Dr. Thorne. Much better. You’re a thoughtful little fellow.
The Child. Our breakfasts grow all cooked here. This is a nice country.
Dr. Thorne (still gazing steadfastly at The Child). Where is your mother, my lad?
The Child. I don’t know. I lost her on the way, somewhere.
Dr. Thorne. And your father? What has become of your father?
The Child. Oh, he’s dead. He got dead before I came here.
Mrs. Fayth (moves within Dr. Thorne’s range of vision; speaks quietly). Good-morning, Doctor. (Smiles brightly.)
Dr. Thorne (springs to his feet; cries out). Mary Fayth! I thought you had forgotten me! I have—needed you.
(The Child rises; leans up against Dr. Thorne’s knee confidingly.)
Mrs. Fayth. I have often needed you, Doctor. And you never failed me once.