"Yes," answered Ellen, her face in shadow.
"Well, you needn't do anything more downstairs."
Ellen closed the door of her own room and stood against it.
"How dreadful!" she said to herself. "It is she who is shameless."
When she had had her supper she walked a little distance along the river-bank to a favorite bench. She looked back at the gray house and saw the moon shining on its irregular roof. There were trees between it and her and it seemed to stand isolated, a grim and solemn habitation.
So Mrs. Lanfair was like that! How troubled Dr. Lanfair must be! Resentment had now faded wholly, she was filled with pity. Then suddenly in her dark eyes appeared the emotion expressed by Fetzer's single eye, by Miss Knowlton's pale blue orbs and by Miss MacVane's dim vision, the tenderness with which most women regard a man who for some reason is reduced from the superior position which should be his. She longed, as they did, with her whole heart, to be of some supreme service to him. Her wish was soon to be granted.
When she went into the office the next afternoon to put drops into Miss MacVane's eyes, she looked at her with curiosity. She had not the remotest claim to beauty; she was short of speech and sometimes irritable, and her thick glasses, without which she could see nothing, disfigured her. It was not possible that Mrs. Lanfair feared good Miss MacVane!
Miss MacVane removed her green shade and her thick glasses, and Ellen lifted the little rack and took from the bottle the attached medicine-dropper. A penetrating odor frightened her.
"I'm ready," said Miss MacVane patiently. "I'm better, thank God!" The expletive was heartfelt—she did thank God.