“I never had eaten waffles but once; that was at my aunt’s.  She had gone to housekeeping directly after the wedding ceremony, and was spoken of in the family as ‘the bride.’  I had been her first guest, and, as she had treated me to waffles, I thought waffles and brides always went together.  So when I was included in the invitation to Dorothy’s wedding luncheon, my first thought was of waffles.  I said something about it to my brother, and Ralph was just tease enough to lead me on.  He told me that the table would be piled with waffles, great stacks of them at every plate!  Like a little dunce I believed it all and went to that party anticipating a blissful supply of waffles.  In vain I looked up and down the elegant table!  I ate and ate, but never a waffle appeared!  Finally, when I could stand it no longer, I piped out, ’Cousin Dorothy, please can I have my waffles now?’ Of course, my mother was dreadfully mortified, for some of the guests were strangers, and very great people; but Dorothy took it as a mighty good joke, and even after I was married she used to laugh about my ‘w’awful’ disappointment.  I’ve not gotten over my appetite for waffles either!  I believe I could eat and relish them three times a day.”

“You couldn’t!  Just wait till you’ve had ’em fifty-two times a year, five years running—­as I have!” Mrs. Crump’s lips made a straight line.

“Mrs. Crump has kept tabs on her waffles,” giggled Miss Crilly.  “How many does this morning make—­five hundred and—?”

“Sh!” nudged Mrs. Bonnyman at Miss Crilly’s elbow.

Two youngish women entered the room.  They were the superintendent and the matron.

Upstairs, meanwhile, Miss Juanita Sterling; in bed, and Polly Dudley, seated on the outside, were having a familiar talk.

“I shouldn’t think you’d want to die till God gave you something to die of,” Polly was saying wistfully.  “I think He must want you to live, or He would give you something to die of.  Perhaps He has some beautiful work for you to do and is waiting for you to get well and do it.”

“Polly, I cannot work!  And there is no lack of things for me to die of!” Impatience crept into the sweet voice.  “Being in prison is bad enough even with good health; but to be sick, wretched—­the worst kind of sickness, because nobody understands!—­and to grow old, too, grow old fast—­oh, I wish God would let me die!” The little woman gave a sudden whirl and hid her face in the pillow.

“Don’t, Miss Nita!” Polly’s voice was distressed.  She stroked the smooth, soft hair.  “Don’t cry!  You’re not old!  You’re not old a bit!  And you’re going to be well—­father says so!”

“That won’t take away the dewlap—­oh!” cried Miss Sterling fiercely, “I don’t want a dewlap!”

“Dewlap?” scowled Polly.  “What’s a dewlap?”

“Polly!  You know!” came from down among the feathers.

“I don’t!” Polly protested.  “Is it some kind of—­cancer?”