The White Linen Nurse

CHAPTER IX

Al­to­geth­er jerk­ily the Se­nior Sur­geon start­ed up the walk for his own per­fect­ly for­mal and re­spectable brown stone man­sion. Deep down in his lurch­ing heart he felt a sud­den most in­or­di­nate de­sire to reach that brown stone man­sion just as quick­ly as pos­si­ble. But abrupt­ly even to him­self he swerved off in­stead at the yel­low sas­safras tree and plunged quite wild­ly through a mass of bro­ken sods to­wards the rick­ety, no-​ac­count cedar sum­mer house.

Star­tled by the crack­le and thud of his ap­proach the two young fig­ures in the sum­mer house jumped pre­cip­itous­ly to their feet, and limply un­twin­ing their arms from each oth­er's necks stood sur­vey­ing the Se­nior Sur­geon in un­speak­able con­ster­na­tion,--the White Linen Nurse and a blue over­alled lad most un­con­scionably mat­ed in ra­di­ant youth and ag­onized con­fu­sion.

“Oh, my Lord, Sir!” gasped the White Linen Nurse. “Oh, my Lord, Sir! I wasn't look­ing for _you_--for an­oth­er week!”

“Ev­ident­ly not!” said the Se­nior Sur­geon in­ci­sive­ly. “This is the sec­ond time this evening that I've been led to in­fer that my home-​com­ing was dis­tinct­ly in­op­por­tune!”

Very slow­ly, very me­thod­ical­ly, he put down first his pre­cious rod-​case and then his grip. His brain seemed fair­ly foam­ing with blood and con­fu­sion. Along the swelling veins of his arms a dozen prim­itive in­stincts went surg­ing to his fists.

Then quite brazen­ly be­fore his eyes the White Linen Nurse reached out and took the lad's hand again.

“Oh, for­give me, Dr. Faber!” she fal­tered. “This is my broth­er!”

“Your _broth­er?--what?--eh?_” choked the Se­nior Sur­geon. Blunt­ly he reached out and crushed the young fel­low's fin­gers in his own. “Glad to see you, Son!” he mut­tered with a sick­ish sort of grin, and turn­ing abrupt­ly, picked up his bag­gage again and start­ed for the big house.

Half a step be­hind him his White Linen Bride fol­lowed soft­ly.

At the edge of the pi­az­za he turned for an in­stant and eyed her a bit quizzi­cal­ly. With her big cred­ulous blue eyes, and her great mop of yel­low hair braid­ed child­ish­ly down her back, she looked in­es­timably more ju­ve­nile and in­no­cent than his own lit­tle shrewd-​faced six-​year-​old whom he had just left do­mes­ti­cal­ly en­sconced in the mid­dle of the broad grav­el path.

“For Heav­en's sake, Miss Mal­gre­gor,” he asked. “For Heav­en's sake--why didn't you tell me that the Wall Pa­per Man was your--broth­er?”

Very con­trite­ly the White Linen Nurse's chin went bur­row­ing down in­to the soft col­lar of her dress and as bash­ful­ly as a child one fin­ger came steal­ing up to the edge of her red, red lips.

“I was afraid you'd think I was--cheeky--hav­ing any of my fam­ily come and live with us--so soon,” she mur­mured al­most in­audi­bly.

“Well, what did you think I'd think you were--if he wasn't your broth­er?” asked the Se­nior Sur­geon sar­don­ical­ly.

“Very--eco­nom­ical, I hoped!” beamed the White Linen Nurse.

“All the same!” snapped the Se­nior Sur­geon, with an ir­rel­evance sur­pris­ing even to him­self. “All the same do you think it sounds quite right and prop­er for a child to call her--step-​moth­er--'Peach'?”

Again the White Linen Nurse's chin went bur­row­ing down in­to the soft col­lar of her dress. “I don't sup­pose it is--usu­al,” she ad­mit­ted re­luc­tant­ly. “The chil­dren next door, I no­tice, call theirs--'Cross-​Patch.'”

With a ges­ture of im­pa­tience the Se­nior Sur­geon pro­ceed­ed up the steps,--yanked open the old-​fash­ioned shut­tered door, and burst quite breath­less­ly and un­pre­pared up­on his most amaz­ing­ly re­con­struct­ed house. All in one sin­gle sec­ond chintzes,--muslins,--pale blonde maples,--ri­otous ca­nary birds,--stormed rev­olu­tion­ary up­on his out­raged eyes. Reel­ing back ut­ter­ly aghast be­fore the sight, he stood there star­ing dumb­ly for an in­stant at what he con­sid­ered,--and right­ly too,--the ab­so­lute wreck of his black wal­nut home.

“It looks like--Hell!” he mut­tered fee­bly.

“Yes, _isn't_ it sweet?” con­ced­ed the White Linen Nurse with un­mis­tak­able joy­ous­ness. “And your li­brary--” Tri­umphant­ly she threw back the door to his grim work-​shop.

“Good God!” stam­mered the Se­nior Sur­geon. “You've made it--pink!”

Rap­tur­ous­ly the White Linen Nurse be­gan to clasp and un­clasp her hands. “I knew you'd love it!” she said.

Half dazed with be­wil­der­ment the Se­nior Sur­geon start­ed to brush an imag­inary haze from his eyes but paused mid-​way in the ges­ture and point­ed back in­stead to a dap­per lit­tle hall-​ta­ble that seemed to be ex­haust­ing its en­tire blonde strength in hold­ing up a slen­der green vase with a sin­gle pink rose in it. Like a caged an­imal buf­fet­ing for es­cape against each suc­ces­sive bar that in­cased it, the man's fren­zied ir­ri­ta­tion hurled it­self hope­ful­ly against this one more chance for ex­plo­sive ex­it.

“What--have--you--done--with the big--black--es­critoire that stood--there?” he de­mand­ed ac­cus­ing­ly.

“Es­critoire?--Es­critoire?” wor­ried the White Linen Nurse. “Why--why--I'm afraid I must have mis­laid it.”

“Mis­laid it?” thun­dered the Se­nior Sur­geon. “Mis­laid it? It weighed three hun­dred pounds!”

“Oh, it did?” ques­tioned the White Linen Nurse with great, blue-​eyed in­ter­est. Still mulling ap­par­ent­ly over the fas­ci­nat­ing weight of the es­critoire she climbed up sud­den­ly in­to a chair and with the fluffy broom-​shaped end of her ex­traor­di­nar­ily long braid of hair went an­gling wildy off in­to space af­ter an il­lu­sive cob­web.

Faster and faster the Se­nior Sur­geon's tem­per be­gan to search for a new point of ex­it.

