It was a current belief that the Berkeley House of Mercy belonged to Aunt Jane; and I am not at all sure that Aunt Jane did not think so herself—at times.

The hospital had been endowed by a rich patient in gratitude for recovery from a painful disease. She had wished to reward the surgeon who had cured her. And when Dr. Carmon had refused to accept anything beyond the very generous fee he had charged for the operation, she had built the hospital—over which he was to have absolute control. There was a nominal board of directors, and other physicians might bring their patients there. But Dr. Carmon was to be in control.

The surgeon had not cared for a fortune. Dr. Carmon was not married; he had no wife and children to tie him down to a fortune. But a hospital equipped to his fingers' ends was a different matter and he had accepted it gratefully.

Dr. Carmon had not always found it easy to get on with the surgical staff of his old hospital; partly perhaps, as Aunt Jane always maintained, because he was "too fond of having his own way"; and partly because he was of the type that must break ground. There were things that Dr. Carmon saw and wanted to do. And there was always a flock of malcontents at hand to peck at him if he did them.

He accepted the Berkeley House of Mercy with a sense of relief and with the understanding that he was to be in absolute control. And he in turn had installed Aunt Jane as matron of the hospital—not with the understanding that she was to be in absolute control, but as being, on the whole, the most sensible woman of his acquaintance.

The result had not been altogether what Dr. Carmon had foreseen. Gradually he had awakened to the fact that the hospital and everything connected with it was under the absolute control—not of Dr. Frederic Carmon, but of Aunt Jane Holbrook. Each member of the white-capped corps of nurses looked to her for direction; and the cook and the man who ran the furnace refused to take orders from any one else. It was no unusual sight for the serene, white-framed face, with its crisp strings, to appear among the pipes and elbows of the furnace-room and leave behind it a whiff of common sense and a series of hints on the running of the hot-water boiler. Even Dr. Carmon himself never brought a patient to the House of Mercy without asking humble and solicitous permission of Aunt Jane. It was not known that she had ever refused him, pointblank. But she sometimes protested with a shrewd twinkle in her eye: "Oh, I can't have that Miss Enderby here. She's always wanting to have her own way about things!" Then Dr. Carmon would laugh and bring the patient. Perhaps he gave her a hint beforehand. Perhaps the fame of Aunt Jane's might had reached her. Perhaps it was the cool, firm fingers.... Whatever the reason, it is safe to say that Miss Enderby did not once have her own way from the day that she was carried into the wide doors of the House of Mercy, a sick and querulous woman, to the day when she left it with firm, quick step and, turning back at the door to fall with a sob on Aunt Jane's neck, was met with a gentle little push and a quick flash from the white-capped face. "There, there, Miss Enderby, you run right along. There's nothin' upsets folks like sayin' good-by. You come back some day and say it when you're feeling pretty well."

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