I sat up in my chair, and my wife laid her needle-work down in her lap and made a little face of disappointment.
"A patient!" said she.

"You'll have to go out." I groaned, for I was newly come back from a weary day.
We heard the door open, a few hurried words, and then quick steps upon the linoleum.

Our own door flew open, and a lady, clad in some dark-coloured stuff, with a black veil, entered the room.
"You will excuse my calling so late," she began, and then, suddenly losing her self-control, she ran forward, threw her arms about my wife's neck, and sobbed upon her shoulder.

"Oh, I'm in such trouble!" she cried; "I do so want a little help." "Why," said my wife, pulling up her veil, "it is Kate Whitney.
How you startled me, Kate! I had not an idea who you were when you came in." "I didn't know what to do, so I came straight to you." That was always the way.

Folk who were in grief came to my wife like birds to a light-house.
"It was very sweet of you to come.