“What do you sup­pose the--ser­vants think of you?” he stormed. “Run­ning round like that with your hair in a pig-​tail like a--kid?”

“Ser­vants?” cooed the White Linen Nurse. “Ser­vants?” Very qui­et­ly she jumped down from the chair and came and stood look­ing up in­to the Se­nior Sur­geon's hec­tic face. “Why, there aren't any ser­vants,” she ex­plained pa­tient­ly. “I've dis­missed ev­ery one of them. We're do­ing our own work now!”

“Do­ing 'our own work'?” gasped the Se­nior Sur­geon.

Quite wor­ried­ly the White Linen Nurse stepped back a lit­tle. “Why, wasn't that right?” she plead­ed. “Wasn't it right? Why, I thought peo­ple al­ways did their own work when they were first mar­ried!” With sud­den ap­pre­hen­sive­ness she glanced round over her shoul­der at the hall clock, and dart­ing out through a side door, re­turned al­most in­stant­ly with a fierce-​look­ing knife.

“I'm so late now and ev­ery­thing,” she con­fid­ed. “Could you peel the pota­toes for me?”

“No, I couldn't!” said the Se­nior Sur­geon short­ly. Equal­ly short­ly he turned on his heel, and reach­ing out once more for his rod-​case and grip went on up the stairs to his own room.

One of the pleas­an­test things about ar­riv­ing home very late in the af­ter­noon is the ex­cuse it gives you for loaf­ing in your own room while oth­er peo­ple are get­ting sup­per. No ex­is­tent do­mes­tic sound in the whole twen­ty-​four hours is as sooth­ing at the end of a long jour­ney as the sound of oth­er peo­ple get­ting sup­per.

Stretched out full length in a big easy chair by his bed-​room win­dow, with his fa­vorite pipe bub­bling rhyth­mi­cal­ly be­tween his gleam­ing white teeth, the Se­nior Sur­geon stud­ied his new “sol­id gold bed” and his new sage green wall-​pa­per and his new dust-​col­ored rug, to the faint, far-​away ac­com­pa­ni­ment of soft thud­ding feet, and a girl's laugh, and a child's prat­tle, and the tink-​tink-​tin­kle of glass,--chi­na,--sil­ver,--all scur­ry­ing con­scious­ly to the ser­vice of one man,--and that man,--_him­self_.

Very, very slow­ly, in that spe­cial half hour an in­scrutable lit­tle smile print­ed it­self ex­per­imen­tal­ly across the right hand cor­ner of the Se­nior Sur­geon's up­per lip.

While that smile was still in its in­fan­cy he jumped up sud­den­ly and forced his way across the hall to his dead wife's room,--the one ghost-​room of his house and his life,--and there with his hand on the turn­ing door knob,--tense with re­luc­tance,--goose-​fleshed with strain,--his breath gasped out of him whether or no with the one word--“Al­ice!”

And be­hold! There was no room there!

Lurch­ing back from the thresh­old, as from the brink of an el­eva­tor well, the Se­nior Sur­geon found him­self star­ing fool­ish­ly in­to a most sump­tu­ous linen clos­et, tiered like an Aztec cliff with home af­ter home for pleas­ant prosy blan­kets, and gai­ly fringed tow­els, and cheer­ful white sheets reek­ing most con­sci­en­tious­ly of cedar and laven­der. Tip­toe­ing cau­tious­ly in­to the mys­tery he sensed at one as­ton­ished, grate­ful glance how the change of a par­ti­tion, the re-​ad­just­ment of a pro­por­tion, had purged like a draft of fresh air the stale gloom of an ill-​fa­vored mem­ory. Yet so in­evitable did it sud­den­ly seem for a linen clos­et to be built right there,--so in­evitable did it sud­den­ly seem for the child's mea­ger play-​room to be en­larged just there, that to save his soul he could not es­ti­mate whether the hap­py plan had orig­inat­ed in a pure­ly prac­ti­cal brain or a pure­ly com­pas­sion­ate heart.

Half proud of the brain, half touched by the heart, he passed on ex­plor­ing­ly through the new play-​room out in­to the hall again.

Quite dis­tinct­ly now through the aper­ture of the back stairs the kitchen voic­es came waft­ing up to him.

“Oh, dear! Oh, dear!” wailed his Lit­tle Girl's pee­vish voice. “Now that--that Man's come back again--I sup­pose we'll have to eat in the din­ing-​room--all the time!”

“'That Man' hap­pens to be your dar­ling fa­ther!” ad­mon­ished the White Linen Nurse's laugh­ing voice.

“Even so,” wailed the Lit­tle Girl, “I love you best.”

“Even so,” laughed the White Linen Nurse, “I love _you_ best!”

“Just the same,” cried the Lit­tle Girl shril­ly, “just the same--let's put the cream pitch­er way up high some­where--so he can't step in it!”

As though from a head tilt­ed sud­den­ly back­ward the White Linen Nurse's laugh rang out in joy­ous aban­don.

Im­pul­sive­ly the Se­nior Sur­geon start­ed to grin. Then equal­ly im­pul­sive­ly the grin soured on his lips. So they thought he was clum­sy? Eh? Re­sent­ful­ly he stared down at his hands,--those won­der­ful­ly dex­ter­ous,--yes, am­bidex­ter­ous hands that were the aching en­vy of all his col­leagues. In­ter­rupt­ing­ly as he stared the voice of the young Wall Pa­per Man rose buoy­ant­ly from the low­er hall­way.

“Sup­per's all ready, sir!” called the cor­dial voice.

For some in­ex­plain­able rea­son, at that par­tic­ular mo­ment, al­most noth­ing in the world could have ir­ri­tat­ed the Se­nior Sur­geon more keen­ly than to be in­vit­ed to his own sup­per,--in his own house,--by a stranger. Fum­ing with a new sense of in­jury and in­jus­tice he start­ed heav­ily down the stairs to the din­ing-​room.

Stand­ing pa­tient­ly be­hind the Se­nior Sur­geon's chair with a laud­able de­sire to as­sist his carv­ing in any pos­si­ble emer­gen­cy that might oc­cur, the White Linen Nurse ex­pe­ri­enced her first di­rect mar­ital re­buff.

“What do you think this is? An au­top­sy?” de­mand­ed the Se­nior Sur­geon tart­ly. “For Heav­en's sake--sit down!”

Quite meek­ly the White Linen Nurse sub­sid­ed in­to her place.

The meal that en­sued could hard­ly have been called a suc­cess though the room was en­tranc­ing,--the cloth, snow-​white--the sil­ver, ra­di­ant,--the guinea chick­en be­yond re­proach.

