Beth thanked her with a look, but did not reply. She pondered this suggestion for a long time. “Another winter!” Did Aunt Alida expect her to spend another winter in this new world? What would Aunt Rebecca say to that? And poor Aunt Rebecca, alone in the old house! Was Beth a heartless child to let her pulses leap and her breath come quick at the thought of coming back to this enchanted life? “I’m pretty sure I should be homesick after I had time; you do like things you have first, even if they aren’t very likable,” Beth said, unexpectedly to herself, aloud. Aunt Alida laughed again; she seemed to guess Beth’s train of thought. “And some of us manage to like things because we ought to, but not many of us, and it is not a genuine singing-in-the-heart liking when we do!” she said. “No, it isn’t,” agreed Beth gravely. “It keeps quiet. I guess it takes all its breath to be a liking at all, so it can’t sing.” The car turned out of the park, westward, at the uppermost gate. It came into a broad street through which one caught a glimpse of heights that Beth had not seen before, crowned by a great cathedral and a building which Aunt Alida pointed out. “There is the hospital, Beth,” she said. “That is our destination.” “It looks kind and not in the least sorry,” said Beth. At the hospital Mrs. Cortlandt led the way into the entrance hall. Léon carried in the basket, Frieda took the suit-case. An attendant came forward and, when Mrs. Cortlandt explained her errand, ushered them into a waiting-room and disappeared. In a short time they were bidden to follow a pleasant-faced young woman, in a uniform and cap, to see Liebchen. “She is in a remarkably satisfactory condition,” smiled the nurse, looking at Frieda, divining that she was chiefly concerned in this report. “It is too soon to tell how much has been accomplished by the operation, but the child is doing remarkably well.” Frieda caught Beth’s hand without knowing that she did so, and Beth returned its pressure. When big things arrive, little things, like differences in station, disappear like wax in heat. Mr. Cortlandt had taken a room for Liebchen. When the door opened Beth saw at once that it was a pleasant room, sunny and attractive, though plain and white. On the bed lay a child, pale and thin, but with eyes alight as she watched for the opening of the door. She was a decidedly pretty child, but there was something so sweet in her face that one thought more of its lovableness than of its prettiness. “Oh, meine Frieda!” cried Liebchen holding out her hands; her arms she could not move. “Liebchen!” cried Frieda, and kissed the little creature with all her heart. “And here is Mrs. Cortlandt who is doing it all for you, kleine Liebchen. And Miss Beth,” added Frieda. Liebchen smiled shyly, but with eyes warm with love. “I should say thank you, only it gives no big enough way to say it,” Liebchen said softly.