His face was very grave. But something in behind his eyes laughed.
He held out the cap with a low bow.
She took it and put it on her head, with dignity, and looked for her spectacles.
"They're on the table," said Dr. Carmon.
He handed them to her and she put them on and gazed at him in serene competence. "I'll send Miss Simpson up to you—I suppose you'll want her," she said.
"Yes—please," said Dr. Carmon, polite and grave.
Aunt Jane hesitated a second. Then her hand motioned to the beds. "The Lord never see fit to let me have any of my own—not to grow up.... I've always thought he was making it up to me this way," she said, and there was something almost like an appeal in the quiet words.
The doctor looked at her, and then at the children's faces. "I should say he's making it up to them," he said gruffly.
He watched the serene figure as it passed through the swinging doors.... His face, as he went among the children and questioned them and listened absently to their replies, was full of gentleness and kindness, and a little, shy, flitting happiness that beamed on them.