"Isn't yours rather a pagan way of looking at things?" Fergusson said gently. "Surely our God is not a jealous God, Who takes away what we love, because we love it? I don't believe it is possible to love a person too much, if one only loves them rightly. And I could never believe that the God Whose name is Father, could be angry with a mother's love." "I am glad you have said that to me," Cicely answered. "Baba is so much to me, so very, very much, but I don't want to make an idol of her, dear little sweetheart." "She is a very adorable person," Fergusson said brightly. "I shall miss my daily visits to her; she and I have made great friends." "She is the friendliest soul. We have always wrapped her round with love; I wanted her to be loving and happy." "I think you have succeeded. She is the delight of the village, and of the whole neighbourhood. She and her very capable nurse are known for miles round. There will be great lamentations when they go." "They must come back," Cicely smiled, well-pleased at the praise of her darling. "I am taking them both to Bramwell for Christmas, but later on in the spring or summer, they will come here again." "But I, alas! shall be gone." "Ah! I forgot you are only doing temporary work here. You know you are not quite 'in the picture' here," she said with a smile. "Why?" The one word, though abruptly uttered, was accompanied by the smile that made Fergusson's poorer patients say, it warmed their hearts when he smiled at them; and Cicely had the same sensation of warmth. "Because you are not in the least like any country doctor I ever came across; and I am sure you would never bear being buried in rural depths. You belong to cities, and people." "I hoped I had managed to hide my proclivity for gutters," he answered laughing. "I am afraid you are right. A big city draws me like a magnet. I can say with the poet, 'The need of a world of men for me.' The finest scenery in the world does not make up to me, for the lack of human beings." "Then you are a town person?" "Very much a town person. My home and work lie in a rather sordid, very poor--to me, enthrallingly interesting--corner of South London. I am only here for a time, doing his work for an old acquaintance, and incidentally getting a change I rather needed." "You knocked yourself up with work in South London?" "Not quite that. I got a little played out, and the air of this place has more than set me up. I shall go back like a giant refreshed." "They are chiefly poor people, your patients?" she questioned. "Almost entirely poor. It is always interesting work, sometimes heartrending work, often humiliating. The poor are so wonderful in their attitude to one another, and to all their difficulties and troubles. But if I once begin to talk about my South London folk, I shall never stop. Some day you will perhaps let me tell you of their hard fight with life, and of their splendid courage."