Aunt Jane was tired. She would not acknowledge it—even to herself. But it had been a trying day. The people in the laundry had been surprisingly difficult—when she went to give them their talking to, and she finally had to put her foot down.

She went slowly along the hall now, giving a last look for the night and glancing into shaded rooms, here and there.... At the door of 16 she paused.... The case in 16 troubled her. Dr. Carmon was anxious about the case. He did not need to tell her. She had known by the little hunched-over look of his broad shoulders down the hall.... She knew that look as far as she could see it.... And he had already been twice to look after Room 16.

She went in and gave a few directions to the nurse and glanced at the figure on the bed, and went on to her office.

The room looked very inviting as she came in. Her big chair stood waiting for her, the light comfortably shaded beside it, and she crossed to it leisurely. She would rest a few minutes, and make her entries in the day-book and go to bed.

She sat down with a sigh of comfort and rocked gently.

The house was very quiet. The softly creaking rockers seemed the only thing awake....

Aunt Jane's eye fell on a long pasteboard box resting on a chair across the room. She looked at it doubtingly. She was too tired to get up. But the sight of the long box irritated her subtly. She had thought flowers were over—for the day. Sometimes Aunt Jane wished that she might never see another flower-box! She wished so now.... Just as she wanted to rest! Well, she would get up presently and take it to the ice-box. Let it stay there till morning. It was no time of night to be sending flowers.... Everybody in bed and asleep! She looked at it severely and got up from her chair and took it up.

Her eye fell on the address— She looked at it disbelievingly—and put it back on the chair—and looked at it.... She fidgeted about the room and came back to the chair.

Aunt Jane had never received a box of flowers in her life. She had handled hundreds of them—they had passed through her hands into the eager waiting hands held out for them. She had watched the faces light up, and she had looked on and smiled tolerantly. Folks' faces were her flowers, she had said.... She had never wanted to keep the flowers herself. Flowers were things to be passed on to some one else. No one had ever sent them to her. They knew better!

She looked down at the innocent box as if it contained something baleful—something that would disturb the quiet routine of life for her. She did not want to be disturbed—She did not want flowers! And she reached out her hand to the box.... It was very long and big. She wondered how she could have overlooked it when she came in.... If she had not been so tired she would have seen it—perhaps. Who could have sent it, she wondered; and a little, mild curiosity came under the white cap as her fingers undid the tape, and rolled it methodically, and lifted the lid of the box and raised the bit of waxed paper underneath— Aunt Jane gave a pleased sigh.

Herman Medfield's best roses—three dozen of them—shed their fragrance about her; and the little card lying on top of them held their message. She took it up gingerly and read it and put it down sharply—as if it had burned her—and looked at it.

Then she gathered up the roses in her hands and held them against her face—until her very cap was lost to sight.... It was a subdued face that emerged from the roses at last. Something of their hardy color seemed to have been caught in its disturbed quiet.

She laid them on the table and brought a great vase of water and shook them loose in it—standing off to look at them and touching them here and there.... The subdued look glanced softly at the roses as she lifted the vase and set it on her desk—and stood back again to admire them.

They made a gorgeous show—lighting up the wall behind them. The room was filled with rose fragrance.

She moved slowly backward, gazing at them—a troubled, happy look in her face.... Then her eye fell on the little card lying on the table.

She looked down at it, fascinated, and took it firmly in her fingers and carried it to the desk and slipped it beneath the vase—with Herman G. Medfield's name exposed.... There was no reason why Mr. Medfield should not send flowers to her!

She surveyed them complacently. It was very natural for Mr. Medfield to send flowers—and the little card announced to all the world—how natural it was.... The words jotted on the other side of the card were safely out of sight.

Aunt Jane sat down at her desk and folded her hands on the edge of the blotter and looked at the flowers. Her peaceful face gave no hint of anything but the most serene admiration and pride.

