[XXV]
Herman Medfield, wrapped in a dark-blue quilted gown, was sitting in the sunny window that looked down into the back yards.... He remembered the day—only three weeks ago, was it—that he had watched the servant-girl hanging sheets on the line. He remembered how strong her arms were as she swung the sheets on the line.... He looked down into the yard. She was there now—singing just as she had then; the window was open and her voice came drifting in with the scent of the flowers that grew down by the fence.
He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. He was tired; more tired than he had thought he should be. Sitting in bed, he had felt strong—almost well. And he had demanded his clothes.
"We'll let you wear a dressing-gown the first day or two," Aunt Jane had said with a twinkle. "You've got a real pretty silk one, I see."
So she had brought out the quilted gown and laid it on the bed; and he had dressed slowly and come out here to the sunny sitting-room, where the big chair was drawn up in the window.
He had looked down into the yard, with a feeling of strangeness and newness, and had wondered a little whether it was the change in the foliage that made the yard look different, or whether the change was in Herman Medfield's eyes.
Then he had closed his eyes and leaned back.... Perhaps he had slept a little—with the fresh air coming in and the girl's voice singing and the sound of doves cooing from a roof near by—for when he opened his eyes again, Julian was sitting at the desk, writing.
He looked up and encountered his father's gaze and came over to the window.
"How are you feeling, Dad?"