The child looked mortified.
“I wish I could reach out and touch my father's hand when I wake in the night,” said Annie.
The cloud left the boy's face. “I can't remember whether I said my prayers, mother, I've been thinking so.”
“Well, say them over again, to me.”
The men's voices sounded in the hall below, and the ladies found them there. Dr. Morrell had his hat in his hand.
“Look here, Annie,” said Putney, “I expected to walk home with you, but Doc Morrell says he's going to cut me out. It looks like a put-up job. I don't know whether you're in it or not, but there's no doubt about Morrell.”
Mrs. Putney gave a sort of gasp, and then they all shouted with laughter, and Annie and the doctor went out into the night. In the imperfect light which the electrics of the main street flung afar into the little avenue where Putney lived, and the moon sent through the sidewalk trees, they struck against each other as they walked, and the doctor said, “Hadn't you better take my arm, Miss Kilburn, till we get used to the dark?”
“Yes, I think I had, decidedly,” she answered; and she hurried to add: “Dr. Morrell, there is something I want to ask you. You're their physician, aren't you?”
“The Putneys? Yes.”
“Well, then, you can tell me—”