"Ah!—This is comfortable!"

He had taken his tea from her and was sipping it slowly. He looked about the great room, lighted with high candles in the massive silver sticks, and at the soft folds of curtains that shut out the storm.

"You don't know what a lonely place it is!— With no one here!" He shivered, and then looked contentedly at Aunt Jane drinking her tea.

"Places generally are lonely," she responded. "It takes folks—not to be lonely.... Most of us need folks, I guess."

"I need them!" said Medfield emphatically. "And I didn't know it—how lonely I was.... I knew I was beastly unhappy!" He leaned forward and seemed to be looking at his unhappiness in the fire that glowed on the hearth and danced in the flames and flew away up the chimney.

"That's over!" he said. He leaned back happily in his chair, watching the flames.

"Yes. You're going to have a family now——"

He turned on her with a little amused stare.

She nodded. "You'll have Julian here, and Mary Canfield——"

"Oh—Romeo and Juliet!" The tone dismissed the youthful lovers, and laughed at her.

Aunt Jane received it. "They're only two—I know—and two isn't a family—exactly—but there'll be little ones—you see! They'll be all over the place, I expect."

Her eyes seemed to be watching the children playing in the great room. "They'll look nice, won't they!"

He shook his head. "I wasn't thinking of Julian and Mary—nor of children— Never mind!" He put it aside. "I'll tell you sometime."

Aunt Jane had taken up the check from beside her plate, and was folding it in slow fingers.

"You don't know what that is going to do," she said slowly. "But I can see it—plain as if I was right there now—the folks that will get well with this, and be like folks again!... It's hard to be poor!" She opened the bag that hung at her side, and put in the check, and closed it softly.

He sat up and leaned an elbow on the table, resting his head on it and looking across to her under the shading hand. "There's one thing I wanted to ask you."

"Yes?" Aunt Jane's response was veiled. But the good-will in her face shone through. "I'll tell you anything I can. There's a good many things I don't know." Her cap was whimsical.

"You know this!" He laughed. "It's about your old hospital!" He motioned toward the little bag with its check.

"Oh—I know the hospital— It's 'most all I do know!"

"You feel as if you owned it, don't you!" His tone teased her gently. Then he left it—and leaned forward——

"What I was thinking was this: Isn't there something that you would like for the hospital—not just contagion—not a whole wingful!" He twinkled at it. "But something you have seen that is needed. Isn't there something?" He folded his arms on the table, and looked across the teacups at the thoughtful little lines that came and went in her face.

"Is there?" he said.

The lines took it in—and held it wistfully. "You don't mean tea-strainers and such things—you mean something worth while?"

He nodded. "Something worth while, yes. I mean anything.... Think of it—not for yourself, perhaps—" His face grew intent. "Think of it as if some other woman were there."

Aunt Jane sat up. "I can't hardly think of any other woman running my hospital!" she said dryly.

He waved it off. "But if there were?"

She accepted it. "Well—if there was—there's one thing she could make a good deal of use of—if she had it. I've thought about it——"

"Yes— That's what I want!"

"It's expensive," said Aunt Jane.

"We can talk about that later."

She sighed. "It seems kind of ridiculous!... I don't suppose you'll understand, maybe?" She looked up at him.

"I'll try—I don't think there are many things you could say that I should not understand," he said softly.

Aunt Jane's glance hastily sought the teacups. "It's a kind of little home for me." She looked at him as if begging him not to make fun of her.

"You don't mean you want to leave your hospital!" It was half amused and wholly alert, and the question darted at her.

She caught it with a quick shake of the muslin cap. "I don't ever want to live anywhere except in the House of Mercy," she said.

"Oh!" The crestfallen word slipped across to her, and Aunt Jane's face relaxed.

"It's kind of a wing I was thinking of——"

"But I gave you your wing!"

"This is a little one—a kind of place of my own—where I could have them—when they were dismissed, you know—well enough to go home but not quite ready—in their minds, maybe.... I don't know as you ever thought—that it takes courage to start?" She regarded him mildly.

"I can imagine it—yes." His tone was dry.

She nodded. "I'd like to have a little home—not belonging to the hospital, but just to me, close by—where I could take 'em in, for a visit-like, till their courage had time to grow."

"I see—a cucumber frame for courage."

She looked up to see if he were making fun. But he was gazing thoughtfully into a teacup.

"Poor folks have to get their courage somehow—and it's hard work—wastes a good deal," she said practically.... "And then sometimes, there's rich folks that don't want to go—when the time comes—" Her eyes twinkled with it. "I'd like to ask them to visit me sometimes."

