Gazing down worriedly at the lace-ruffled sleeve of her night-dress, the White Linen Nurse made her first public speech to the world at large. “Who put me to bed?” whispered the White Linen Nurse. Ecstatically the Little Crippled Girl began to pound her fists on the foot-board of the bed. “Father did!” she cried in unmistakable triumph. “All the little hooks, all the little buttons! wasn’t it cunning?” The Senior Surgeon would hardly have been human if he hadn’t glanced back suddenly over his shoulder at the White Linen Nurse’s quickly changing color. Quite irrepressibly, as he saw the red blood come surging home again into her cheeks, a short, chuckling little laugh escaped him. “I guess you’ll live now,” he remarked dryly. Then because a Senior Surgeon can’t stay home on the mere impulse of the moment from a great rushing hospital just because one member of his household happens to faint perfectly innocently in the morning, he hurried on to his work again, and saved a little boy, and lost a little girl, and mended a fractured thigh, and eased a gunshot wound, and came dashing home at noon in one of his thousand-dollar hours to feel the White Linen Nurse’s pulse and broil her a bit of tenderloin steak with his own thousand-dollar hands; and then went dashing off again to do one major operation or another, telephoned home once or twice during the afternoon to make sure that everything was all right, and, finding that the White Linen Nurse was comfortably up and about again, went sprinting off fifty miles somewhere on a meningitis consultation, and came dragging home at last, somewhere near midnight, to a big, black house brightened only by a single light in the kitchen, where the White Linen Nurse went tiptoeing softly from stove to pantry in deft preparation of an appetizing supper for him. Quite roughly again, without smile or appreciation, the Senior Surgeon took her by the shoulders and turned her out of the kitchen and started her up the stairs. “Are you an idiot?” he said. “Are you an imbecile?” he came back and called up the stairs to her just as she was disappearing from the upper landing. Then up and down, round and round, on and on and on, the Senior Surgeon began suddenly to pace again. Only, for some unexplainable reason to the White Linen Nurse up-stairs, his workroom didn’t seem quite large enough for his pacing this night. Along the broad piazza she heard his footsteps creak. Far, far into the morning, lying warm and snug in her own little bed, she heard his footsteps crackling through the wet-leafed garden paths.