"I can't help thinking,"--she glanced weakly about the room, where the white iron beds--they were the smallest beds she had ever seen--stood in a row. "Is this a charity place?" "Now, I told you not to worry. No, we don't call it charity, but there is no charge for those who need treatment and cannot afford to pay for it. We don't expect you to be one of the rich patients. Is there anything else?" She tried again to shake her head. All at once she had forgotten what she wanted to know. She was too weak to remember things, even important things. There was a pain at the back of her head, and this pain was shooting in wires down her neck and through her shoulders to her spine. Nothing made any difference. "Don't make an effort. Don't try to talk," he said, and turned away to one of the beds by the door. Hours later, when one of the nurses brought her a cup of broth, she struggled to speak collectedly. "What did the doctor tell me his name is? I don't seem to remember things." "That's because you're still weak. His name is Faraday. He is a celebrated surgeon, and he operated on you because he brought you to the hospital. He was driving by when you were struck. The operation saved your life." "Does he come often?" "Not as a rule. He hasn't time to visit the patients. But he is interested in your case. It is an unusual one, and he is very much interested." "Does he know who I am?" "Yes, the woman you rented a room from read about the accident in the papers, and came to identify you. Can you remember anything of this last week?" "Only that my head hurt me. Yes, and figures passing to and fro against white walls." "It was a wonder you weren't killed. But you're all right now. You'll be as well as you ever were in a little while." "I feel so queer with my head shaved. I can feel it even with the bandages." "That will soon be well, and the scar won't show at all under your hair. You've everything to be thankful for," the nurse concluded in a brisk professional tone. Dorinda was gazing up at her with a strange, groping expression. Her eyes, large, blue, and wistful in the pallor of her face, appeared to have drained all the vitality from her body. "There was something I wanted to ask the doctor," she began. "I don't seem to be able to remember what it was. . . ." "Don't remember," replied the nurse with authority. She hesitated an instant, and stared down into the empty cup. Then, after reflection, she continued clearly and firmly, "It won't hurt you to know that you have been very ill, now that you are getting well again?" Dorinda's features, except for her appealing eyes, were without expression. Yes, she remembered now; she knew what she had wished to ask, "Oh, no, it won't hurt me," she answered. "Well, I thought you'd take it sensibly." After waiting a moment to watch the effect of her words, the nurse turned away and walked briskly out of the ward.