Things were moving happily in Suite A. Herman Medfield had been awake and stirring since daybreak. He had written one or two notes in his own hand, and had dictated a longer one to Miss Canfield. It was addressed to Thomas Dalton, and it lay on the stand beside his chair in the window.

The girl had grasped its import swiftly, as she took down the crisp words.

"It is just what Julian needs," she said compactly as she folded and sealed and stamped it.

He nodded. "You understand him surprisingly well—considering that you love him," he added smiling.

She returned the smile. "That's why I understand, isn't it?"

"Perhaps——"

He watched her move about the room, contentedly. Julian was a lucky dog! Luckier than he knew, to win a girl like that—sweet and sensible and poor!

"I will mail this now," she said. She took it from the stand.

He watched her go, and looked out of the window, and fell to thinking of the things life was bringing him.... Everything seemed coming to him out of this great, comfortable hospital—that he had looked forward to with dread!... A wife for Julian—He might have searched the world over to find a girl like that! Straight, and as true as steel, and best of all—she was poor; she would know the value of money. She had had to work for it— He had always spoiled Julian. He knew it, guiltily. Julian had never known what it was to want for anything that money could get—except, perhaps, a widow or two! The millionaire's lips smiled grimly. That danger was over—thank Heaven! The boy would marry a poor girl—and a lady!... Herman Medfield had perhaps old-fashioned ideas as to what makes a lady; and the nurse who moved so noiselessly about his room suited him to perfection.... His thought dwelt on her happily.... Then there was this man, Dalton—Thanks to Aunt Jane!... Ah, that was the secret! "Thanks to Aunt Jane!"

The millionaire leaned back in his chair, smiling thoughtfully. He had known that he was coming to that—as he sat there in the window, looking idly down into the little squares of back yards—he had known all along—under his thankfulness for Julian—that he was coming to the thought of Aunt Jane.... He had held it to the last.... It was not Julian he was thinking of now—with the little smile that kept coming to his lips.

He was smiling at Aunt Jane and her crispness and her goodness and her little managing wilful ways that kept him straight.... He was like a small boy in the very thought of her. A man ought to feel that way toward his wife, he told himself—all men really feel like that!

There was a gentle tap on the door and he sat up. He smoothed the dreams from his face.

"Come in!"

The whole room seemed to become a place of comfort, as she came leisurely across to him.

"I hear you've been doing considerable this morning." She looked at him uncritically.

His response was guilty. "Only a letter or two— Sit down, won't you?" He reached out to a chair for her.

But Aunt Jane interposed—"When you're well enough to wait on folks, you're well enough to go home," she said.

"Oh— I'm not well enough for that—I feel sure!" He sank back in his chair. "I shall be very careful what I do!"

She surveyed him. "I liked the roses you sent— They're real handsome!... I don't know as I ever had any handsomer roses sent to me!"

"I am glad you liked them." He was suddenly a little formal and polite. He had not expected quite such frank and open delight in his offering.

"And the card—" he said softly, after a minute. "I hoped you liked that, too?" He was almost shy about it!

Aunt Jane looked at him inquiringly and rocked a little. "Was there a card—?" She seemed considering it. "Maybe it got lost out." She shook her head.

The shadow crossed his face. "You're sure there wasn't a card with them—no message?" His tone was vexed and he sat up.

"That's Munson's carelessness!" he said dryly.

"I can't seem to remember any card," said Aunt Jane.

A little smile broke up his face.

"You would remember it—if you had read it! I made sure of that!" He chuckled gently.... "Never mind—I will send you another—with some more roses."

"You don't need to send them right away—not for some time," said Aunt Jane hastily. "These will last quite a spell. I cut the stems every day, you know—same as if I was a patient!" Her eyes twinkled at him.

And he smiled at the round trustfulness of her face. He was vexed at Munson for carelessness. But there was plenty of time—to send roses! And he enjoyed sitting there and teasing her a little and watching the guileless face, turned so comfortably upon him.... She little knew what was on that card!

He chuckled.

"You'll be ready to go home in a day or two now," she said impersonally.

He cast a quick look at the face in its cap. "No use to borrow trouble!" he responded lightly.... "I have some news for you!"

"For me!" A quick flush swept under the cap and subsided. "I hope it's good news," she said tranquilly.

"Yes—It's good for you.... You'll think it's good some day! My son is going to be married." He leaned back to watch the effect.

She nodded. "We talked about that yesterday."

"But it hadn't happened then!"

"Hadn't it?" There was no contradiction in the response. But it brought him to a sudden pause.

"Why—of course not! I don't believe it had! Do you know anything?" He turned on her swiftly.

"No, I don't know anything." Aunt Jane was cheerful. "Not anything I could put my finger on," she added slowly. "But I kind of sensed, somehow, that they'd got things settled—between 'em."

