The thin face on the pillow, with the hair drawn tightly back and braided in its two small braids, had somehow a heroic look. There were lines of suffering on the forehead, but the mouth had a touch of something like courage, even in its sleep--as if it would smile, when the next hard thing was over. Aunt Jane, who had come in silently and stood looking down at it, called it "the woman look." "They always have it," she sometimes said--"the real ones have it--kind of as if they _knew_ things would come better--if just they could hold on--not give up, or make a fuss or anything--just hold on!" The woman opened her eyes and smiled faintly. "I didn't know as you came to see us--in the rooms," she said. Aunt Jane nodded. "Yes, I'm 'most everywhere." She seated herself comfortably and looked about the room. "You've got a good day for your operation," she said. "It's a good, sunny day." The woman's startled eyes sought her face. She had been living so alone in the hours of the night, that it seemed strange to her that any one should speak out loud of--"the operation." Her lips half opened, to speak, and closed again. Aunt Jane's glance rested on them and she smiled. "Dreading it?" she asked. The lips moistened themselves and smiled back. "A little," said the woman. Aunt Jane's face grew kinder and rounder and beamed on her; and the woman's eyes rested on it. "You never had one, did you?" said Aunt Jane. The woman shook her head. "I thought likely not. Folks don't generally dread things that they've had--not so much as they do those they don't know anything about.... You won't dread it next time!" She said the words with a slow, encouraging smile. The woman's face lighted. "I hope there won't be any next time," she replied softly. "More than likely not. Dr. Carmon does his work pretty thorough." Aunt Jane made a little gesture of approval. "He does the best he knows how.... You won't mind it a bit, I guess--not half so much as you mind thinking about minding it." "Do they carry me out?" asked the woman quickly. All the troubled lines of her face relaxed as she asked the question. It was the look Aunt Jane had been waiting for. The blessedness of talking out was a therapeutic discovery all Aunt Jane's own. Long before scientists had written of the value of spoken expression as a curative method--long before "mental therapy" was fashionable--Aunt Jane had come to know that "a good talk does folks a lot of good." "Let them kind of spit it out," she said, "get it off the end of their tongues 'most any way.... It seems to do them a world of good--and it don't ever hurt me-- Seems to kind of slide off me." She watched the light break in on the tense look, with a little smile, and bent toward the bed. "No, you don't have to be carried--not unless you want to. I guess you're pretty good and strong; and you've got good courage. I can see that." "I'd rather walk," said the woman quickly.