for
his son to get his eyes open!

He rang the bell impatiently and Miss Canfield came to the door.

She glanced at the glass on the stand beside him. "You have not taken
your medicine!"

He looked at it guiltily. "I forgot.... Did you make out the list?"

"Partly." She hesitated, and he fancied that a little fine flush crept
along under the transparent skin. "I don't believe I remembered all you
said about them."

"Never mind!" He was magnanimous and suddenly cheerful. "I'll go over
them again to-morrow.... And I'd like you to see the place where they
are to be put." He was speaking slowly. "I think you might help me--if
it isn't too much trouble----"

She looked at him questioningly.

"My rose garden, I mean," said Medfield.

"Oh--!" The little fine flush swept up again.

He watched it with satisfaction.

"Julian has never taken much interest in the garden," said Medfield. "He
doesn't know one rose from another."

"No--?" She was busy with the glass on the stand.

"But women have a kind of instinct about such things." He was impersonal
and gallant; and the little shadow of disturbance left her face.

She moved about, making him comfortable.

"I wish you would ask my son to come here," said Medfield.

The young man came--with the catalogue in his hand. His face was open
and cheerful.

"How far have you got?" asked Medfield.

"I don't understand all your hieroglyphics," replied the young man,
seating himself on the edge of the bed. "This, for instance!" He held
out the book, pointing to a brilliantly colored specimen with little
pencilled dots on the margin.

Medfield glanced at it. "That means, 'Try again,'" he said.

"Oh--!" He made a memorandum on the margin, smiling a little as he did
it.

"Munson never wants to try things twice," said his father. "You'll have
to watch him, or he'll leave that out, now." He nodded to the
brilliant-pictured rose.

The boy's eye dwelt on it. "Looks worth trying for--several times," he
said softly.

"It is," replied his father. "It's hardy and fragrant and prolific--I am
going to have Miss Canfield go out home--to see the garden," he added
irrelevantly.

The young man stood up. He looked at his father, a little bewildered,
and then toward the door of the next room, where a white figure was
flitting about at work.

"I want her to see the garden," went on Medfield. "She has excellent
taste--and common sense. She can tell me what Munson's up to--this is
just the season he needs watching. No telling what he'll do!"

"I see!" The youn

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