It was into the hands of the "Little Corporal" that Rose had fallen, and all Isabel's enthusiasm was roused in her behalf. Her own little sister was a sweet, placid little thing, who had inherited the body, and spirit as well, of her mother, while Isabel had inherited the mind of her father in the body of her mother.
Something of this Thatcher had told Rose, part of it Isabel had told, and it made only one definite impression on Rose—this, that a woman could succeed if she set her teeth hard and did not waste time.
She found Isabel already surrounded by company. She made every other Sunday evening an informal "at home," and certain well-known artists and professional people dropped in to talk awhile, or to sit at her generous table. It was a good place to be and Rose had perception enough to feel that.
"O, you dear child! I'm glad to see you. There's some one here you'll be glad to see."
Rose flushed a little, thinking of Mason.
"It's an old friend—Dr. Thatcher."
Rose clapped her hands: "O, is he? I'm so glad; it's almost like seeing the folks."
"I've asked Elbert Harvey and Mr. Mason also; I didn't want you to think I had no friends but doctors. It must seem to you as if the world is made up of doctors. But it isn't."
Thatcher greeted Rose quietly but with a pressure of the hand which made up for his impassivity of countenance. He trembled a little as he sat down and watched her greeting Sanborn and Mason.
Fear and admiration were both present in her heart as Mason took her hand.