"I'm old enough to be your mother," she said ruefully.
"Nonsense!"
"Well, I _feel_ old enough! I feel like a mother to everybody, I guess!"
She bent to him.... "And I'm sorry!" she said swiftly. She kissed him on
the cheek--a full, loving, motherly kiss--and drew back from the
detaining hand.
"Now you are going to bed," she said practically. "Here's Henry!" She
crossed to the man and gave directions for Herman Medfield's comfort;
she looked regretfully at the figure sitting in the big chair before the
fire as she gave them. She crossed to it again.
"Good-by," she said.
He took the cool, firm fingers in his, and held them close and lifted
them to his lips.
"Good-by," he said.
Aunt Jane went quietly from the room.
Henry, with discreet face, was removing the tea-things. He lifted the
tray and then set it down and went to the window, pushing back the heavy
curtains. "The storm is over, sir," he said.
The fresh, full light flooded in. Henry put out the candles one by one
and took up his tray. "Mr. Julian sent word as he'll be home to dinner,
sir--with a young lady--" He paused. "Shall I lay the table for her?"
"Yes--she will stay to dinner. She will be here often now," said Herman
Medfield.
"Very good, sir. Thank you, sir." Henry took up his tray and went out.
Herman Medfield sat alone by his fire, with the memory of a white-capped
face across the hearth and a little thought stirring in him of children
playing in the great room, among his art treasures--with the light
coming in softly, as it was coming now, across the little potted plants
in the windows.