So we shook hands again and I left her, thinking what a splendid thing it must be for a fellow to have such a tower of gentle strength to lean upon.
I went over to the Jelliffes' and cut down the plaster dressing. The broken leg is doing very well, as was to be expected, and I was much pleased.
"That's doing splendidly," I told him. "A little more patience for a couple of weeks and we'll have you walking up and down the village, a living advertisement of my accomplishments."
"A couple of weeks!" exclaimed Mr. Jelliffe. "That sounds like three or four. I know you fellows. No one ever managed to get anything definite out of a doctor, with the possible exception of his bill."
I laughed, but refused to commit myself by making any hard and fast promises, and Miss Jelliffe came in.
"Daddy enjoyed himself ever so much last evening," she said. "He likes Mr. Barnett and grows enthusiastic when he speaks of Mrs. Barnett. I must say that I share his views."
"They are made of the salt of the earth," I asserted.
"Yes, there can be no doubt of that," she said. "But doesn't it seem dreadful that a gently nurtured woman should be placed in such surroundings, with no means of obtaining anything but the barest needs of existence? She has to stand all the worries of her own household and, in addition, is compelled to listen to the woes of all the others."
"And any help that she can extend to them," I added, "saving that of sympathy and kind words, is always at the cost of depriving herself and her little ones. And yet she is doing it unceasingly, and goes about in shocking clothes and with a smile on her face, cheerfully, as if her path in life lay over a bed of roses."
"That's what I call a fine woman, and a good one," said Mr. Jelliffe, "but I'm sure it is her devotion to that little man that has brought out all her fine points. His people are her people and she has adopted his ideals."