A flush overspread her face. That any one should need her! And most of all such a big strong man as Uncle Tom. The idea was unbelievable. Hitherto life had been a matter of what others should do for her. She had been a child with no obligations save to do as she was told. Her two uncles whom she loved so much had discussed her fate and decided between them what her course should be. Now, all at once, there was no pilot at the wheel. The directing of the ship fell to her guidance. In the space of those few moments, as if by a miracle, Jean Cabot ceased to be a child and became a woman.
"Mr. Curtis is very fond of you, isn't he?" asked the physician. "He will miss you if you are not here, I am afraid. Who else is there in the house to be a companion for him?"
"No one but Fräulein, and of course she is getting older and is not very strong."
"Unfortunate!" repeated the doctor.
"It is not at all necessary for me to go to-morrow," Jean said quickly. "I can postpone it and stay here just as well as not, and I think it would be much better if I did." She spoke with deepening conviction. "I'll telegraph my uncle in Boston and explain to him that I cannot leave just now."
What a deal of dignity stole into that single word "cannot."
At last there was a duty to fulfil toward some one else—some one who really needed her. Jean repeated the amazing fact over and over to herself. She had a place to fill. She and Uncle Tom had reversed their obligations; he was now the weak one, she the strong.
With a happy heart the girl went back up-stairs.
Uncle Tom was lying very still in bed, his face turned away from the door; but he heard her light step and put out his hand.
"My little girl," he whispered.