"Let him," called Rosemary recklessly, shutting the door of her room with a bang.
She was deep in the pattern directions for the tenth time, when someone rapped on her door.
"I'm not hungry—don't bother me," she called, frowning.
The door knob turned and Doctor Hugh smiled in at her.
"Heard you were having trouble with the dressmaking," he announced. "Can't I help? I'm not Winnie or Aunt Trudy, you know. I'd like to have a finger in this, if I could."
Rosemary drew a long breath.
"You do understand, don't you?" she said, standing on the foot that had not gone to sleep and trying to rouse the circulation in the other one. "We didn't want anyone to touch our present for Mother, except us; but you're us, too, aren't you?"
"Surest thing," agreed the doctor, approaching the terrible pattern with grave interest. "What's the matter with this—aren't you sure how it should be cut?"
Rosemary shook her head hopelessly.
"I'm afraid to cut it before I know and I've tried it every way I can think of," she confessed.