Swept and gar­nished to an alarm­ing de­gree the young Wall Pa­per Man presid­ed over the gravy and did his ut­ter­most, in­no­cent coun­try-​best to make the Se­nior Sur­geon feel per­fect­ly at home.

Con­sci­en­tious­ly, as in the pres­ence of a dis­tin­guished stranger, the Lit­tle Crip­pled Girl most pal­pa­bly from time to time re­pressed her in­sa­tiable de­sire to build a tow­er­ing pyra­mid out of all the salt and pep­per shak­ers she could reach.

Once when the young Wall Pa­per Man for­got him­self to the ex­tent of putting his knife in his mouth, the White Linen Nurse jarred the whole ta­ble with the vi­olence of her warn­ing kick.

Once when the Lit­tle Crip­pled Girl piped out im­pul­sive­ly, “Say, Peach,--what was the name of that ban­tam your fa­ther used to fight against the min­is­ter's ban­tam?” the White Linen Nurse choked piteous­ly over her food.

Twice some one spoke about this year's weath­er.

Twice some one vol­un­teered an il­lu­mi­nat­ing re­mark about last year's weath­er.

Ex­cept for these four di­ver­sions re­straint in­de­scrib­able hung like a hor­rid pall over the feast.

Next to feel­ing un­wel­come in your friend's house, noth­ing cer­tain­ly is more wretched­ly dis­con­cert­ing than to feel un­wel­come in your own house!

Grim­ly the Se­nior Sur­geon longed to grab up all the knives with­in reach and ram them suc­ces­sive­ly in­to his own mouth just to prove to the young Wall Pa­per Man what a--what a dev­il of a good fel­low he was him­self! Grim­ly the Se­nior Sur­geon longed to tell the White Linen Nurse about the pet ban­tam of his own boy­hood days--that he bet a dol­lar could lick any ban­tam her fa­ther ev­er dreamed of own­ing! Grim­ly the Se­nior Sur­geon longed to talk dolls,--dish­es,--kit­tens,--yes, even cream pitch­ers, to his Lit­tle Daugh­ter, to talk any­thing in fact--to _any one_,--to talk--sing--shout _any­thing_--that should make him, at least for the time be­ing, one at heart, one at head, one at ta­ble, with this as­ton­ish­ing­ly off­ish bunch of young­sters!

But grim­ly in­stead,--out of his fraz­zled nerves,--out of his in­nate spir­itu­al bash­ful­ness, he mere­ly roared forth, “Where are the pota­toes?”

“Pota­toes?” gasped the White Linen Nurse. “Pota­toes? Oh, pota­toes?” she fin­ished more blithe­ly. “Why, yes, of course! Don't you re­mem­ber--you didn't have time to peel them for me? I was so dis­ap­point­ed!”

“You were so dis­ap­point­ed?” snapped the Se­nior Sur­geon. “You?--you?”

Jan­gling­ly the Lit­tle Crip­pled Girl knelt right up in her chair and shook her tiny fist right in her fa­ther's face.

“Now, Lendi­cott Paber!” she screamed. “Don't you start in--sass­ing--my dar­ling lit­tle Peach!”

“_Peach?_” snort­ed the Se­nior Sur­geon. With al­most su­per­nat­ural calm he put down his knife and fork and eyed his off­spring with an ex­pres­sion of ab­so­lute­ly in­flex­ible pur­pose. “Don't you--ev­er,” he warned her, “ev­er--ev­er--let me hear you call--this wom­an 'Peach' again!”

A tri­fle faint-​heart­ed­ly the Lit­tle Crip­pled Girl reached up and straight­ened her ab­surd­ly diminu­tive lit­tle white cap, and pursed her lit­tle mouth as near­ly as pos­si­ble in­to an ex­pres­sion of in­ef­fa­ble peace.

“Why--Lendi­cott Faber!” she per­sist­ed hero­ical­ly.

“_Lendi­cott?_” jumped the Se­nior Sur­geon. “What are _you_--'Lendi­cot­ting' _me_ for?”

Hi­lar­ious­ly with her own knife and fork the Lit­tle Crip­pled Girl be­gan to beat up­on the ta­ble.

“Why, you dear Sil­ly!” she cried. “Why, if I'm the new Mar­ma, I've got to call you 'Lendi­cott'! And Peach has got to call you 'Fat Fa­ther'!”

Fren­zied­ly the Se­nior Sur­geon pushed back his chair, and jumped to his feet. The ex­pres­sion on his face was nei­ther smile nor frown, nor war nor peace, nor any oth­er hu­man ex­pres­sion that had ev­er puck­ered there be­fore.

“God!” he said. “This gives me the _willies_!” and strode tem­pes­tu­ous­ly from the room.

Out in his own work-​shop for­tu­nate­ly,--what­ev­er the grotesque new pink­ness,--what­ev­er the grotesque new perk­iness--his great free walk­ing-​spaces had not been in­ter­fered with. Slam­ming his door tri­umphant­ly be­hind him, he re­sumed once more the monotonous pace-​pace-​pace that had char­ac­ter­ized for eigh­teen years his first night's re­turn to--the obli­ga­tions of civ­iliza­tion.

Sharply around the cor­ner of his old bat­tered desk the lit­tle path start­ed,--wan­ly along the edge of his dingy book-​shelves the lit­tle path fur­rowed,--wist­ful­ly at the deep bay-​win­dow where his fa­vorite lilac bush bud­ded white­ly for his de­par­ture, and rust­ed brown­ly for his re­turn, the lit­tle path fal­tered,--and went on again,--on and on and on,--in­to the al­cove where his in­stru­ments glis­tened,--up to the fire­place where his col­lege tro­phy-​cups tar­nished! List­less­ly the Se­nior Sur­geon re-​com­menced his year­ly vig­il. Up and down,--up and down,--round and round,--on and on and on,--through in­ter­minable dusks to unattain­able dawns,--a glut­ted, bac­cha­na­lian Soul sweat­ing its own way back to sanc­ti­ty and lean­ness! Nerves al­ways were in that vig­il,--raw, rat­tling nerves clam­or­ing vo­cif­er­ous­ly to be repacked in their seda­tives. Thirst al­so was in that vig­il,--no mere whim­per­ing tick­le of the palate, but a drought of the tis­sues,--a con­sum­ing fire of the bones! Hurt pride was al­so there, and fes­ter­ing hu­mil­ia­tion!

