When the wheel-tray appeared in the door of the Children's Ward and Aunt Jane—with her arms overflowing—close behind it, there was silence for a breath, and then a cry——

"Look there!"

"My goodness!"

"See the flowers!"

They leaned forward with eager hands, or raised themselves on a hand or elbow, as she went down between the beds, pushing the wheel-tray before her.

She smiled and nodded and came to a full stop by the big table in the centre of the ward. She laid her armful of flowers carefully on the table and turned to the tray.

The room was in a joyful bubble. "Where did they come from? Look at the roses. My!"

They reached out hands to her—"Where'd they come from, Aunt Jane?"... "Who sent them to us?"... "My! Look at the vi'lets!"

She smiled and heaped the blossoms on the table and disclosed the three boxes beneath. There was a hush of expectancy. There were always flowers in the ward—a bunch or two here and there—but not such a feast as these!

They waited, impatient.

Aunt Jane took her time. She polished her glasses and returned them to her nose and adjusted them carefully. Then she took up one of the boxes and read the florist's name printed on the top—"J.L. Parker & Co. He always sends nice flowers," she said heartily.

"Did he send them to us?"

"Well, they came from his greenhouse. He raised them—planted them and took care of them, and so on." Her fingers were busy with the tape, untying it. "But another man sent them—a man by the name of—Herman."

"Mr. Herman sent them!" They waited.

She lifted the cover and held out the box and a little cry went up from the ward, half repressed and full of awed delight.... It was a happy thing to see a great trayful of blossoms come rolling in; and it was a still more beautiful thing to have the cover lifted from the box, and all that color and fragrance leap out!

They watched with eager eyes.

Aunt Jane lifted a card from the top of the flowers and looked at it and tucked it away in the pocket of her big apron. The card had a narrow black edge.

"What did it say, Aunt Jane? What was on it?"

Aunt Jane looked at them over her glasses. "Just the name," she said. "The name of the one that sent them. People always send names with flowers, don't they?" She lifted a handful of the blossoms and shook them loose till they filled and overflowed the box. "They send names—so you'll know who it was sent them."

"Mr. Herman sent these, didn't he?"

"Yes, Mr. Herman sent them and you're going to each have one for your own. I'm going to let you choose."

There was laughing and chatter and a happy stir as Aunt Jane carried the boxes from bed to bed.

She watched the hands reach to the choosing—and hesitate—and the eyes fill with light—and little smiles come as they sank back contented.... She had a sudden glimpse of Herman Medfield in his blue-and-gold Chinese coat, waving them away.

"Seems a pity he can't see them," she thought, watching the faces. "They're all different—just as different as the flowers be!"

For some of them held the flowers in both hands; and some of them laid them on the pillows and some were smelling them and some were only looking; and one blossom was caught into the iron framework of a bed where the sun fell on it and the child was looking at it with wonder-filled eyes.... It was her own—her flower—that some one had sent—a crimson rose with soft dark color clear to the heart of it where the sun went in. It nodded down to her.

Aunt Jane, looking at her, thought of the people who had sent the flowers to Herman Medfield.

"I guess they didn't any of them think anything quite as nice as this would come of their flowers!" she said to the nurse who had brought the vases and jars for the flowers and was standing beside her at the table.

The nurse glanced down the ward. "They like them, don't they? But it seems a pity, almost, not to have them in water. They fade so soon!"

"Well, I don't know"—Aunt Jane surveyed the room slowly—"I guess they're doing about as much good now as they ever will. There's something about a flower—about holding it right in your hand—that does something to you. It isn't the same thing as having it in water."

"I don't see why not." The nurse glanced again, a little puzzled, down the room.

"Well, I don't know why not," said Aunt Jane. "Seems as if it would be the same.... But it isn't! When it's in water somehow you know it's safe—your rose.... You know it's going to keep—just as long as it can; and you look at it—kind of on the outside. But when you have it in your hand—it's all there! Maybe you know it can't last very long and you just take it in all over——"

The nurse laughed out.

"Yes, I know that sounds foolish," Aunt Jane nodded. "But we don't any of us know just what happens to us." She was looking down the ward as if she saw something beyond the beds and the sun shining in on them.

