uld share it
with, it is the House Surgeon."]

III

WARD C

A welcoming shout went up from Ward C as Margaret MacLean entered. It
was lusty enough to have come from the throats of healthy children, and
it would have sounded happily to the most impartial ears; to the nurse
in charge it was a very pagan of gladness.

"Wish you good morning, good meals, and good manners," laughed Margaret
MacLean; and then she went from crib to crib with a special greeting
for each one. Oh, she firmly believed that a great deal depended on
how the day began.

In the first crib lay Pancho, of South American parentage, partially
paralyzed and wholly captivating. He had been in Saint Margaret's
since babyhood--he was six now--and had never worn anything but a
little hospital shirt.

"Good morning, Brown Baby," she said, kissing his forehead. "It's just
the day for you out on the sun-porch; and you'll hear birds--lots of
them."

"Wobins?"

"Yes, and bluebirds, too. I've heard them already."

Next came Sandy--merry of heart--a humpback laddie from Aberdeen. His
parents had gone down with the steerage of a great ocean liner, and
society had cared for him until the first horror of the tragedy had
passed; then some one fortunately had mentioned Saint Margaret's, and
society was relieved of its burden. In the year he had spent here his
Aberdonian burr had softened somewhat and a number of American
colloquialisms had crept into his speech; but for all that he was "the
braw canny Scot"--as the House Surgeon always termed him--and he
objected to kisses. So the good-morning greeting was a hearty
hand-shake between the two--comrade fashion.

"It wad be a bonnie day i' Aberdeen," he reminded her, blithely. "But
'tis no the robins there 'at wad be singin'."

"Shall I guess?"

"Na, I'll tell ye. Laverocks!"

"Really, Sandy?" And then she suddenly remembered something. "Now you
guess what you're going to have for supper to-night."

"Porridge?"

"No; scones!"

"Bully!" And Sandy clapped his hands ecstatically.

Beside Sandy lay Susan--smart, shrewd, and American, with braced legs
and back, and a philosophy that failed her only on Trustee Days. But
as calendars are not kept in Ward C no one knew what this day was; and
consequently Susan was grinning all over her pinched, gnome-like little
face. Margaret MacLean kissed her on both cheeks; the Susan-kind
hunger for affection, but the world rarely finds it out and th