But more rasp­ing, this par­tic­ular night, than nerves, more poignant than thirst, more dan­ger­ous­ly ex­ci­ta­tive even than re­morse, hunger ri­ot­ed in him,--hunger, the one worst en­emy of the Se­nior Sur­geon's cause,--the sim­ple, sil­ly, no-​ac­count,--gnaw­ing,--drink-​provoca­tive hunger of an emp­ty stom­ach. And 'one oth­er hunger was al­so there,--a sud­den fierce new lust for Life and Liv­ing,--a pas­sion bare of love yet pure of wan­ton­ness,--a pas­sion prim­itive,--pro­tec­tive,--in­ex­orably pro­pri­etary,--en­gen­dered strange­ly in that one mad, sus­pi­cious mo­ment at the edge of the sum­mer house when ev­ery out­raged male in­stinct in him had leaped to prove that--love or no love--the wom­an was--_his_. Up and down,--up and down,--round and round,--eight o'clock found the Se­nior Sur­geon still pac­ing.

At half past eight the young Wall Pa­per Man came to say good-​by to him.

“As long as Sis­ter won't be alone any more, I guess I'll be mov­ing on,” beamed the Wall Pa­per Man. “There's a dance at home Sat­ur­day night. And I've got a girl of my own!” he con­fid­ed ge­nial­ly.

“Come again,” urged the Se­nior Sur­geon. “Come again when you can stay longer!”

With one hon­est prayer in stock, and at least two pure­ly au­to­mat­ic so­cial speech­es of this sort, no man needs to floun­der al­to­geth­er hope­less­ly for words in any or­di­nary emer­gen­cy of life. Thus with no more men­tal in­ter­rup­tion than the two-​minute break in time, the Se­nior Sur­geon then re­sumed his bit­ter-​thought­ed pac­ing.

At nine o'clock, how­ev­er,--pa­trol­ing his long rangy book-​shelves, he sensed with a very dif­fer­ent feel­ing through his heavy oak door, the soft whirring swish of skirts and the breathy twit­ter of muf­fled voic­es. Faint­ly to his acute ears came the sound of his lit­tle daugh­ter's tem­per­ish protest, “I won't! I won't!” and the White Linen Nurse's fer­vid plead­ing, “Oh, you must,--you must!” and the Lit­tle Girl's mum­bled ul­ti­ma­tum, “Well, I won't un­less _you_ do!”

Iras­ci­bly he crossed the room and yanked the door open abrupt­ly up­on their sur­prise and con­fu­sion. His nerves were very sore.

“What in thun­der do you want?” he snarled.

Ner­vous­ly for an in­stant the White Linen Nurse tugged at the Lit­tle Girl's hand. Ner­vous­ly for an in­stant the Lit­tle Girl tugged at the White Linen Nurse's hand. Then with a swal­low like a sob the White Linen Nurse lift­ed her glow­ing face to his.

“K--kiss us good night!” said the White Linen Nurse.

Tele­scop­ical­ly all in that startling sec­ond, vi­sion af­ter vi­sion beat down like blows up­on the Se­nior Sur­geon's sens­es! The pink, pink flush of the girl! The lure of her! The amaz­ing sweet­ness! The phys­ical docil­ity! Oh ye gods,--the docil­ity! Ev­ery trend of her birth,--of her youth,--of her train­ing,--forc­ing her now--if he chose it--to un­ques­tion­ing sub­mis­sion to his will and his judg­ment! Faster and faster the temp­ta­tion surged through his puls­es! The path from her lips to her ear was such a lit­tle path,--the plea so quick to make, so short,--“I want you _now!_”

“K--kiss us good night!” urged the Big Girl's un­sus­pect­ing lips. “Kiss us good night!” mocked the Lit­tle Girl's tremu­lous echo.

Then ex­plo­sive­ly with the no­blest rude­ness of his life, “No, I _won't!_” said the Se­nior Sur­geon, and slammed the door in their faces.

Fal­ter­ing­ly up the stairs he heard the two as­cend­ing,--speech­less with sur­prise, per­haps,--stunned by his rough­ness,--still hand in hand, prob­ably,--still climb­ing slow­ly bed-​ward,--the soft, smooth, pa­tient foot­fall of the White Linen Nurse and the jerky, la­bo­ri­ous clang-​clang-​clang of a lit­tle drag­ging iron-​braced leg.

Up and down,--round and round,--on and on and on,--the Se­nior Sur­geon re­sumed his pac­ing. Un­der his eyes great shad­ows dark­ened. Along the cor­ners of his mouth the lines fur­rowed like gray scars. Up and down,--round and round,--on and on and on--and on!

At ten o'clock, sit­ting bolt up­right in her bed with her wor­ried eyes strain­ing blue­ly out across the Lit­tle Girl's som­no­lent form in­to un­fath­omable dark­ness, the White Linen Nurse in the throb of her own heart be­gan to keep pace with that faint, hor­rid thud-​thud-​thud in the room be­low. Was he pass­ing the book-​case now? Had he reached the bay-​win­dow? Was he dawdling over those glis­ten­ing scalpels? Would his nerves re­mem­ber the flask in that up­per desk draw­er? Up and down,--round and round,--on and on,--the har­row­ing sound con­tin­ued.

Res­olute­ly at last she scram­bled out of her snug nest, and hur­ry­ing in­to her great warm, pussy-​gray wrap­per be­gan at once very prac­ti­cal­ly, very un­emo­tion­al­ly, with match­es and al­co­hol and a shiny glass jar to pre­pare a huge steam­ing cup of malt­ed milk. Beef-​steak was in­finite­ly bet­ter, she knew, or eggs, of course, but if she should ven­ture forth to the kitchen for re­al sub­stan­ti­ate the Se­nior Sur­geon, she felt quite pos­itive, would al­most cer­tain­ly hear her and stop her. So very stealthi­ly thus like the prover­bial as­sas­sin she crept down the front stairs with the in­no­cent malt­ed milk cup in her hand, and then with her knuck­les just on the verge of rap­ping against the grim­ly in­hos­pitable door, went sud­den­ly par­alyzed with un­cer­tain­ty whether to ad­vance or re­treat.

Once again through the som­bre in­ert wain­scot­ing, ex­act­ly as if a soul had creaked, the Se­nior Sur­geon sensed the threat­en­ing, in­tru­sive pres­ence of an un­seen per­son­al­ity. Once again he strode across the room and jerked the door open with ter­ri­fy­ing anger and re­sent­ment.

As though frozen there on his thresh­old by Her own lit­tle bare feet,--as though stran­gled there in his door­way by her own great mop of gold­en hair,--stol­id and dumb as a pink-​cheeked graven im­age the White Linen Nurse thrust the cup out awk­ward­ly at him.

Ab­so­lute­ly with­out com­ment, as though she trot­ted on pure­ly pro­fes­sion­al busi­ness and the case in­volved was of mu­tu­al con­cern to them both, the Se­nior Sur­geon took the cup from her hand and closed the door again in her face.

