In Room 5 Mrs. John Pelton lay staring at the wall, with quiet face. From a clock-tower came the sound of the striking of the hour. She counted the strokes—nine o'clock. She wished it were ten and Dr. Carmon had come.... After he came and things began—the operation was only "things," even in the background of her mind—after Dr. Carmon got there and things began, it would not be so hard, she thought. It was the waiting part that was hard.

She had had a restless night. There had seemed so many hours; and she had thought of things that she ought to have done before she left home.... She had forgotten to tell any one about Tommie's milk. He always got upset so easy! She wondered if Mrs. Colby would know. It had been good in Mrs. Colby to say she would come in and look after the children a little. But Mamie was really old enough to cook for them.... And she did hope John would be all right—and not worry about her.... He would be at work at ten—when "things" were going on. That was good!... Mrs. John Pelton knew that it was work that would carry John over the hard place—work that would take every nerve and thought for itself. John was a puddler and they were to "run" at ten o'clock—or about ten. He would have his hands full—enough to think about and not worry—till things were over.... He would come, after work hours, to see how she had got through.

Then she had fallen asleep and dreamed she was slipping down a steep place—down, down, and couldn't stop—and some one had caught her arm.... And it was the nurse, waking her gently for something. And then she had dozed a little and wakened and wondered about the children again....

And no one had brought her any breakfast—not even a cup of coffee. "Nothing to eat this morning," the nurse had said, smiling, when she had plucked up courage to ask for something. The nurse was a nice girl—a good girl, Mrs. Pelton thought—but hardly older than Mamie, it seemed.

That older woman was so good yesterday! Aunt Jane's look and cap came floating hazily to her; and she slipped a hand under her cheek and fell asleep, thinking of it.

The thin face on the pillow, with the hair drawn tightly back and braided in its two small braids, had somehow a heroic look. There were lines of suffering on the forehead, but the mouth had a touch of something like courage, even in its sleep—as if it would smile, when the next hard thing was over.

Aunt Jane, who had come in silently and stood looking down at it, called it "the woman look."

"They always have it," she sometimes said—"the real ones have it—kind of as if they knew things would come better—if just they could hold on—not give up, or make a fuss or anything—just hold on!"

The woman opened her eyes and smiled faintly. "I didn't know as you came to see us—in the rooms," she said.

Aunt Jane nodded. "Yes, I'm 'most everywhere."

She seated herself comfortably and looked about the room. "You've got a good day for your operation," she said. "It's a good, sunny day."

The woman's startled eyes sought her face. She had been living so alone in the hours of the night, that it seemed strange to her that any one should speak out loud of—"the operation."

Her lips half opened, to speak, and closed again.

Aunt Jane's glance rested on them and she smiled. "Dreading it?" she asked.

The lips moistened themselves and smiled back. "A little," said the woman.

Aunt Jane's face grew kinder and rounder and beamed on her; and the woman's eyes rested on it.

"You never had one, did you?" said Aunt Jane.

The woman shook her head.

"I thought likely not. Folks don't generally dread things that they've had—not so much as they do those they don't know anything about.... You won't dread it next time!" She said the words with a slow, encouraging smile.

The woman's face lighted. "I hope there won't be any next time," she replied softly.

"More than likely not. Dr. Carmon does his work pretty thorough." Aunt Jane made a little gesture of approval. "He does the best he knows how.... You won't mind it a bit, I guess—not half so much as you mind thinking about minding it."

"Do they carry me out?" asked the woman quickly. All the troubled lines of her face relaxed as she asked the question.

It was the look Aunt Jane had been waiting for. The blessedness of talking out was a therapeutic discovery all Aunt Jane's own.

Long before scientists had written of the value of spoken expression as a curative method—long before "mental therapy" was fashionable—Aunt Jane had come to know that "a good talk does folks a lot of good."

"Let them kind of spit it out," she said, "get it off the end of their tongues 'most any way.... It seems to do them a world of good—and it don't ever hurt me— Seems to kind of slide off me."

She watched the light break in on the tense look, with a little smile, and bent toward the bed.

"No, you don't have to be carried—not unless you want to. I guess you're pretty good and strong; and you've got good courage. I can see that."

"I'd rather walk," said the woman quickly.

"Yes, I know." Aunt Jane nodded. "I'll go with you—when the time comes. We just go down the hall here a little way—to the elevator. The operating-room's on the top floor— It's a nice, sunny, big room. And you'll have the ether in the room next to it. There's a lounge there for you to lie on and a nice comfortable chair for me."

"Shall you go with me?" It was a quick word.

"Yes, I'm going up with you. I go, a good many times, with folks that want me——"

"Yes, I want you."

The small face had grown relaxed; the eyes were clear and waiting. The unbleached nightgown, with the bit of coarse edging at neck and wrists, seemed a comely garment.

Something had taken place in Room 5, for which scientists have not yet found a name. At ten o'clock Dr. Carmon would perform his difficult operation on the frail body of Mrs. John Pelton. But the spirit that would go under the knife was the spirit of Aunt Jane, smiling and saying placidly:

"There, he's just come. That's his car tooting out here. Now we're ready to go."