"Yes," agreed Jeanne, "it is. Even at Aunt Agatha's biggest dinner party there wasn't a more cheerful one than this. I'm sure Mollie will like it."
But was that Mollie—that absolutely neat white creature in the neat white bed? There was the pale red hair neatly braided in a shining halo above the serene forehead. The mild blue eyes looked lazily at the bouquet, then at Jeanne. The old, good-natured smile curved her lips.
"Hello, Jeanne," she said, "you're lookin' fine. You see, I'm sick abed, but I'm real comfortable—real comfortable and happy." Then she fell asleep.
"It's the medicine," said the nurse. "She sleeps most of the time. But even when she's awake, nothing troubles her."
"Nothin' ever did," returned Old Captain. "But then, there's some that worries too much."
They met Barney in the road above the dock. Jeanne held out her hand. Big, raw-boned Barney gripped it with both of his, squeezed it hard—and fled.
"You tell him," said Jeanne, with the little twisty smile that was not very far from tears, "to come to dinner tomorrow—that I invited him and am going to make him a pudding. Poor old Barney! We've got to make him feel comfortable. Tell him I bought a fork—no, a knife especially for him."
"Barney's as good as gold," returned Old Captain. "But, for a man of forty-seven, he's too dinged shy. 'Barney,' says I, more'n once, 'you'd ought to get married.' 'There's as good fish in the sea as ever come out,' says Barney. 'Yes,' says I, 'but ain't the bait gittin' some stale?'"
"Is it really September?" asked Jeanne, one morning, studying the little calendar she had found in her work-box.