“Why, they are going to have the convention in California next summer,” her mother said.
“And shall you go, mother?”
“Oh, I think so! Perhaps you and Miss Frothingham will go with me.”
“To hotels?”
“I suppose so.”
Merle sighed. She did not like large strange hotels. “Mother, doesn’t it seem funny to you that a patient would have his operation on Christmas Day? Couldn’t he have it to-morrow, or wait till Wednesday?”
The doctor’s fine mouth twitched at the corners. “Poor fellow, they only get him here to-morrow, Merle, Christmas morning. And they tell me there is no time to lose.”
Tears came into the little girl’s eyes. “It doesn’t seem—much—like Christmas,” she murmured under her breath. “To have you in the surgery all morning, and me with the Winchesters, that aren’t my relations at all——”
“Tell me exactly what you had planned to do, Merle,” her mother suggested reasonably. “Perhaps we can manage it for some other day. What did you especially want to do?”
The kindly, logical tone was that of the surgeon used to matters no less vital than life and death. Merle raised her round, childish eyes to her mother’s pleasant, keen ones. Then with a great sigh she returned to the golden bowl and spoon. Nothing more was said until Lizzie came in for the orders.