“Do you really think I’m going to get well, Mary Ann?” she asked, and the wistfulness of old desire revived was in the feeble voice.
“Of course you’re going to get well, dearie. Why shouldn’t you?”
“It seemed kind of settled I wasn’t—and it’s so upsetting to stay when you’re expected to go. I didn’t care much.”
She put up her hand weakly and stroked the velvet.
“But now—if you think so—perhaps——”
At his next visit Dr. Corbett said, “Your mother’s caught her grip again, Miss Mary Ann,” and Dr. Black added heartily, “And if you’ll only tell us how you did it, Miss Mary Ann, you’ll be putting dollars in our pockets.”
But the cunning of love, with all its turnings and twistings, is only half-conscious—the rest is instinct.
“I don’t know that there’s anything to tell, doctor,” Mary Ann said slowly, wiping away a tear. “Only you might just keep a watch out and see that none of your patients are being hurried out of the world by the preparations for their own mourning. That’s what was happening to Ma.”