tears, and turn it into a pulp I'll have to eat with a spoon. You don't
know what it is to want something sweet so bad you are willing to steal
it--from yourself!" I fairly blazed my eyes down into his, and moved as
far away from him as the table would let me.

"Don't I, Molly?" he asked softly, after looking straight in my eyes for
a long minute, that made me drop my head until the blue bow I had tied
on the end of my long plait almost got into the scattered jam. Even at
such a moment as that I felt how glad Madame Rene would have been to
have given such a nice man as the doctor a treat like that blue silk
_chef-d'oeuvre_ of hers. I was glad myself.

"Don't I, Flower?" he asked again in a still softer voice. Again I had
that sensation of being against something warm and great and good, and
I don't know how I controlled it enough not to--to--

"Well, have some jam then," I managed to say with a little laugh, as I
turned away and picked up the silver spoon.

"Thank you, I will, all of it, and the bread and butter, too," he
answered, in that detestable friendly tone of voice, as he drew himself
up and sat in the window. "Hurry, Flower, if you are going to feed me,
for I'm ravenous. I've been attending Sam Benson's wife, and I haven't
had any supper. You have; so I don't mind taking it all away from you."

"Supper," I sniffed, as I spread the jam on those lovely, lovely slices
of bread and thick butter that I had fixed for my own self. "I am so
tired of that apple-toast combination now that I forget it if I can." As
I handed him the first slice of drippy lusciousness, I turned my head
away. He thought it was from the expression of that jam, but it was from