"No."
He waited a minute.
"You can say a man sent them."
"Yes, I can say that--" Aunt Jane's face cleared. "I see how 'tis-- You
don't want them to know about you--who you are."
"No." He was looking almost embarrassed.
She considered it a minute. "What is your first name?" she asked.
He cleared his throat like a boy. "Herman," he said meekly. "Herman G.
Medfield."
Aunt Jane smiled. "I remember about it now--'Herman,'" she said it
softly, as if it pleased her. "Herman-- That'll do! We don't need the
G.--just Herman.... I'll tell them Mr. Herman sent them." She smiled at
him cheerfully.
"Very well."
Aunt Jane went over to the window and gathered up the foxgloves--as many
as her hands could hold--and turned to the door.
"I'll come back for the rest."
But the door had opened and the white-coated boy was standing, holding
out three large boxes and grinning pleasantly.
Herman Medfield, from his pillow, groaned.
Aunt Jane glanced toward him with reassurance in her look--"I shall take
them all-- You don't need to worry. You won't be bothered. You go get
the wheel-tray, Preston, and we'll take 'em all at once."
They filled the cart--the three great boxes underneath and the loose
flowers on top covering them and trailing over the sides and ends: and
Preston wheeled it out the door.
Aunt Jane, still with her hands full of blossoms, looked back with a
smile. "Now you'll rest comfortable," she said.