"Oh, you 'sensed'!" he scoffed gently.

"Well—she'll make him a good wife," Aunt Jane rocked. "Of course, he don't need a rich wife——"

"No, I don't want him to marry money!" Medfield spoke with satisfaction. His magnanimity overspread the poverty of his son's wife—and welcomed it and exulted in it.

Aunt Jane's face was tranquil—and somewhere deep below, little twinkles came up to the surface and stirred it.

"Well, he doesn't need to marry her money—" she said slowly. "He can't help her having it, of course. But she'll make him just as good a wife."

He stared. "I must have given you a wrong impression." He was polite about it. "Julian is going to marry Miss Canfield."

"Mary Canfield has money—more money than most folks. She's going to make a good nurse, though. She came in and took the training as if she hadn't a cent to her name—She said she wanted to be something besides Sheldon Canfield's——"

"Sheldon Canfield!" He took it up. "Was Sheldon Canfield her father?"

"His name was Sheldon," said Aunt Jane. "Maybe you've heard of him?"

Herman Medfield laughed shortly. "He did me out of a million dollars! Sheldon Canfield!" He looked at the thought and shook it. "I fought him for ten years. I swore I would break him before I died— But he died first! Sheldon Canfield's daughter!" He held it before him. "So Sheldon Canfield's daughter has been taking care of me!"

"She's taken good care of you!" said Aunt Jane. It was almost defensive; and he gave her a quick look.

"The best of care!" he said emphatically. "Couldn't have been better—unless you had done it yourself," he ended gallantly.

Aunt Jane's look cleared, and then became a little confused—under something that danced in the eyes bent upon her.

"I must go do my work," she said.

"And leave me to my Juliet?"

"Julian, I suppose you mean," Aunt Jane corrected him kindly.

"He's Romeo—of the house of Montague!" he said dreamily.

She stared a little. He waved a hand.

"Go away, Aunt Jane, and do your work. You have disturbed me—even more than usual. I want to collect my thoughts!"

She went out almost soberly, turning it in her mind, on the way to her office. She had upset him and she was a little remorseful! She ought not to have let him run on like that! There was no telling that he would not have a setback.... And they needed Suite A for Dr. Carmon's new patient Friday.... He had said Herman Medfield was well enough to go home—that he would be better off at home.

She entered the office—and stopped.

On a chair across the room, was a long, light box.

Aunt Jane almost fancied she had been dreaming, and had never opened that box.... She contemplated it and went over to it slowly—and looked at her desk, where the great flaming roses gave out their fragrance.... She went back to the box and took it up slowly, and undid the tape.

It was filled to the brim with roses—great pink-and-white heads glowed through the transparent waxed paper at her—and on top of the paper lay a card—with the name uppermost——

"Dr. Frederic H. Carmon."

Aunt Jane stared at it.

She reached out a hand to it—as if fascinated and almost afraid—and took it up and turned it over slowly.... There was no writing! She laid it back with a little quick sigh of relief—and stared down at it.... Presently a shrewd look of amusement overspread the stupefaction in her face and she nodded to the little card and took it up and carried it to her desk and unlocked a drawer—moving the great flaming roses to reach it. She dropped the card beside the other one that lay there—and the amusement in her face grew to soft chuckles that filled all the spaces in her roundness.

When she had arranged the pink-and-white roses and carried them to her desk and placed them opposite the flaming ones, she stood back and surveyed them—and shook her head—and smiled radiantly to them.

A man, who had come quietly down the hall, stood in the open door of the office. He watched her a minute.

He cleared his throat circumspectly.

She turned swiftly—and saw him—and moved a reproachful hand to the flowers.

"You never ought to have done it!"

He smiled on the roses complacently and removed his gloves.

"Like 'em?" he asked.

She shook her head. "I haven't any call to like them—or not to like them!" It was severe disapproval. "You ought to be ashamed of yourself!"

"I'm not!" He looked at them with satisfaction. He was whistling softly. "I didn't know you wanted flowers—or I'd have sent them before."

He had turned—his glance was on her face.

Something in the glance sent Aunt Jane hastily across the room. She straightened the furniture a little and came back to the desk and looked at the bunches of roses on either side, regarding them impartially.

"I hadn't ought to want flowers—goodness knows!" she said slowly. "I see enough of 'em, around every day, to make any one sick of them for life." She paused and studied the pink-and-white blossoms.

"Somehow, it's different—when they're your own! I guess maybe I did need to have them sent to me—so I'd know how folks feel inside—when I open their boxes for them and they look in and see the flowers and see somebody's card on top—somebody that's thought about them—somebody that loves 'em!" she ended it triumphantly and happily and smiled—sharing it with him.

Dr. Carmon looked at the two great bunches of flowers—and grunted—and went out.