"
Ellen's bag in hand, Cynthia led the way. In at the long window she
hurried her, out of the rain which was dashing against it.
"I expect you'll think it smells sort o' doctorish," she said,
apologetically. "Opening out of the office, so, it's kind o' hard to keep
it from getting that queer smell, 'specially when he's always running in
to do things to his hands. But, land! his windows are always open, night
and day, so it might be worse."
"I think it's beautifully fresh and pleasant here. Oh, what a bunch of
daffodils on the dressing-table! Did you put them there?"
"I did--but 'twas Mrs. Macauley sent 'em over. You'll find clean towels
in the bathroom. Oh, and--Mrs. Burns,"--Cynthia hesitated,--"the Doctor
forgot to say anything about it, but I've fixed up this little room off
his for Bobby. He used to have the little boy sleep right next him,
in a crib, but I knew--of course,"--her face crimsoned,--"you wouldn't
want--" She paused helplessly.
But Ellen helped her with quick assent. "I'm so glad the little room is
so near. Bob won't be lonely, and I shall love to have him there. I can
hardly wait to see him."
Cynthia went away, rejoicing that her arrangements were approved. She was
devotedly fond of little Bob, Burns's six-year-old protege, by him
rescued, a year before, from an impending orphan asylum, and now the
happy ward of a guardianship as kind as an adoption.
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