They went, together, with Lily, into the inner room. And as the Young Doctor closed the door, Rose-Marie knew a very real throb of triumph. For he had admitted that her help was to be desired--that she could really do something!

But, the moment that the door closed, she forgot her feeling of victory, for, of a sudden, she saw Dr. Blanchard in a new light. She saw him lay the little figure upon the bed--she saw him pull off his coat. And then, while she held the basin of water, she saw him get to work. And as she watched him her last feeling of doubt was swept away.

"He may say that he's not interested in people," she told herself joyously, "but he is. He may think that he doesn't care for religion--but he does. There's love of people in every move of his hands! There's something religious in the very way his fingers touch Lily!"

Yes, she was seeing the Young Doctor in a new light. As she watched him she knew that he had quite forgotten her presence--had quite forgotten the little quarrels that had all but ruined their chance at friendship.

She knew that his mind was only on the child who lay so still under his hands--she knew that all the intensity of his nature was concentrated upon Lily. As she watched him, deftly obeying His simple directions, she gloried in his skill--in his surety.

And then, at last, Lily opened her eyes. She might have been waking from a deep slumber as she opened them--she might have been dreaming a pleasant dream as she smiled faintly. Rose-Marie had a sudden feeling--a feeling that she had experienced before--that the child was seeing visions, with her great sightless eyes, that other, normal folk could not see. All at once a great dread clutched at her soul.

"She's not dying--?" she whispered, gaspingly. "Her smile is so very--wonderful. She's not dying?"

The Young Doctor turned swiftly from the bed. All at once he looked like a knight to Rose-Marie--an armourless, modern knight who fought an endless fight against the dragons of disease and pain.

"Bless your heart, no!" he answered. "She isn't dying! We'll bring her around in a few minutes. And now"--a great tenderness shone out of his eyes, "tell me all about it. You were very sketchy," his gesture indicated the other room, "out there! How did the child really get hurt--and how did you come to be here? How--Why, Rose-Marie....

_Sweetheart_!"

For Rose-Marie had fainted very quietly--and for the first time in all of her strong young life.

XIX

AND THE HAPPY ENDING

They were sitting together at the luncheon table--the Superintendent, Rose-Marie, and the Young Doctor. The noontime sunshine slanted across the table--dancing on the silver, touching softly Rose-Marie's curls, finding an answering sparkle in the Young Doctor's smile. And silence--the warm silence of happiness--lay over them all.

It was the Young Doctor who spoke first.

"Just about a month ago, it was," he said reflectively, "that I saw Lily for the first time. And now"--he paused teasingly--"and now--"

Rose-Marie laid down the bit of roll that she was b.u.t.tering. Her face was glowing with eagerness.

"They've come to some decision," she whispered, in a question that was little more than a breath of sound, "the doctors at the hospital have come to some decision?"

The Superintendent was leaning forward and her kind soul shone out of her tired eyes. "Tell us at once, Billy Blanchard!" she ordered, "_At once_!"

Quite after the maddening fashion of men the Young Doctor did not answer--not until he had consumed, and appreciatively, the bit of roll that he had been b.u.t.tering. And then--"The other doctors agree with my diagnosis," he told them simply. "It's an extraordinary case, they say; but a not incurable one. The shock--when Jim kicked her--was a blessing in disguise. Not, of course, that I'd prescribe kicks for crippled children! But"--the term that he used was long and technical--"but such things have happened. Not often, of course. The doctors agree with me that, if her voice comes back--as I believe it will--there may be a very real hope for her hearing. And her eyes "--his voice was suddenly tender--"well--thousands of slum kiddies are blind--and thousands of them have been cured. If Lily is, some day, a normal child--if she can some day speak and see, and hear, it will be--"

The Superintendent's voice was soft--

"It is already a miracle!" she said simply. "It is already a miracle.

Look at Jim--working for a small salary, _and liking it_! Look at Bennie--he was the head of his cla.s.s in school, this month, he told me.

And Ella--"

The Young Doctor interrupted.

"Ella and her mother went to church with us last Sunday," he said.

"Rose-Marie and I were starting out, together, and they asked if they might go along. I tell you"--his eyes were looking deep, _deep_, into the eyes of Rose-Marie and he spoke directly to her, "I tell you, dear--I've learned a great many lessons in the last few weeks. Jim isn't the only one--or Bennie. Lily isn't the only nearly incurable case that has found new strength...."

Rose-Marie was blushing. The Superintendent, watching the waves of colour sweep over her face, spoke suddenly--reminiscently.

"Child," she said--and laughter, tremulous laughter, was in her voice, "your face is ever so _pink_! I believe," she was quoting, "'that you have a best beau'!"

The Young Doctor was laughing, too. Strangely enough his laughter had just the suggestion of a tremor in it.

"I'll say that she has!" he replied, and his words, though slangy, were very tender. "I'll say that she has!" And then--"Are _we_ going back to the little town, Rose-Marie," he questioned. "Are _we_ going back to the little town to be married?"

The blush had died from Rose-Marie's face, leaving it just faintly flushed. The eyes that she raised to the Young Doctor's eyes were like warm stars.

"No," she told him, "we're not! I've thought it all out. We're going to be married here--here in the Settlement House. I'll write for my aunts to come on--and for my old pastor! I couldn't be married without my aunts.... And my pastor; he christened me, and he welcomed me into the church, and"--all at once she started up from the table, "I'm going up-stairs to write, now," she managed. "I want to tell them that we're going to start our home here"--her voice broke, "here, on our own Island...." Like a flash she was out of the door.

The Young Doctor was on his feet. Luncheon was quite forgotten.

"I think," he said softly, and his face was like a light, "I think that I'll go with her--and help her with the letter!" The door closed, sharply, upon his hurrying back.

The Superintendent, left alone at the table, rang for the maid. Her voice was carefully calm as she ordered the evening meal. But her eyes were just a bit misty as she looked into the maid's dull face.

"Mrs. Volsky," she said suddenly, "love must have its way! And love is--"

The maid looked at her blankly. Obviously she did not understand. But, seeing her neat ap.r.o.n, her clean hands, her carefully combed hair, one could forgive her vague expression.

"What say?" she questioned.

The Superintendent laughed wearily, "Anyway," she remarked, "Ella likes her work, doesn't she? And Jim? And Bennie is going to be a great man, some day--isn't he? And Lily may be made well--quite well! You should be a glad woman, Mrs. Volsky!"

Pride flamed up, suddenly, in the maid's face--blotting out the dullness.

"G.o.d," she said simply and--marvel of marvels--her usually toneless voice was athrob with love--"G.o.d is good!" She went out, with a tray full of dishes.

Her chin in the palm of her hand, the Superintendent stared off into s.p.a.ce. If she was thinking of a little blond child--lying in a hospital bed--if she was thinking of a man with sleek hair, trying to make a new start--if she was thinking of a girl with dark, flashing eyes, and a small, grubby-fingered boy, her expression did not mirror her thought.

Only once she spoke, as she was folding her napkin. And then--

"They're both very young," she murmured, a shade wistfully. Perhaps she was remembering the springtime of her own youth.