In the linen-room at the end of the corridor Miss Canfield was busy with supplies for Suite A. She stood on a chair in front of a great cupboard; and her shoulders were lost in the depths of the cupboard.... A sound behind her caused her to withdraw her head.

Julian Medfield, standing in the door, looked at her.

"What is the matter?" she said quickly. She got down from the chair.

"I thought I should find you," replied the youth.

"Did you want me?"

"Yes."

"What has happened?"

He watched her smilingly. "I didn't say anything had happened.... I said I wanted you."

The color mounted swiftly and she turned to the pile of linen on the table and gathered it up. "I am rather busy this morning," she said quietly. "I thought you meant your father needed something."

"No—he doesn't need anything, I guess. They told me in the office, that you wanted me—they said you had left word for me. They made a mistake, perhaps." He spoke half teasingly and she lifted her chin.

"That was your father," she replied. "He didn't want to miss you." She sorted out the sheets impersonally. She had not looked at him after the first flurried minute.

"Do you want me to go away?" he said quietly.

She looked up, startled. "Why?"

"I didn't know."

Her fingers returned to their work. "I think your father is awake," she said in a businesslike tone. "I will go and see." She placed the linen in the cupboard and closed the door and locked it.

His hand made a little gesture. "Would you please——"

She waited.

"I can't say anything if you look like that!" he said whimsically.

She moved from him to the window. "There isn't any need to—say anything!"

The reddish hair was lighted up against the window as he had seen it before, and he watched it.

"That's the way I feel!" he said softly.

"How do you feel?" She wheeled about and looked at him.

"As if there wasn't any need to say things. As if——"

She had turned back to the window. He went toward her.

"You've known all along!" he said.

He addressed the little locks gathered up under her cap.

He was quite near to her now.

"You knew—the first day I came—when I saw you—in father's room," he declared to the little locks of hair. "Didn't you?"

There was no reply.

"And every time I've seen you since!" he said exultingly. "And now that I've got you alone for a minute—you pretend——"

"I'm not pretending!" The shoulders shrugged a little.

"And turn your back on me," he added quietly.

"It's very thoughtless!" she said, speaking to the window. "You make it awkward for me.... I hoped you would have sense enough—not to say anything!"

"I haven't any sense," said the young man. "And you have so much.... That's why I like you. I fell in love with your sense—the first day!"

She had turned and faced him now. "Of course you don't care!" she said indignantly. "It is just a joke to you—to come, interfering with my work——"

"I didn't mean to stop you!" He glanced helplessly at the linen-cupboard.

"I mean my nursing!" she said with dignity. "I can't take care of your father if you're looking at me—and saying foolish things—all the time!"

He reached out a hand. "I'm not saying foolish things," he said quietly. "And you know it——"

A little bell buzzed somewhere and she lifted her head. "He's ringing—" she said quickly. "It's his bell! I'll have to go!"

Then she waited.

And he took her hands and looked down at them, and bent and kissed them gently, and watched the little color come dancing into her face.

"Pretending you didn't care!" he said.

He crushed the two hands hard and she cried out and drew them away—and lifted them to her face and began to cry into them—little hard sobs that shook her. And he held her close and patted the troubled shoulder.

"There, there!" he said. His voice was very young and happy and surprised.

And she looked up and smiled—a queer little reddened smile—under her crooked cap.

The bell tinkled—and rang a long shrill burr.

"I shall have to go! I know I look like a fright!" She reached to the cap.

"You look dear!" said the young man exultantly.

But she was gone and he was speaking only to the white wainscoted panels of the linen-room and to the sunlight flooding in.