He was silent, looking into his teacup.

"Have you finished?" he asked. "Is that all?" The little irony of the words danced across to her kindly.

She sighed, and leaned back in her chair. "You made me tell you! I've never told anybody, before. I know it sounds foolish—having a home of my own!"

He got up from his chair, and went toward a big desk. Then he paused and came back and stood by her chair, with one hand on it, looking down at her.

"I never think anything you do is foolish! You know that!"

Aunt Jane jumped a little. "Well—I think I'm foolish—a good many times!"

He smiled and went over to the desk and drew out his check-book. "How much will it cost, do you suppose?" He looked over his shoulder to her.

"I could get along with a little one," she said meekly.

He smiled again, and filled in the check. "Make it ten thousand for a start." He blotted it carefully. "If it isn't enough, there's more where it came from." He patted the check-book with just a little happy touch of pride, and came across and laid the blue slip in her lap.

"It is for another woman, you know," said Medfield.

He moved across and stood by the fireplace, looking at her with frankly happy eyes.

"What do you mean—by that?" said Aunt Jane. Her fingers seemed a little afraid of the blue slip in her lap.

"Just that!" His face was quiet with the happiness shining in it—ready to break through at a word. "Just that. If some other woman comes to the House of Mercy, she is to have it—otherwise I take it back."

Aunt Jane's fingers abandoned the check. It slipped to the floor.

He came over and picked it up and placed it on the table beside her, and bent a little to her. "I want to give you a larger home, Jane. I want to give you all I have.... Won't you come and live with me?"

"Oh—dear!" said Aunt Jane.

"That's what I meant." He was smiling, but the shadow crossed his face.

"I can't!" said Aunt Jane. She pushed the check from her, and opened the little bag, searching—with half-blinded fingers for the other.

"I can't take 'em!" she said.... "And we do need the wing for contagion—" Her fingers had found the slip and she took it out longingly, and laid it beside the other on the table and glanced up at him with a little, tremulous shake. "I can't take it—if you were offering it to me just because you thought you were—in love with me!"

She looked at it regretfully. "I did hope it wasn't that!" she said softly.

"But it is!" The tone was grave, with a little line of hope running through. "Take it, Jane!" he said gently. "I am not asking anything. It's yours, you know!"

She shook her head. "It seems as if it wouldn't be quite—fair— And we do need the new wing for contagion—the worst way!"

He took up the two checks and folded them in his thin, quiet fingers and lifted the little bag.

"You will take them," he said. He slipped them into the bag and closed it. "Money is only good for what it will buy— Mine does not seem able to buy anything better worth while at present.... Besides"—he dropped the little bag and crossed the hearth—"I shall not spoil your life—or mine! You're going to ask me to visit you, you know, in your little home!"

He was smiling at her.

"You're tired!" she said with quick remorse.

But he lifted a hand. "I'm all right. I'm not going to play on your sympathies that way!" He sat down. "I'm all right!"

"You're going to bed!" said Aunt Jane. She got up and rang the bell.

Then she came and stood by his chair and looked at him and hesitated....

And he smiled at her. "It's all right, Jane."

"I'm old enough to be your mother," she said ruefully.

"Nonsense!"

"Well, I feel old enough! I feel like a mother to everybody, I guess!" She bent to him.... "And I'm sorry!" she said swiftly. She kissed him on the cheek—a full, loving, motherly kiss—and drew back from the detaining hand.

"Now you are going to bed," she said practically. "Here's Henry!" She crossed to the man and gave directions for Herman Medfield's comfort; she looked regretfully at the figure sitting in the big chair before the fire as she gave them. She crossed to it again.

"Good-by," she said.

He took the cool, firm fingers in his, and held them close and lifted them to his lips.

"Good-by," he said.

Aunt Jane went quietly from the room.

Henry, with discreet face, was removing the tea-things. He lifted the tray and then set it down and went to the window, pushing back the heavy curtains. "The storm is over, sir," he said.

The fresh, full light flooded in. Henry put out the candles one by one and took up his tray. "Mr. Julian sent word as he'll be home to dinner, sir—with a young lady—" He paused. "Shall I lay the table for her?"

"Yes—she will stay to dinner. She will be here often now," said Herman Medfield.

"Very good, sir. Thank you, sir." Henry took up his tray and went out.

Herman Medfield sat alone by his fire, with the memory of a white-capped face across the hearth and a little thought stirring in him of children playing in the great room, among his art treasures—with the light coming in softly, as it was coming now, across the little potted plants in the windows.