Her hand reached out for the big day-book and drew it forward and opened it and took up the pen; and Aunt Jane's finger found the place and moved along the dotted lines composedly.... And two great tears fell on the spotless page and blurred it and Aunt Jane sat up and sought swiftly for her handkerchief. She dabbed at two more tears that were sweeping down—she moved the handkerchief quickly across her face and wiped it over the page, and once more across her face—that kept breaking up in little incredulous, ashamed waves. She shut up the day-book impatiently and folded her arms on top of it and dropped her face on her arms and sobbed—a great, shamed, bewildered sob that shook the quiet shoulders; then they were very still.

Presently she sat up. She shook out her handkerchief and blew her nose methodically and opened the book. "I am a fool!" she said softly. "Room 36—" And two left-over tears splashed down on Room 36 and flooded it— Tears enough to wash Room 36 out of existence. They overwhelmed Aunt Jane.

She got up abruptly and closed the book and turned down the light—groping for it and glancing hastily at the open door. The light shone dimly on a very disturbed and crumpled face.

She looked about her for a minute. Then she went to a small door and drew a key from beneath her apron and inserted it in the lock.

No one in the hospital knew what was behind the small door. It was popularly supposed to hold Aunt Jane's private supplies—dangerous remedies for emergencies, perhaps. No one knew.

She opened the door slowly and stepped in, closing it gently behind her; the key still dangled from the lock. There was no light in the little room—except for the moonlight shining through a small window and lighting up the bareness of the place; it shone on a single chair by the window. There was nothing else in the room. Aunt Jane went across to it and sat down.... She was not crying now. She folded her hands in her lap and sat very quiet, and the moonlight filtered in through the window and touched the muslin cap and the white figure, and passed silently across it and fell on the floor, making a luminous path in the blackness.... And Aunt Jane did not stir.

Often when she was sought for in the hospital and could not be found, high or low, Aunt Jane was sitting by the window of this tiny room, gathering up the tangled fibres of pain and discord and holding them steady.... She knew all the stars that moved across the window—at every hour of the night, and every night of the year. It was not a new experience for her to sit very quiet, while the stars travelled across.... But to-night she was not reaching out to stars and drawing them down into the pain of the world to heal it.

She was looking into a very queer, disturbed heart—that seemed breaking up in little bits. Curious things bubbled up and startled her as she gazed at them.... No one had loved her for twenty years!— Why should any one love—an old woman like her?... Why should she want to be loved? Her thought was full of gentle scorn for all old women that wanted to be loved—and for Aunt Jane!... She would have to get a new day-book, or tear out the page! What would Mrs. Samuel Hotchkiss, chairman of the Woman's Board of Directors, say to that page if she happened to come on it!... It was a disgraceful page! Aunt Jane was a disgrace! And something in her heart ached so with the happiness and the misery of it, that Aunt Jane's lips fell to quivering.... Any woman that had as much as she had to be thankful for, ought to be ashamed!... And what was Herman Medfield? Just a man! But it wasn't Herman Medfield—it was all the repressed heartache of years.... "Women are not fit to live alone!" She had said it many times. But she had not thought of Aunt Jane when she said it. She was superior to such things—with her hospital and her patients and Dr. Carmon— Her thought stopped suddenly—and flashed on.... She had always thought she depended on the Lord—and here was this great lonely ache in her heart.

It didn't seem to make any difference how ashamed she was!

Her handkerchief brushed fiercely at her eyes.

There was a sound in the outer office. Aunt Jane sat up— Some one looking for her! The hand felt again for its handkerchief and she turned her head to listen.... The steps crossed the office and a bright line of light ran along under the door. Aunt Jane's eye rested on it. She brushed the traces of crying from her face and reached up to her cap. Then she leaned forward to the door—she could reach it from her chair in the little room without getting up; and she turned the handle softly, opening it a crack.

There was no sound in the office.

From her crack, Aunt Jane could see the table and the shaded light on it and a man standing by the table looking down.