"Be-yewtiful--. I'll take it, please."

It was while Miss Emily was winding the toy that Dr. McKenzie noticed
her bands. They were young hands, quick and delightful hands. They
hovered over the toy, caressingly, beat time to the music, rested for a
moment on the shoulders of the little boy as he stood finally with
upturned face and tied-up parcel.

"I'm coming adain," he told her.

"Again--."

"Ag-yain--," patiently.

"I hope you will." Miss Emily held out her hand. She did not kiss
him. He was a boy, and she knew better.

When he had gone, importantly, Emily saw the Doctor's eyes upon her.
"I hated to sell it," she said, with a sigh; "goodness knows when I
shall get another. But I can't resist the children--"

He laughed. "You are a miser, Emily."

He had known her for many years. She was his wife's distant cousin,
and had been her dearest friend. She had taught in a private school
before she opened her shop, and Jean had been one of her pupils. Since
Mrs. McKenzie's death it had been Emily who had mothered Jean.

The Doctor had always liked her, but without enthusiasm. His
admiration of women depended largely on their looks. His wife had