“I reckon that’ll be a pretty steady job,” Cynthia declared, “if I’m to do it ‘till he’s free.’  He won’t be free, Mrs.—­Burns, till the next time you get him out of town.”

She led the way into the dining-room.

“Mrs. Macauley wanted to have you come to dinner there, to-night, and Mrs. Chester wanted you, too.  But Mr. Macauley said this was the place for you to have your first dinner in—­your own home, and he made the women folks give in.  So the table’s all set, and I can hurry up dinner so’s to have it as soon as the Doctor gets those folks fixed up—­if there ain’t a lot more by that time.  Since Miss Mathewson went I’ve been answering the telephone, and it seems ’sif the town wouldn’t let him have his honeymoon out, they’re so crazy to get him back.  Now—­will you set down and let me give you a bit o’ lunch?  It’s only five o’clock, and I’ve planned dinner for half-past six.”

“It would be a pity to spoil this glorious appetite, Cynthia, though I’m sorely tempted.  I think I’ll use the time getting freshened up from my long drive—­we’ve come a hundred and sixty miles to-day, through the mud.  Then I’ll find Bob and be ready to have dinner with the Doctor.”

“I’ll have to take you round by the porch to get to the Doctor’s room—­you wouldn’t want to go through the office, with such a raft of folks.”

Ellen’s bag in hand, Cynthia led the way.  In at the long window she hurried her, out of the rain which was dashing against it.

“I expect you’ll think it smells sort o’ doctorish,” she said, apologetically.  “Opening out of the office, so, it’s kind o’ hard to keep it from getting that queer smell, ’specially when he’s always running in to do things to his hands.  But, land! his windows are always open, night and day, so it might be worse.”

“I think it’s beautifully fresh and pleasant here.  Oh, what a bunch of daffodils on the dressing-table!  Did you put them there?”

“I did—­but ’twas Mrs. Macauley sent ’em over.  You’ll find clean towels in the bathroom.  Oh, and—­Mrs. Burns,”—­Cynthia hesitated,—­“the Doctor forgot to say anything about it, but I’ve fixed up this little room off his for Bobby.  He used to have the little boy sleep right next him, in a crib, but I knew—­of course,”—­her face crimsoned,—­“you wouldn’t want—­” She paused helplessly.

But Ellen helped her with quick assent.  “I’m so glad the little room is so near.  Bob won’t be lonely, and I shall love to have him there.  I can hardly wait to see him.”

Cynthia went away, rejoicing that her arrangements were approved.  She was devotedly fond of little Bob, Burns’s six-year-old protege, by him rescued, a year before, from an impending orphan asylum, and now the happy ward of a guardianship as kind as an adoption.  She had been somewhat anxious over the child’s future status with her employer’s wife, but was now quite satisfied that he was not to be kept at arm’s length.