"But where have you been?" cried the boy.
"At home. I reserved my suite!" she answered.
"But home's all torn up, and pounding and sick people, and you hate pounding and sick people," he reminded her.
"There wasn't so very much noise, Malcolm," she said, "and I've changed about sickness. You have to suffer yourself to do that. Once you learn how dreadful pain is, you feel only pity for those who endure it. Every night when the nurses are resting, I change so no one knows me, and slip into the rooms of the suffering little children who can't sleep, and try to comfort them."
"Mother, who takes care of you?" he questioned.
"A very sensible girl named Susan," she answered.
The boy went a step closer.
"Mother, have you changed about anything besides sickness?" he asked eagerly.
"Yes Malcolm," said his mother. "I've changed about every single thing in all this world that I ever said, or did, or loved, when you knew me."
"You have?" he cried in amazement. "Would you wear that dress and come to the woods with us now, and do some of the things we like?"