"And now?"

"Almost well."

After he had adjudged them well, he ouched and informed her that
there was still some hurt in the right eye.

In the course of treating it, she cried out as in pain. Billy was
all alarm.

"What is it? What hurt you?"

"My eyes. They're hurting like sixty."

And Billy became physician for a while and she the patient. When
the cure was accomplished, she led him into the parlor, where, by
the open window, they succeeded in occupying the same Morris
chair. It was the most expensive comfort in the house. It had
cost seven dollars and a half, and, though it was grander than
anything she had dreamed of possessing, the extravagance of it
had worried her in a half-guilty way all day.

The salt chill of the air that is the blessing of all the bay
cities after the sun goes down crept in about them. They heard
the switch engines puffing in the railroad yards, and the
rumbling thunder of the Seventh Street local slowing down in its
run from the Mole to stop at West Oakland station. From the
street came the noise of children playing in the summer night,
and from the steps of the house next door the low voices of
gossiping housewives.