tell on those days when
Sandy's back was particularly bad or the Apostles grew over-despondent;
and it was Bridget who laughed and sang on the gray days when the sun
refused to be cheery. Undoubtedly it was because of all these things
that her cot was in the center of Ward C.

Concerning Bridget herself, hers was a case of arsenical poisoning,
slowly absorbed while winding daisy-stems for an East Broadway
manufacturer of cheap artificial flowers. She had done this for three
years--since she was five--thereby helping her mother to support
themselves and two younger children. She was ten now and the Senior
Surgeon had already reckoned her days.

In the shadow of Bridget's cot was Rosita's crib--Rosita being the
youngest, the most sensitive, and the most given to homesickness. This
last was undoubtedly due to the fact that she was the only child in the
incurable ward blessed in the matter of a home. Her parents were
honest-working Italians who adored her, but who were too ignorant and
indulgent to keep her alive. They came every Sunday, and sat out the
allotted time for visitors beside her crib, while the other children
watched in a silent, hungry-eyed fashion.

Margaret MacLean passed her with a kiss and went on to
Peter--Peter--seven years old--congenital hip disease--and all boy.

"Hello, you!" he shouted, squirming under the kiss that he would not
have missed for anything.

"Hello, you!" answered back the administering nurse, and then she
asked, solemnly, "How's Toby?"

"He's--he's fine. That soap the House Surgeon give me cured his fleas
all up."

Toby was even more mythical than Susan's aunt; she was based on certain
authentic facts, whereas Toby was solely the creation of a dog-adoring
little brain. But no one was ever inconsiderate enough to hint at his
airy fabrication; and Margaret MacLean always inquired after him every
morning with the same interest that she bestowed on the other occupants
of Ward C.

Last in the ward came Michael, a diminutive Russian exile with valvular
heart trouble and a most atrocious vocabulary. The one seemed as
incurable as the other. Margaret MacLean had wrestled with the
vocabulary on memorable occasions--to no avail; and although she had
long since discovered it was a matter of words and not meanings with
him, it troubled her none the less. And because Michael came the
nearest to being the black sheep of this sanitary fold she showed for
him always an unfailing