Priscilla watched Margaret Moffatt's face. She was almost awed by the change that had come over it. The aloofness and pride which often marked it had disappeared as if by magic; the tenderness, passionate in its intentness, cast upon the little child, moved her to wonder and admiration. Later they went to the poor hovel and bent beside the humble bed on which the mother and child lay. Then it was that Priscilla played her part and made comfortable and grateful the overburdened creature, worn and weak from suffering.
"'Twas the good God who sent you," murmured she.
"'Twas your little maid," smiled Margaret, tucking a roll of bills under the hard, lumpy pillow. "Take time to love the babies—leave other things—but love them and enjoy them."
"Yes, my lady."
On the way back in the boat Margaret was very silent for a time as she watched Priscilla row; finally she said:
"Did it surprise you—my show of feeling for the—the child?"
"It was very beautiful. I did not know you cared so much for children, and this one was so—dirty."
"But so real! You see I have never had real children in my life. The kinds passed out to nice girls like me were sad travesties. Since I saw the darling of to-day I've been wondering—do not laugh, Priscilla—but I've been wondering what poor, cheated little morsel of humanity, in the unreal world, would find herself in that eleventh miracle of the wretched hovel? And what an art yours is, dear Priscilla! How you soothed away the suffering by your touch. I loved you better as I realized how that training of yours knows neither high nor low when it seeks to heal."
Priscilla thought of the operation on Margaret Moffatt's father, and her quick colour rose.
"And I loved you better when I saw how your humanity knows neither high nor low—just love!"