At eleven o'clock she came again,--just as pink,--just as blue,--just as gray,--just as gold­en. And the cup of malt­ed milk she brought with her was just as huge,--just as hot,--just as steam­ing,--on­ly this time she had smug­gled two raw eggs in­to it.

Once more the Se­nior Sur­geon took the cup with­out com­ment and shut the door in her face.

At twelve o'clock she came again. The Se­nior Sur­geon was un­usu­al­ly lo­qua­cious this time.

“Have you any more malt­ed milk?” he asked terse­ly.

“Oh, yes, sir!” beamed the White Linen Nurse.

“Go and get it!” said the Se­nior Sur­geon.

Obe­di­ent­ly the White Linen Nurse pat­tered up the stairs and re­turned with the half de­plet­ed bot­tle. Frankly in­ter­est­ed she re­crossed the thresh­old of the room and de­liv­ered her glass trea­sure in­to the hands of the Se­nior Sur­geon as he stood by his desk. Rais­ing her­self to her tip­toes she not­ed with em­inent sat­is­fac­tion that the three big cups on the oth­er side of the desk had all been drained to their dregs.

Then very blunt­ly be­fore her eyes the Se­nior Sur­geon took the malt­ed milk bot­tle and poured its re­main­ing con­tents out quite wan­ton­ly in­to his waste bas­ket. Then equal­ly blunt­ly he took the White Linen Nurse by the shoul­ders and marched her out of the room.

“For God's sake!” he said, “get out of this room! And stay out!”

_Bang_! the big door slammed be­hind her. Like a snarling fang the lock bit in­to its catch.

“Yes, sir,” said the White Linen Nurse. Even just to her­self--all alone there in the big black hall, she was per­fect­ly po­lite. “Y-​e-​s, sir,” she re­peat­ed soft­ly.

With a slight­ly sar­don­ic grin on his face the Se­nior Sur­geon re­sumed his pac­ing. Up and down,--round and round,--on and on and on!

At one o'clock in the dull, clam­my chill of ear­li­est morn­ing he stopped long enough to light his hearth­fire.

At two o'clock he stopped again to pile on a tri­fle more wood.

At three o'clock he dal­lied for an in­stant to close a win­dow. The new day seemed strange­ly cold.

At four o'clock, dawn the won­der,--the mir­acle,--the long de­spaired of,--quick­ened wan­ly across the East. Then sud­den­ly,--more like a phos­pho­res­cent breeze than a glow, the pale, pale yel­low sun­shine came waft­ing through the green gloom of the gar­den. The vig­il was over!

Stum­bling out in­to the shad­owy hall to greet the new day and the new be­gin­ning, the Se­nior Sur­geon al­most tripped and fell over the White Linen Nurse sit­ting all hud­dled up and drowsy-​eyed in a lit­tle gray heap on his out­er thresh­old. The sen­sa­tion of step­ping up­on a hu­man body is not a pleas­ant one. It smote the Se­nior Sur­geon nau­seous­ly through the nerves of his stom­ach.

“What are you do­ing here?” he fair­ly screamed at her.

“Just keep­ing you com­pa­ny, sir,” yawned the White Linen Nurse. Be­fore her hand could reach her mouth again an­oth­er great child­ish yawn over­whelmed her. “Just--watch­ing with you, sir,” she fin­ished more or less inar­tic­ulate­ly.

“Watch­ing with--me?” snarled the Se­nior Sur­geon re­sent­ful­ly. “Why--should--you--watch--with--me?”

Like the fright­ened flash of a bird the heavy lash­es went swoop­ing down across the pink cheeks and lift­ed as sud­den­ly again. “Be­cause you're my--_man!_” yawned the White Linen Nurse.

Al­most rough­ly the Se­nior Sur­geon reached down and pulled the White Linen Nurse to her feet.

“God!” said the Se­nior Sur­geon. In his strained, husky voice the word sound­ed like an oath. Grotesque­ly a lit­tle smile went scud­ding zig-​zag across his hag­gard face. With an im­pulse ab­so­lute­ly alien to him he reached out abrupt­ly again and raised the White Linen Nurse's hand to his lips. “_'Good_ God' was what I meant--Miss Mal­gre­gor!” he grinned a bit sheep­ish­ly.

Quite bruskly then he turned and looked at his watch.

“I'd like my break­fast just as soon now as you can pos­si­bly get it!” he or­dered peremp­to­ri­ly,--in his own mor­bid patho­log­ical emer­gen­cy no more stop­ping to con­sid­er the White Linen Nurse's pure­ly nor­mal fa­tigue, than he in any patho­log­ical emer­gen­cy of hers would have stopped to con­sid­er his own com­fort,--safe­ty,--or even per­haps, life!

Joy­ous­ly then like a pris­on­er just turned loose, he went swing­ing up the stairs to recre­ate him­self with a smoke and a shave and a great, splash­ing, cold show­er-​bath.

On­ly one thing seemed to re­al­ly trou­ble him now. At the top of the stairs he stopped for an in­stant and cocked his head a bit wor­ried­ly to­wards the draw­ing-​room where from some slow-​bright­en­ing al­cove bird-​car­ol af­ter bird-​car­ol went flut­ing shril­ly up in­to the morn­ing.

“Is that--those blast­ed ca­naries?” he asked briefly.

Very com­pan­ion­ably the White Linen Nurse cocked her own towsled head on one side and lis­tened with him for half a mo­ment.

“On­ly four of them are blast­ed ca­naries,” she cor­rect­ed very gen­tly. “The fifth one is a paro­quet that I got at a mark-​down be­cause it was a wid­owed bird and wouldn't mate again.”

“Eh?” jerked the Se­nior Sur­geon.

“Yes, sir,” said the White Linen Nurse and start­ed for the kitchen.

No one but the Se­nior Sur­geon him­self break­fast­ed in state at five o'clock that morn­ing. Snug and safe in her crib up­stairs the Lit­tle Crip­pled Girl slum­bered peace­ful­ly on through the gen­er­al dis­tur­bance. And as for the White Linen Nurse her­self,--what with chill­ing and rechilling mel­ons,--and broil­ing and un­broil­ing steaks,--and mak­ing and re­mak­ing cof­fee,--and hunt­ing fran­ti­cal­ly for a dif­fer­ent-​sized wa­ter glass,--or a pret­ti­er col­ored plate, there was no time for any­thing ex­cept an oc­ca­sion­al hur­ried sur­rep­ti­tious nib­ble half way be­tween the stove and the ta­ble.

