“See here!” said he, astounded. “You’re not crying about that?”
“I’m not c-crying at all,” replied Miss Ryan, with dignity. “Only—when I saw that kitchen—and that dinner—it’s cruel!”
This made him laugh.
“Cruel?” he said. “Mrs. MacAdams cruel? Poor old soul! She’s—”
“It is cruel,” said Miss Ryan, “when you’re so busy and so—wonderfully kind and good.”
He had been called kind and good often enough before in his life, but it had never sounded like this. He looked at Molly Ryan. The interior of the little car was well lighted, so that he could see her clearly, sitting there beside him, with Frankie in her strong young arms, and those blue eyes of hers misty. Kind? He wasn’t the only one.
“It’s down this street,” she told him. “There—that’s the house—with the white fence.”
He stopped the car before the house—such a poor, forlorn little house it was—and Miss Ryan tried to set Frankie on his feet; but Frankie would not stand. Limp and dazed with sleep, he sank down on the floor of the car.
“I’ll carry him,” said Dr. Joe. “Come on! We’ll make a dash for it.”
So they did make a dash for it, through the pelting rain, to the veranda of the poor little house, and Miss Ryan rang the bell. Nothing happened. She waited a moment, rang again, and then opened the door with a latchkey.