She looked down at it, fascinated, and took it firmly in her fingers and carried it to the desk and slipped it beneath the vase--with Herman G. Medfield's name exposed.... There was no reason why Mr. Medfield should not send flowers to her! She surveyed them complacently. It was very natural for Mr. Medfield to send flowers--and the little card announced to all the world--how natural it was.... The words jotted on the other side of the card were safely out of sight. Aunt Jane sat down at her desk and folded her hands on the edge of the blotter and looked at the flowers. Her peaceful face gave no hint of anything but the most serene admiration and pride. Her hand reached out for the big day-book and drew it forward and opened it and took up the pen; and Aunt Jane's finger found the place and moved along the dotted lines composedly.... And two great tears fell on the spotless page and blurred it and Aunt Jane sat up and sought swiftly for her handkerchief. She dabbed at two more tears that were sweeping down--she moved the handkerchief quickly across her face and wiped it over the page, and once more across her face--that kept breaking up in little incredulous, ashamed waves. She shut up the day-book impatiently and folded her arms on top of it and dropped her face on her arms and sobbed--a great, shamed, bewildered sob that shook the quiet shoulders; then they were very still. Presently she sat up. She shook out her handkerchief and blew her nose methodically and opened the book. "I am a fool!" she said softly. "Room 36--" And two left-over tears splashed down on Room 36 and flooded it-- Tears enough to wash Room 36 out of existence. They overwhelmed Aunt Jane. She got up abruptly and closed the book and turned down the light--groping for it and glancing hastily at the open door. The light shone dimly on a very disturbed and crumpled face. She looked about her for a minute. Then she went to a small door and drew a key from beneath her apron and inserted it in the lock. No one in the hospital knew what was behind the small door. It was popularly supposed to hold Aunt Jane's private supplies--dangerous remedies for emergencies, perhaps. No one knew. She opened the door slowly and stepped in, closing it gently behind her; the key still dangled from the lock. There was no light in the little room--except for the moonlight shining through a small window and lighting up the bareness of the place; it shone on a single chair by the window. There was nothing else in the room. Aunt Jane went across to it and sat down.... She was not crying now. She folded her hands in her lap and sat very quiet, and the moonlight filtered in through the window and touched the muslin cap and the white figure, and passed silently across it and fell on the floor, making a luminous path in the blackness.... And Aunt Jane did not stir.