Yet in all that rau­cous ear­ly morn­ing hour to­geth­er nei­ther man nor girl suf­fered to­wards the oth­er the slight­est per­son­al sense of con­tri­tion or re­sent­ment, for each mind was trained equal­ly fair­ly,--whether re­act­ing on its own case or an­oth­er's--to dif­fer­en­ti­ate pret­ty read­ily be­tween mean nerves and a--mean spir­it.

On­ly once in fact across the in­ter­ven­ing chasm of crank­iness did the Se­nior Sur­geon hurl a smile that was even re­mote­ly self-​con­scious or con­cil­ia­to­ry. Glanc­ing up sud­den­ly from a par­tic­ular­ly sharp and dis­agree­able speech, he not­ed the White Linen Nurse's red lips mum­bling soft­ly one to the oth­er.

“Are you spe­cial­ly--re­li­gious,--Miss Mal­gre­gor?” he grinned quite abrupt­ly.

“No, not spe­cial­ly, sir,” said the White Linen Nurse. “Why, sir?”

“Oh, it 's on­ly--” grinned the Se­nior Sur­geon dourly, “it's on­ly that ev­ery time I'm es­pe­cial­ly ug­ly to you, I see your lips mov­ing as though in 'silent prayer' as they call it--and I was just won­der­ing--if there was any spe­cial for­mu­la you used with me--that kept you so--ev­er­last­ing­ly--damned serene. Is there?”

“Yes, sir,” said the White Linen Nurse.

“What is it?” de­mand­ed the Se­nior Sur­geon quite blunt­ly.

“Do I have to tell?” gasped the White Linen Nurse. A lit­tle tremu­lous­ly in her hand the emp­ty cup she was car­ry­ing rat­tled against its saucer. “Do I have to tell?” she re­peat­ed plead­ing­ly.

A deliri­ous lit­tle thrill of pow­er went flut­ter­ing through the Se­nior Sur­geon's heart.

“Yes, you have to tell me!” he an­nounced quite se­ri­ous­ly.

In ab­so­lute sub­mis­sion to his de­mand, though with very pal­pa­ble re­luc­tance, the White Linen Nurse came for­ward to the ta­ble, put down the cup and saucer, and be­gan to fin­ger a tri­fle ner­vous­ly at the cloth.

“Oh, I'm sure I didn't mean any harm, sir,” she stam­mered. “But all I say is,--hon­est and tru­ly all I say is,--'Bah! He's noth­ing but a man--noth­ing but a man--noth­ing but a man!' over and over and over,--just that, sir!”

Up­roar­ious­ly the Se­nior Sur­geon pushed back his chair, and jumped to his feet.

“I guess af­ter all I'll have to let the lit­tle kid call you--'Peach'--one day a week!” he ac­knowl­edged jo­cose­ly.

With in­fi­nite se­ri­ous­ness then he tossed back his great splen­did head,--shook him­self free ap­par­ent­ly from all un­hap­py mem­ories,--and start­ed for his work-​room,--a great gor­geous­ly vi­tal, ex­traor­di­nar­ily tal­ent­ed, gray-​haired _boy_ lust­ing joy­ous­ly for his own work and play again--af­ter a month's dis­tress­ing ill­ness!

From the edge of the hall he turned round and made a re­al­ly boy­ish gri­mace at her.

“Now if I on­ly had the horns or the cloven hoof--that you think I have,” he called, “what an easy time I'd make of it, rak­ing over all the let­ters and ads. that are stacked up on my desk!”

“Yes, sir,” said the White Linen Nurse.

On­ly once did he come back in­to the kitchen or din­ing-​room for any­thing. It was at sev­en o'clock. And the White Linen Nurse was still wash­ing dish­es.

As ra­di­ant as a gray-​haired god he tow­ered up in the door­way. The boy­ish re­ju­ve­na­tion in him was even more startling than be­fore.

“I'm feel­ing so much like a fight­ing cock this morn­ing,” he said, “I think I'll tack­le that pa­per on sur­gi­cal dis­eases of the pan­creas that I have to read at Bal­ti­more next month!” A lit­tle startling­ly the gray lines fur­rowed in­to his cheeks again. “For Heav­en's sake--see that I'm not dis­turbed by any­thing!” he ad­mon­ished her warn­ing­ly.

It must have been al­most eight o'clock when the ear-​split­ting scream from up­stairs sent the White Linen Nurse plung­ing out pan­ic-​strick­en in­to the hall.

“Oh, Peach! Peach!” yelled the Lit­tle Girl's fren­zied voice. “Come quick and see--what Fat Fa­ther's do­ing _now_--out on the pi­az­za!”

Jerk­ily the White Linen Nurse swerved off through the French door that opened di­rect­ly on the pi­az­za. Had the Se­nior Sur­geon hung him­self, she tor­tured, in some wild, tem­po­rary aber­ra­tion of the “morn­ing af­ter”?

But staunch­ly and re­as­sur­ing­ly from the fur­ther end of the _pi­az­za_ the Se­nior Sur­geon's broad back be­lied her hor­rid ter­ror. Quite prosi­ly and in ap­par­ent­ly per­fect health he was stand­ing close to the rail­ing of the pi­az­za. On a ta­ble di­rect­ly be­side him rest­ed four emp­ty bird cages. Just at that par­tic­ular mo­ment he was in­or­di­nate­ly busy re­leas­ing the last ca­nary from the fifth cage. Both hands were smouched with ink and be­hind his left ear a foun­tain pen dal­lied dar­ing­ly.

At the very first sound of the White Linen Nurse's step the Se­nior Sur­geon turned and faced her with a sheep­ish sort of de­fi­ance.

“Well, now, I imag­ine,” he said, “well, now, I imag­ine I've re­al­ly made you--mad!”

“No, not mad, sir,” fal­tered the White Linen Nurse. “No, not mad, sir,--but very far from well.” Coax­ing­ly with a per­fect­ly fu­tile hand she tried to lure one as­ton­ished yel­low song­ster back from a sway­ing yel­low bush. “Why, they'll die, sir!” she protest­ed. “Sav­age cats will get them!”

“It's a choice of their lives--or mine!” said the Se­nior Sur­geon terse­ly.

“Yes, sir,” droned the White Linen Nurse.

Quite snap­pish­ly the Se­nior Sur­geon turned up­on her. “For Heav­en's sake--do you think--ca­nary birds are more valu­able than I am?” he de­mand­ed sten­to­ri­ous­ly.

Most dis­con­cert­ing­ly be­fore his glow­er­ing eyes a great, sad, round tear rolled sud­den­ly down the White Linen Nurse's flushed cheek.

“N--o,--not more valu­able,” con­ced­ed the White Linen Nurse. “But more--c-​cun­ning.”

Up to the roots of the Se­nior Sur­geon's hair a flush of re­al con­tri­tion spread hot­ly.

