Molly, coming in hurriedly from her labors at the French War Relief rooms where she had been engaged in making surgical dressings until her back ached so that she had more sympathy for the poor wounded than ever, if possible, found young Dr. McLean cooling his heels and drying his coat by her library fire.
“Andy! I am so glad to see you!” she cried, grasping both of his hands. “When did you come? Did you know Nance Oldham is with me?”
“Yes, I have seen her,” grimly.
“Oh, then you know of her trouble?”
“Trouble! I shouldn’t call it that. She evidently does not consider it in that light.”
“Andy McLean, how can you say such a thing?”
“Well, I formed my opinions from the evidence of my own eyes. In fact, she told me with her own lips that she was contented; if not in so many words, at least she gave me that impression.”
“Resigned, of course! That is Nance’s way, but she is very sad and lonesome for all that.”
“Lonesome! Ye Gods, how many does she want?”
“Excuse me, Andy, but you are talking like a goose,” declared Molly, irritated in spite of herself.