't be offended--"

"Don't apologize for making me so happy!" she cried. "It's wonderful,
really. And the little hand is for pulses! How many queer things you
know!"

After that she must pin it on, and slip in to stand before his mirror
and inspect the result. It gave Le Moyne a queer thrill to see her there
in the room among his books and his pipes. It make him a little sick,
too, in view of to-morrow and the thousand-odd to-morrows when she would
not be there.

"I've kept you up shamefully,'" she said at last, "and you get up so
early. I shall write you a note from the hospital, delivering a little
lecture on extravagance--because how can I now, with this joy shining on
me? And about how to keep Katie in order about your socks, and all sorts
of things. And--and now, good-night."

She had moved to the door, and he followed her, stooping a little to
pass under the low chandelier.

"Good-night," said Sidney.

"Good-bye--and God bless you."

She went out, and he closed the door softly behind her.

CHAPTER IX

Sidney never forgot her early impressions of the hospital, although they
were chaotic enough at first. There were uniformed young women
coming and going, efficient, cool-eyed, low of voice. There were
medicine-closets with orderly rows of labeled bottles, linen-rooms with
great stacks of sheets and towels, long vistas of shining floors and
lines of beds. There were brisk internes with duck clothes and brass
buttons, who eyed her with friendly, patronizing glances. There were
bandages and dressings, and great white screens behind which were played
little or big dramas, baths or deaths, as the case might be. And over
all brooded the mysterious authority of the superintendent of the
training-school, dubbed the Head, for short.

Twelve hours a day, from seven to seven, with the off-duty intermission,
Sidney labored at tasks which revolted her soul. She swept and
dusted the wards, cleaned closets, folded sheets and towels, rolled
bandages--did everything but nurse the sick, which was what she had come
to do.

At night she did not go home. She sat on the edge of her narrow white
bed and soaked her aching feet in hot water and witch hazel, and
practiced taking pulses on her own slender wrist, with K.'s little
watch.

Out of all the long, hot days, two periods stood out clearly, to be
waited for and cherished. One was when, early in the afternoon, with
the ward in spotless order, the shades drawn agai