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and even afterward when he began to walk again, he made a game of the alphabet and the words in his big books.
    “Show me a word with three letters,” he would command. “ ‘Sun,’ that’s right. Tell me,
is
the sun cold?”
    “No, silly, it’s hot.”
    “Okay, can you find ‘hot’ on this page?”
    And Laura’s plump finger would slide along the lines until, triumphantly, she would find it.
    “ ‘Hot’ There it is!”
    “What a fine young man,” the aunt remarked. “So patient, so very gentle. He’ll make a marvelous doctor, you can just see it in him.”
    For the Christmas when Laura was six, somebody gave her a copy of
Alice in Wonderland
.
    “But I can’t read it,” she complained to Francis when he and his parents came to dinner during the vacation. “The words are too long.”
    “Come here, and I’ll read it to you,” he offered.
    “That child takes such advantage of his good nature,” said Aunt Lillian, who was serving after-dinner coffee on the other side of the room.
    To this remark Dr. Alcott replied that Francis never offered anything unless he wanted to give it.
    “He likes children, and besides, there is something especially appealing about Laura. You must know that.”
    Well, yes, she had to admit that she did. Her sigh was contented. “Cecile and I consider ourselves blessed. So many people seem to have such problems with their children through no fault of their own.”
    Always, Laura would remember
Alice in Wonderland
, its gray binding, the illustrations of Alice with her flowing hair, and Francis’s long fingers resting on the page.
    “You remind me of Alice,” he said.
    And she would remember, as the years passed, every detail of every book that was in some way connected to Francis.
The Secret Garden
because he gave it to her for her birthday when she was eight, and
Treasure Island
because he had visited the real island on a sailing trip.
    When he returned, he showed photographs of the boat and his friends and the island that lay like a great green whale asleep on blue water.
    “Someday you’ll see these places,” he told her. “You must see as much of the world as you can while you’re young. The world is so beautiful, Laura. You can’t believe how beautiful it is.”
    Whenever he was home, he gave her books and listened to her opinions about them. They agreed and they argued. He taught her to play chess. He gave her a camera and taught her the art of using it so well that she won a contest for her still life of rain on magnolia leaves. Sometimes in the evening when he and his fathercame visiting, she played the piano and was pleased when everyone praised her.
    Yet at the same time she knew that all of them except Francis were overpraising. “My aunts think I’m going to go around the world giving concerts,” she complained to Francis. “It’s embarrassing. If I were going to be famous like that, I would be now. I’m twelve, and that’s already late.”
    “You have a talent, and that’s more than enough to bring you happiness. There’s no need to be famous,” he said gently.
    She loved his voice when he was serious like this. It had tones in it, deep, soft notes like the lowest piano key when the left hand barely touches them.
    “You’re wise, Laura. It’s wise to see yourself so clearly.”
    Curiously, she asked, “What do you see when you look at yourself?”
    “I? A pretty good student who always wanted to be a doctor like my father. That’s all.”
    Laura shook her head. “No, you’re not seeing everything. You’re going to be great.”
    He laughed. “Good God, no. Never.”
    “Oh, yes. Everybody says so.”
    “Who’s everybody?”
    “My aunts say that everybody says so.”
    And Francis laughed again. “Well, tell them I’ll try my best.”
    Sometimes while Laura did homework in her bedroom, the aunts would be talking in the upstairs sitting room. They knew everything that was happening in the neighborhood. “Internal medicine,” one