She wanted it to be always Benger's Food at bedtime. She lived by habit,
by the punctual fulfillment of her expectation. She loved the doctor's
visits at twelve o'clock, his air of brooding absorption in her case, his
consultations with Maggie, the seriousness and sanctity he attached to the
humblest details of her existence.

Above all she loved the comfort and protection of Maggie, the sight of
Maggie's broad, tender face as it bent over her, the feeling of Maggie's
strong arms as they supported her, the hovering pressure of the firm,
broad body in the clean white apron and the cap. Her eyes rested on it
with affection; she found shelter in Maggie as she had found it in her
mother.

One day she said, "Why did you come to me, Maggie? Couldn't you have found
a better place?"

"There was many wanted me. But I came to you, ma'am, because you seemed to
sort of need me most. I dearly love looking after people. Old ladies and
children. And gentlemen, if they're ill enough," Maggie said.

"You're a good girl, Maggie."

She had forgotten. The image of Maggie's baby was dead, hidden, buried
deep down in her mind. She closed her eyes. Her head was thrown back,
motionless, ecstatic under Maggie's flickering fingers as they plaited her
thin wisps of hair.

Out of the peace of illness she entered on the misery and long labor of
convalescence. The first time Maggie left her to dress herself she wept.