“All right.  Supper’s ready now.  You can come eat.”

She went to the door to call the children in front the porch and the lawn; and Mr. Getz again bent over the child.

“Can you eat along, Tillie?”

Tillie weakly shook her head.

“Don’t you feel fur your wittles?”

“No—­sir.”

“Well, well.  I’ll send fur the Doc, then, and he can mebbe give you some pills, or what, to make you feel some better; ain’t?” he said, again passing his rough hand over her forehead and cheek, with a touch as nearly like a caress as anything Tillie had ever known from him.  The tears welled up in her eyes and slowly rolled over her white face, as she felt this unwonted expression of affection.

Her father turned away quickly and went to the table, about which the children were gathering.

“Where’s Sammy?” he asked his wife.  “I’m sendin’ him fur the Doc after supper.”

“Where?  I guess over,” she motioned with her head as she lifted the youngest, a one-year-old boy, into his high chair.  “Over” was the family designation for the pump, at which every child of a suitable age was required to wash his face and hands before coming to the table.

While waiting for the arrival of the doctor, after supper, Getz ineffectually tried to force Tillie to eat something.  In his genuine anxiety about her and his eagerness for “the Doc’s” arrival, he quite forgot about the fee which would have to be paid for the visit.

IV

“The Doc” Combines business and PLEASUBE

Miss Margaret boarded at the “hotel” of New Canaan.  As the only other regular boarder was the middle-aged, rugged, unkempt little man known as “the Doc,” and as the transient guests were very few and far between, Miss Margaret shared the life of the hotel-keeper’s family on an intimate and familiar footing.

The invincible custom of New Canaan of using a bedroom only at night made her unheard-of inclination to sit in her room during the day or before bedtime the subject of so much comment and wonder that, feeling it best to yield to the prejudice, she usually read, sewed, or wrote letters in the kitchen, or, when a fire was lighted, in the combination dining-room and sitting-room.

It was the evening of the day of Tillie’s confession about “Ivanhoe,” and Miss Margaret, after the early supper-hour of the country hotel, had gone to the sitting-room, removed the chenille cover from the centre-table, uncorked the bottle of fluid sold at the village store as ink, but looking more like raspberryade, and settled herself to write, to one deeply interested in everything which interested her, an account of her day and its episode with the little daughter of Jacob Getz.

This room in which she sat, like all other rooms of the district, was too primly neat to be cozy or comfortable.  It contained a bright new rag carpet, a luridly painted wooden settee, a sewing-machine, and several uninviting wooden chairs.  Margaret often yearned to pull the pieces of furniture out from their stiff, sentinel-like stations against the wall and give to the room that divine touch of homeyness which it lacked.  But she did not dare venture upon such a liberty.