The nurse gathered up the bits of leaves and the stems and litter from the floor and table and threw them on the wheel-tray and pushed it from the room.

The children's eyes watched it go and returned to their blossoms.

Jimmie Sullivan had clumped over to Aunt Jane, carrying his carnation. His new leg worked better to-day. He reached up an arm and Aunt Jane bent her ear.

She listened and shook her head. "No, I can't tell stories to-day. I'm going to hold Susie a little while, and then I've got my work to do. I can't be bothering with you children all the time!"

She went over to the bed where the crimson rose was and held out her arms. The child climbed into them and laughed. She was a gay little thing—not four years old. To-morrow she would be sitting up and the next day she would go home.

Aunt Jane knew the home.... The father and mother drunk, perhaps. The child had been broken, between them, and had come to the House of Mercy for repairs.... She held her in her arms and rocked a little—and thought.... Something must be done to protect the child.... Dr. Carmon must do something. He always did things—if he had to. Aunt Jane rocked back and forth, thinking. She must take him when he was in good humor—to-morrow morning perhaps.

The child raised her hand to Aunt Jane's face. "You don't smile!" she said imperiously.

Aunt Jane looked down at her severely.

The child laughed out, and nestled close and presently they were playing a game. It was not a new game in the ward; other children played it sometimes. But you were only allowed to play it if you had been very ill and were getting well; or perhaps if you were going home—day after to-morrow, and father and mother might be drunk and might break tables and chairs—and perhaps a child's arm if it got in the way of their playfulness.... The game was to catch Aunt Jane off guard and take off her spectacles and cap—and see how she looked.

The child reached up a quick hand and laughed.... Aunt Jane dodged and shook her head, and escaped the hand. And then—perhaps because Susie was going home day after to-morrow—she had caught off the spectacles and Aunt Jane's cap lay on the floor and the hair was escaping from its pins and coming down all about her face and shoulders—and the child was lying back against her arm, looking at her and laughing happily.

The door from the corridor swung silently, and Dr. Carmon stood looking into the room.

The children in the beds turned merry eyes to him.

But his hand made a gesture and they held their breath, laughing as he came down between the beds and stood looking sternly at the figure in the big chair.

Aunt Jane was groping at the tumbled hair and she was laughing gently, watching the child's face.

Then she looked up——

"Mercy sakes!" Her hand reached for her cap.

But Dr. Carmon had bent to the floor and picked up the cap. He was holding it and looking at her. "How old are you, Aunt Jane?" he said sternly.

Aunt Jane, out of the maze of her hair, looked up. "I am forty-five years old," she said. "Give me my cap!"

"Say, 'please,'" said Dr. Carmon gravely, holding it at arm's length.

From the beds, the children looked on with shining eyes.

Aunt Jane looked at the cap—and at the child in her arms—and felt the eyes encircling her—and smiled a little.

"Please," she said meekly, and her hand reached up.

But Dr. Carmon held it still at arm's length. "Say, 'please, Frederic,'" he insisted.... Not even the nearest bed could have guessed the words that went with the laughing gesture of the hand holding the cap.

But Aunt Jane's face flushed swiftly.

She gathered the child in her arms and carried her to her bed and put her down gently. Then her hands caught up the tumbled hair and fastened it in place and smoothed it down, and she came placidly back to Dr. Carmon.

His face was very grave. But something in behind his eyes laughed.

He held out the cap with a low bow.

She took it and put it on her head, with dignity, and looked for her spectacles.

"They're on the table," said Dr. Carmon.

He handed them to her and she put them on and gazed at him in serene competence. "I'll send Miss Simpson up to you—I suppose you'll want her," she said.

"Yes—please," said Dr. Carmon, polite and grave.

Aunt Jane hesitated a second. Then her hand motioned to the beds. "The Lord never see fit to let me have any of my own—not to grow up.... I've always thought he was making it up to me this way," she said, and there was something almost like an appeal in the quiet words.

The doctor looked at her, and then at the children's faces. "I should say he's making it up to them," he said gruffly.

He watched the serene figure as it passed through the swinging doors.... His face, as he went among the children and questioned them and listened absently to their replies, was full of gentleness and kindness, and a little, shy, flitting happiness that beamed on them.