With a sigh and a smile, the Doctor went slowly up the hill to the Master’s house, where Fräulein Fredrika was waiting anxiously. “Mine brudder!” she cried; “is he ill?”
“No, no, Fräulein,” answered the Doctor, reassuringly, his heart made tender by her distress. “Shall not Franz sit in my office to await the infrequent patient while I take his place with his sister? You are glad to see me, are you not, Fräulein?”
The tint of faded roses came into the Fräulein’s face. “Mine brudder’s friend,” she said simply, “is always most welcome.”
She excused herself after a few minutes and began to bustle about in the kitchen. Surely, thought the Doctor, it was pleasant to have a woman in one’s house, to bring orderly comfort into one’s daily living. The kettle sang cheerily and the Fräulein hummed a little song under her breath. In the twilight, the gay colours faded into a subdued harmony.
“It is all very pleasant,” said the Doctor to himself, resolutely putting aside a memory of something quite different. Perhaps, as his simple friends said, the dear God knew.
After tea, the Fräulein drew her chair to the window and looked out, seemingly unconscious of his presence. “A rare woman,” he told himself. “One who has the gift of silence.”
In the dusk, her face was almost beautiful—all the hard lines softened and made tenderly wistful. The Doctor sighed and she turned uneasily.
“Mine brudder,” she said, anxiously, “if something was wrong with him, you would tell me, yes?”