“Why--Rae!” he stam­mered. “Why, what a beast I am! Why--! Why!” In sin­cere per­plex­ity he be­gan to rack his brains for some ad­equate ex­cuse,--some ad­equate ex­pla­na­tion. “Why, I'm sure I didn't mean to make you feel bad­ly,” he per­sist­ed. “On­ly I've lived alone so long that I sup­pose I've just nat­ural­ly drift­ed in­to the way of hav­ing a thing if I want­ed it and--throw­ing it away if I didn't! And ca­nary birds, now? Well--re­al­ly--” he be­gan to glow­er all over again. “Oh, thun­der!” he fin­ished abrupt­ly, “I guess I'll go on down to the hos­pi­tal where I be­long!”

A lit­tle wist­ful­ly the White Linen Nurse stepped for­ward. “The hos­pi­tal?” she said. “Oh,--the hos­pi­tal? Do you think that per­haps you could come home a lit­tle bit ear­li­er than usu­al--to-​night--and--and help me catch--just one of the ca­naries?”

“What?” gasped the Se­nior Sur­geon. In­cred­ulous­ly with a very inky fin­ger he point­ed at his own breast. “What? I?” he de­mand­ed. “I? Come home--ear­ly--from the hos­pi­tal to help--you--catch a ca­nary?”

Dis­gust­ed­ly with­out fur­ther com­ment he turned and stalked back again in­to the house.

The dis­gust was still in his walk as he left the house an hour lat­er. Watch­ing his ex­it down the long grav­el path the Lit­tle Crip­pled Girl com­ment­ed au­di­bly on the mat­ter.

“Peach! Peach!” called the Lit­tle Crip­pled Girl. “What makes Fat Fa­ther walk so--sur­prised?”

Peo­ple at the hos­pi­tal al­so com­ment­ed up­on him.

“Gee!” gig­gled the new nurs­es. “We bet he 's a Tar­tar! But isn't his hair cute? And say--” gos­siped the new nurs­es, “is it re­al­ly true that that Mal­gre­gor girl was pinned down per­fect­ly help­less un­der the car and he wouldn't let her out till she'd promised to mar­ry him? Isn't it _aw­ful?_ Isn't it _ro­man­tic_?”

“Why! Dr. Faber 's back!” flut­tered the se­nior nurs­es. “Isn't he won­der­ful? Isn't he beau­ti­ful? But, oh, say,” they wor­ried, “what do you sup­pose Rae ev­er finds to talk with him about? Would she ev­er dare talk _things_ to him,--just plain ev­ery-​day _things_,--hats, and go­ing to the the­ater, and what to have for break­fast?--break­fast?” they gasped. “Why, yes, of course!” they rea­soned more sane­ly. “Steak? Eggs? Even oat­meal? Why, peo­ple had to eat--no mat­ter how won­der­ful they were! But evenings?” they spec­ulat­ed more dark­ly. “But evenings?” In the whole range of hu­man ex­pe­ri­ence--was it even so much as re­mote­ly imag­in­able that--evenings--the Se­nior Sur­geon and--Rae Mal­gre­gor--sat in the ham­mock and held hands? “Oh, Gee!” blanched the se­nior nurs­es.

“Good-​morn­ing, Dr. Faber!” greet­ed the Su­per­in­ten­dent of Nurs­es from be­hind her aus­tere of­fice desk.

“Good-​morn­ing, Miss Hartzen!” said the Se­nior Sur­geon.

“Have you had a pleas­ant trip?” quizzed the Su­per­in­ten­dent of Nurs­es.

“Ex­cep­tion­al­ly so, thank you!” said the Se­nior Sur­geon.

“And--Mrs. Faber,--is she well?” per­sist­ed the Su­per­in­ten­dent of Nurs­es con­sci­en­tious­ly.

“Mrs. Faber?” gasped the Se­nior Sur­geon. “Mrs. Faber? Oh, yes! Why, of course! Yes, in­deed--she's ex­traor­di­nar­ily well! I nev­er saw her bet­ter!”

“She must have been--very lone­ly with­out you--this past month?” rasped the Su­per­in­ten­dent of Nurs­es--per­fect­ly po­lite­ly.

“Yes--she was,” flushed the Se­nior Sur­geon. “She--she suf­fered--keen­ly!”

“And you, too?” drawled the Su­per­in­ten­dent of Nurs­es. “It must have been very hard for you.”

“Yes, it was!” sweat­ed the Se­nior Sur­geon. “I suf­fered keen­ly, too!”

Dis­tract­ed­ly he glanced back at the open door. An ex­traor­di­nar­ily large num­ber of nurs­es, in­ternes, or­der­lies, seemed to be hav­ing er­rands up and down the cor­ri­dor that al­lowed them a pe­cu­liar­ly gen­er­ous length of neck to stretch in­to the Su­per­in­ten­dent's of­fice.

“Great Heav­ens!” snapped the Se­nior Sur­geon. “What 's the mat­ter with ev­ery­body this morn­ing?” Tem­pes­tu­ous­ly he start­ed for the door. “Hur­ry up my cas­es, please, Miss Hartzen!” he or­dered. “Send them to the op­er­at­ing room! And let me get to work!”

At eleven o'clock, ab­so­lute­ly calm, ab­so­lute­ly cool,--pure as a girl in his fresh, white op­er­at­ing clothes--clean­er,--skin, hair, teeth, hands,--than any girl who ev­er walked the face of the earth, in a white tiled room as sur­gi­cal­ly clean as him­self, with three or four small, glis­ten­ing in­stru­ments still boil­ing, steam­ing hot--and half a dozen breath­less as­sis­tants al­most as im­mac­ulate as him­self, with his gown, cap and mask ad­just­ed, his gloves fi­nal­ly on, and the faintest pos­si­ble lit­tle grin twitch­ing odd­ly at the cor­ner of his mouth, he “went in” as they say, to a new born ba­by's tor­tured, twist­ed spine--and took out--fifty years per­haps of hunched-​back pain and shame and mor­bid pas­sions flour­ish­ing bane­ful­ly in the dark shades of a dis­or­dered life.

