Before she reached it the gate clicked and Dr. King came up the
path. She saw him and looked hurriedly about, as if seeking a way of
escape, but it was too late.
"Gardening?" he called to her.
"Yes," she said, and her smile like reluctant sunshine did not betray
to the doctor that he was not welcome.
"Don't work too hard," he cautioned her. It seemed to William King,
looking at her with wondering admiration, that she was too delicate a
creature to handle a trowel. There was a certain soft indolence in the
way she moved that was a delight to his eye. It occurred to him that
he would ask his Martha why she didn't wear gardening-gloves. Mrs.
Richie wore them, and as she pulled one off he saw how soft and white
her hand was....
"How's the patient?" he asked.
"Poor Maggie? Oh, she's pretty uncomfortable I'm afraid."
They had gone together to the front porch, and as she stood on the
lower step looking up at him, the sunshine suddenly filled her eyes
with limpid brown light. "Maggie is in her room in the ell--the first
door on the left. Shall I show you the way?"
"I know the way," he said.
Mrs. Richie sat down on the porch step to wait for him. She had
nothing else to do. She never had anything to do. She had tried to be
interested in the garden, and bought a trowel and some seeds and
wandered out into the borders; but a manufactured interest has no
staying quality--especially if it involves any hard work.
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