Rex had been watching his master with ears
cocked, and was now on his haunches, cuddling
close, his nose resting on the doctor's knee. Doctor
John laid his hand on the dog's head and smoothing
the long, silky ears, said with a sigh of relief, as he
settled himself in his chair:

"Little Tod must be better, Rex, and we are going
to have a quiet night."

The anxiety over his patients relieved, his thoughts
reverted to Jane and their talk. He remembered the
tone of her voice and the quick way in which she
had warded off his tribute to her goodness; he recalled
her anxiety over Lucy; he looked again into the deep,
trusting eyes that gazed into his as she appealed to
him for assistance; he caught once more the poise
of the head as she listened to his account of little
Tod Fogarty's illness and heard her quick offer to
help, and felt for the second time her instant tenderness
and sympathy, never withheld from the sick
and suffering, and always so generous and spontaneous.

A certain feeling of thankfulness welled up in
his heart. Perhaps she had at last begun to depend
upon him--a dependence which, with a woman such
as Jane, must, he felt sure, eventually end in love.

With these thoughts filling his mind, he settled