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134 "Merry Christmas to W. F. M. from his discharged chauffeur, George." Dr. Maynard gazed at that card as if there had been volumes written on it. He turned it over, searched on the back, and examined again its face. Then he went to the window, put the shade up to the top, and came back to the desk. His back was toward me; I couldn't see the expression on his face as he folded back the tissue paper, and my pillow finally shone up at him. He didn't speak nor make a single sound as he stood looking down at the initials and his class numeral. He didn't stir—just looked until the silence grew uncomfortable. Suddenly he sat down in his desk-chair, leaned forward, picked up Alec's picture and began looking at that in the same awfully still, quiet way. I couldn't bear it a minute longer. The tensity was something like a shrill, long-drawn-out note on a violin. I can't explain it, but it made me want to scream.

Suddenly I burst out upon him.

"Well," I exclaimed, "do you like it?"

He wheeled about, as if he'd heard a shot.

"Lucy!" he said, "Where did you—?"

"In the closet," I interrupted, "watching."

He still had the picture in his hands. He glanced at it, then laid it down, and for the first time in my life I saw the dark colour come into Dr. Maynard's face. He came over to me.

"Did you make it?" he asked me quietly.

"Every stitch for you!" I said, laughing.

He didn't answer at first. He just kept looking at me, with that queer, new look of his. He didn't joke. His eyes didn't twinkle with fun. When he spoke his voice trembled. He took one of my hands