She did not move.
“Goot-pye, kleine mädchen!” He trembled· “Goot-pye, leedle brincess.”
As he backed toward the door there was something in his voice that made Gretzel peek out over the bedclothes. The detail that riveted her attention was his wasted form. He looked to her as though he had been sick. It recalled to her all the misery of her own long sickness—all the ache of those long nights now gone forever. She saw pain written in his eyes, and she who knew so well the horror of pain suddenly forgot in her wider sympathy all her personal fears of the man. Her little mother’s heart grew big with pity. With her own ache gone and the ache in him so manifest, she felt the stronger of the two. There was no longer any reason why she should be afraid of him. It was he who looked afraid.
She sat up in bed and studied him a moment as he cowed away from her. Then she reached for her egg.
“Santy,” she said, “come here.”
Like a blind man, he obeyed.
“Now,” she said firmly, “you mus’ eat an egg. So you will be gross an’ rosy.”
Schriftman does not operate any more; he is too busy obeying his daughter’s orders for one thing. But he does lecture, and last year he concluded his speech to the senior medical class with these words: “It costs much to love, ach, yet, but—not too much.”