ly believe that's all there is to it."

"If that's the whole thing, that's hardly a mad passion." He tried to
smile; succeeded faintly.

"Well, of course, there's this, too. I know he'll never look at me.
I'll be one of forty nurses; indeed, for three months I'll be only a
probationer. He'll probably never even remember I'm in the hospital at
all."

"I see. Then, if you thought he was in love with you, things would be
different?"

"If I thought Dr. Max Wilson was in love with me," said Sidney solemnly,
"I'd go out of my head with joy."

One of the new qualities that K. Le Moyne was cultivating was of living
each day for itself. Having no past and no future, each day was worth
exactly what it brought. He was to look back to this day with mingled
feelings: sheer gladness at being out in the open with Sidney; the
memory of the shock with which he realized that she was, unknown to
herself, already in the throes of a romantic attachment for Wilson; and,
long, long after, when he had gone down to the depths with her and
saved her by his steady hand, with something of mirth for the untoward
happening that closed the day.

Sidney fell into the river.

They had released Reginald, released him with the tribute of a
shamefaced tear on Sidney's part, and a handful of chestnuts from K. The
little squirrel had squeaked his gladness, and, tail erect, had darted
into the grass.

"Ungrateful little beast!" said Sidney, and dried her eyes. "Do you
suppose he'll ever think of the nuts again, or find them?"

"He'll be all right," K. replied. "The little beggar can take care of
himself, if only--"

"If only what?"

"If only he isn't too friendly. He's apt to crawl into the pockets of
any one who happens around."

She was alarmed at that. To make up for his indiscretion, K. suggested a
descent to the river. She accepted eagerly, and he helped her down. That
was another memory that outlasted the day--her small warm hand in his;
the time she slipped and he caught her; the pain in her eyes at one of
his thoughtless remarks.

"I'm going to be pretty lonely," he said, when she had paused in the
descent and was taking a stone out of her low shoe. "Reginald gone, and
you going! I shall hate to come home at night." And then, seeing her
wince: "I've been whining all day. For Heaven's sake, don't look like
that. If there's one sort of man I detest more than another, it's a man
who is sorry for himself. Do you suppose your mother woul