nt Margaret's had suddenly grown too small to hold both the Senior
Surgeon and himself. Strangely enough, this troubled him little; there
are times in a man's life when even the most momentous of happenings
shrink into nothing beside the simple process of telling the girl he
loves that he loves her.

The President was somewhat startled by the House Surgeon's commonplace
acceptance of the board's decision; and he returned to the board-room
distinctly puzzled.

Meanwhile Margaret MacLean, having waited outside of Ward C for her
cheeks to cool and her eyes to dry, opened the door and went in.

Ward C had been fed by the assistant nurse and put to bed; that is, all
who could limp or wheel themselves about the room were back in their
cribs, and the others were no longer braced or bolstered up. As she
had expected, gloom canopied every crib and cot; beneath, eight small
figures, covered to their noses, shook with held-back sobs or wailed
softly. According to the custom that had unwittingly established
itself, Ward C was crying itself to sleep. Not that it knew what it
was crying about, it being merely a matter of atmosphere and unstrung
nerves; but that is cause enough to turn the mind of a sick child all
awry, twisting out happiness and twisting in peevish, fretful feelings.

She stood by the door, unnoticed, looking down the ward. Pancho lay
wound up in his blanket like a giant chrysalis, rolling in silent
misery. Sandy was stretched as straight and stiff as if he had been
"laid out"; his eyes were closed, and there was a stolid,
expressionless set to his features. Margaret MacLean knew that it
betokened much internal disturbance. Susan, ex-philosopher, was
sobbing aloud, pulling with rebellious fingers at the pieces of iron
that kept her head where nature had planned it. The Apostles gripped
hands and moaned in unison, while Peter hugged his blanket, seeking
thereby some consolation for the dispelled Toby. Toby persistently
refused to be conjured up on Trustee Days.

Only Bridget was alert and watchful. One hand was slipped through the
bars of Rosita's crib, administering comforting pats to the rhythmic
croon of an Irish reel. Every once in a while her eyes would wander to
the neighboring cots with the disquiet of an over-troubled mother; the
only moments of real unhappiness or worry Bridget ever knew were those
which brought sorrow to the ward past her power of mending.

To Margaret MacLean, standing the