Half mechanically she spent the rest of the afternoon reestablishing herself in the nurses' quarters at the hospital which she had left nearly four months before. At six o'clock she put on the gray cape and small gray bonnet that constituted her uniform, and leaving word that she would report for duty at nine o'clock, went to the corner and boarded a street car. It was a warm evening for November, and the car with its throng of home-going workers was close and uncomfortable. But Nance, clinging to a strap, and jostled on every side, was superbly indifferent to her surroundings. With lifted chin and preoccupied eyes, she held counsel with herself, sometimes moving her lips slightly as if rehearsing a part. At Butternut Lane she got out and made her way to the old white house midway of the square. A little boy was perched on the gate post, swinging a pair of fat legs and trying to whistle. There was no lack of effort on his part, but the whistle for some reason refused to come. He tried hooking a small finger inside the corners of his mouth; he tried it with teeth together and teeth apart. Nance, sympathizing with his thwarted ambition, smiled as she approached; then she caught her breath. The large brown eyes that the child turned upon her were disconcertingly familiar. "Is this Ted?" she asked. He nodded mistrustfully; then after surveying her gravely, evidently thought better of her and volunteered the information that he was waiting for his daddy. "Where is Mrs. Purdy?" Nance asked. "Her's making me a gingerbread man." "I know a story about a gingerbread man; want to hear it?" "Is it scareful?" asked Ted. "No, just funny," Nance assured. Then while he sat very still on the gate post, with round eyes full of wonder, Nance stood in front of him with his chubby fists in her hands and told him one of Mr. Demry's old fairy tales. So absorbed were they both that neither of them heard an approaching step until it was quite near. "Daddy!" cried Ted, in sudden rapture, scrambling down from the post and hurling himself against the new-comer. But for once his daddy's first greeting was not for him. Dan seized Nance's outstretched hand and studied her face with hungry, inquiring eyes. "I've come to say good-by, Dan," she said in a matter-of-fact tone. His face hardened. "Then you are going with the Clarkes? You've decided?" "I've decided. Can't we go over to the summer-house for a few minutes. I want to talk to you." They crossed the yard to the sheltered bower in its cluster of bare trees, while Ted trudged behind them kicking up clouds of dead leaves with his small square-toed boots. "You run in to Mother Purdy, Teddykins," said Dan, but Nance caught the child's hand. "Better keep him here," she said with an unsteady laugh. "I got to get something off my chest once and for all; then I'll skidoo." But Ted had already spied a squirrel and gone in pursuit, and Nance's eyes followed him absently.