"Well, hardly anything." He was sitting near her, and now he leaned forward and whispered, "I asked her to be my wife, and she refused." It was not said, however, in the tone one would expect for such an unhappy message. Mrs. Norris looked at him curiously. "She said she couldn't answer me now, but as good as gave me permission to ask her again--and when a girl talks that way, isn't it as good as settled?" It did look promising, certainly. But then, there was Henry. "What about Henry?" she asked. "How does he feel?" "What has he to do with it?" "Oh my, he has a lot to do with it. He's more than just a brother, you know. He's her father and mother." "And aunt, maiden aunt, as well." Mrs. Norris laughed. "Henry's to be reckoned with, though, just like Marshal Ney--or was it Cincinnatus? I never can remember." "But, Mrs. Norris, what am I to do?" "Why, you must just be very nice and thoughtful to Nancy and as decent as you can be to Henry, and pray the Good Lord will help you." "Will you pray for me, too?" Tom had played too much baseball not to appreciate the value of organized cheering. "Yes, I'll pray for you." And then Tom jumped up and planted a thoroughgoing kiss--which was designed for the cheek, but which, upon her turning quickly, was delivered, in a manner that even Leofwin would have applauded--upon her neck. * * * * * On the sixth day Nancy sat up for a while during Miss Albers' hour and a half off. There was an abutment at one end of her room which overlooked the Whitman garden and carried the eye on down the hill until it rested on the factory in Whitmanville--the factory which made the garden possible for her. There was a letter in her lap from Tom. It had come with his roses and it asked her to go with him to the boat race. There was also a book in her lap, but she made no effort to read it; it was so much easier just to gaze out of the window and let her mind wander where it would. Henry knocked and entered. "Well, this is very nice. Do you really feel a lot better?" "Ever so much, thank you. I think probably I'll get up in a day or two." "I suppose you'll want your tonsils out now, won't you?" The question of a tonsilectomy had been a moot one for years. Nancy had always been anxious to have them out, having been told that it was merely a case of "snip, snip, and a day on ice cream." Henry, who regarded tonsilectomy skeptically as a fad, and who knew, furthermore, that it was a major operation for adults and that old Mrs. Merton hadn't walked straight since she had had hers out, was strongly opposed. This had, in fact, been an exceedingly sore point with them, and the amount of unhappiness engendered by it was considerably in excess of that which would have resulted from an operation when it was first suggested. "I'll have to wait, of course, until I get well over this. It isn't like a rheumatism, you know." Nancy had learned the jargon thoroughly.