written under the name in
a round, plain woman's hand, "This is to wish you a Merry Christmas and
let you know I have not forgotten the project."

The sparkle went out of her face. After a moment she picked up the letter
and compared the address with the writing on the card. It was the same
and, seating herself by the window, she broke the seal. When she had read
the first line under the superscription, she stopped to look at the
signature. It was Katherine Purdy. She turned back and began again:

"_My dear Mrs. Weatherbee:_

"I am the night nurse on Mr. Tisdale's ward. He dictated the message on
his card to me, and I learned your address through ordering the violets of
the Seattle florist for him. It set me wondering whether he has ever let
you know how desperate things were with him. He is the most unselfish man
I ever saw, and the bravest that ever came on this floor. The evening he
arrived the surgeons advised amputating his hand--it was a case of
blood-poisoning--but he said, 'No, I am ready to take the risk; that right
hand is more than half of me, my better half.' He could joke, even then.
And when the infection spread to the arm, it was the same. After that it
was too late to operate; just a question of endurance. And he could endure
all right. My, but he was patient! I wish you could have seen him, as I
did, lying here hour after hour, staring at the ceiling, asking for
nothing, when every nerve in his body must have been on fire. But he won
through. He is lying here still, weak and pale enough, but safe.

"Maybe I seem impertinent, and I suppose I am young and foolish, but I
don't care; I wouldn't be hard as nails, like some in this clinic, if it
was to cost me my diploma. I came from the Pacific west--I am going back
there as soon as I graduate--and a girl from there never can learn to
bottle her feelings till she looks like a graven image. Besides, I know I
am writing to a western woman. But I want to say right here he never made
a confidant of me, never said one word, intentionally, about you, but
there were nights when his temperature was running from a hundred and four
degrees that he got to talking some. Most of the time he was going all
over that terrible trip to find poor Mr. Weatherbee, and once, when he was
hunting birds along some glacier, he kept hearing David singing and
calling him. Again he was just having the best, quiet little visit with
him. My, how he loved that man! And when it wasn't Dav