The old lady dropped her hand. It was trembling.

"Oh, dear," she was saying. "This makes two. This morning it was a
man and now it is a woman, that makes two."

It seemed to the man as he looked down in her eyes that he was
looking into great fear; she was so slight and frail and helpless
and so old; such a fragile thing to bear burden and trouble. Her
voice was cracked and just above a shrill whisper, almost uncanny.
She kept repeating:

"Now there are two. Now there are two. That makes two. This
morning there was one. Now there are two."

Jerome could not understand. He pitied the old lady.

"Did you say that Dr. Holcomb is here?"

Again she looked up: the same blank expression, she was evidently
trying to gather her wits.

"Two. A woman. Dr. Holcomb. Oh, yes, Dr. Holcomb. Won't you come
in?"

She opened the door.

Jerome entered and took off his hat. Judicially he repeated the
doctor's name to keep it in her mind. She closed the door
carefully and touched his arm. It seemed to him that she was