At half-​past twelve he did an ap­pendix op­er­ation on the on­ly son of his best friend. At one o'clock he did an­oth­er ap­pendix op­er­ation. Whom it was on didn't mat­ter. It couldn't have been worse on--any one. At half-​past one no one re­mem­bered to feed him. At two, in an­oth­er man's op­er­ation, he saw the rich­est mer­chant in the city go waft­ed out in­to eter­ni­ty on the fumes of ether tak­en for the lanc­ing of a stye. At three o'clock, pass­ing the open door of one of the pub­lic wait­ing-​rooms, an Ital­ian peas­ant wom­an rushed out and spat in his face be­cause her tu­ber­cu­lar daugh­ter had just died at the san­itar­ium where the Se­nior Sur­geon's mon­ey had sent her. On­ly in this one wild, de­fil­ing mo­ment did the lust for al­co­hol surge up in him again, surge clam­orous­ly, bru­tal­ly, ab­so­lute­ly mer­ci­less­ly, as though in all the known cleansants of the world on­ly in­ter­minable raw whisky was hot enough to cau­ter­ize a pol­lut­ed con­scious­ness. At half past three, as soon as he could change his clothes again, he re-​broke and re-​set an ac­ro­bat's price­less leg. At five o'clock, more to rest him­self than any­thing else, he went up to the au­top­sy am­phithe­ater to look over an ex­hib­it of en­larged hearts, whose trou­bles were per­ma­nent­ly over.

At six o'clock just as he was leav­ing the great build­ing with all its har­row­ing sights, sounds, and smells, a peremp­to­ry tele­phone call from one of the younger sur­geons of the city sum­moned him back in­to the stuffy of­fice again.

“Dr. Faber?”

“Yes.”

“This is Merkley!”

“Yes.”

“Can you come im­me­di­ate­ly and help me with that frac­tured skull case I was telling you about this morn­ing? We'll have to trepan right away!”

“Trepan noth­ing!” grunt­ed the Se­nior Sur­geon. “I've got to go home ear­ly to-​night--and help catch a ca­nary.”

“Catch a--what?” gasped the younger sur­geon.

“A ca­nary!” grinned the Se­nior Sur­geon mirth­less­ly.

“A--_what?_” roared the younger man.

“Oh, shut up, you damned fool! Of course I'll come!” said the Se­nior Sur­geon.

There was no “boy” left in the Se­nior Sur­geon when he reached home that night.

Gray with road-​trav­el, hag­gard with strain and fa­tigue, it was long, long af­ter the rosy sun­set time,--long, long af­ter the yel­low sup­per light, that he came drag­ging up through the sweet-​scent­ed dusk of the gar­den and threw him­self down with­out greet­ing of any sort on the top step of the pi­az­za where the White Linen Nurse's skirts glowed pale­ly through the gloom.

“Well, I put a ca­nary bird back in­to its cage for you!” he con­fid­ed la­con­ical­ly. “It was a lit­tle chap's soul. It sure would have got­ten away be­fore morn­ing.”

“Who was the man that tried to turn it loose--_this_ time?” asked the White Linen Nurse.

“I didn't say that any­body did!” growled the Se­nior Sur­geon.

“Oh,” said the White Linen Nurse. “Oh.” Quite pal­pa­bly a lit­tle shiv­er of flesh and starch went rustling through her. “I've had a won­der­ful day, too!” she con­fid­ed soft­ly. “I've cleaned the at­tic and darned nine pairs of your stock­ings and bought a sewing-​ma­chine--and start­ed to make you a white silk neg­ligee shirt for a sur­prise!”

“Eh?” jerked the Se­nior Sur­geon.

The jerk seemed to lib­er­ate sud­den­ly the faint vi­bra­tion of dish­es and the sound of ice knock­ing lus­cious­ly against a glass.

“Oh, have you had any sup­per, sir?” asked the White Linen Nurse.

With a prodi­gious sigh the Se­nior Sur­geon threw his head back against the pi­az­za rail­ing and stretched his legs a lit­tle fur­ther out along the pi­az­za floor.

“Sup­per?” he groaned. “No! Nor din­ner! Nor break­fast! Nor any oth­er--blan­kety-​blank meal as far back as I can re­mem­ber!” Jan­gling­ly in his voice, fa­tigue, hunger, nerves, crashed to­geth­er like the slammed notes of a pi­ano. “But I wouldn't--move--now,” he snarled, “if all the blan­kety-​blank-​blank foods in Chris­ten­dom--were piled blan­kety-​blank-​blank high--on all the blan­kety-​blank-​blank ta­bles--in this whole blan­kety-​blank-​blank house!”

Ec­stat­ical­ly the White Linen Nurse clapped her hands. “Oh, that's just ex­act­ly what I hoped you'd say!” she cried. “'Cause the sup­per's--right here!”

“Here?” snapped the Se­nior Sur­geon. Tem­pes­tu­ous­ly he be­gan all over again. “I--tell--you--I--wouldn't--lift--my--lit­tle fin­ger--if all the blan­kety-​blank-​blank-​blank--”

“Oh, Goody then!” said the White Linen Nurse. “'Cause now I can feed you! I sort of miss fuss­ing with the ca­nary birds,” she added wist­ful­ly.

“Feed me?” roared the Se­nior Sur­geon. Again some­thing start­ed a lump of ice tin­kling faint­ly in a thin glass. “Feed me?” he be­gan all over again.

Yet with a fra­grant straw­ber­ry half as big as a peach held out sud­den­ly un­der his nose, just from sheer, ir­re­sistible in­stinct he bit out at it--and nipped the White Linen Nurse's fin­ger in­stead.

“Ouch--sir!” said the White Linen Nurse.

Mum­bling­ly down from an up­stairs win­dow, as from a face flat­ted smouch­ing­ly against a wire screen, a peremp­to­ry sum­mons is­sued.

“Peach!--Peach!” called an an­gry lit­tle voice. “If you don't come to bed--now--I'll--I'll say my curs­es in­stead of my prayers!”

A tri­fle ner­vous­ly the White Linen Nurse scram­bled to her feet.

“Maybe I'd--bet­ter go?” she said.

“Maybe--you had!” said the Se­nior Sur­geon quite def­inite­ly.

At the edge of the thresh­old the White Linen Nurse turned for an in­stant.

“Good-​night, Dr. Faber!” she whis­pered.

“Good-​night, Rae Mal­gre­gor--Faber!” said the Se­nior Sur­geon.

“Good-​night--_what?_” gasped the White Linen Nurse.

“Good-​night, Rae Mal­gre­gor--Faber,” re­peat­ed the Se­nior Sur­geon.

Clutch­ing at her skirts as though a mouse were af­ter her, the White Linen Nurse went scut­tling up the stairs.

Very late--on in­to the night--the Se­nior Sur­geon lay there on his pi­az­za floor star­ing out in­to his gar­den. Very com­pan­ion­ably from time to time, like a tame fire­fly, a lit­tle bright spark hov­ered and glowed for an in­stant above the bowl of his pipe. Puff-​puff-​puff, doze-​doze-​doze, throb-​throb-​throb,--on and on and on and on--in­to the sweet-​scent­ed night.