The wonder was where the Herr Doctor found these stories. They certainly were not in any of his scientific treatises and he had read nothing else for forty years. If he made them up as he went along, then he must have had more imagination than anyone ever suspected. It was to be noted, however, that in these stories the heroine could trace her beauty, her charm, as well as the success of all her adventures, to the fact that she was very particular to eat as much as possible of whatever was brought to her. “Und so,” as he informed her one night, “if you would be a princess, you must eat und you must sleep. Ach—so you will become gr-ross und r-rosy und peautiful.” “Me?” Gretzel questioned doubtfully. She had never been ambitious in that direction. “You are peautiful already inside,” answered Schriftman. “It does not need much after that to be peautiful outside—choost some fat und some proteids.” “Sum fat an’ sum protydids,” murmured Gretzel, as though committing it to memory. This was a new idea to her—this possibility of being beautiful. For herself she didn’t care, but if Santy wished it, then it was worth trying for. She became a little bit jealous of these German princesses. But a new thought disturbed her. “It’s so hard to be beau-ti-ful when your back aches you,” she sighed. “Ach,” replied the doctor with a frown, “dot iss true. But when we are gr-ross und are r-rosy—so perhaps the ache will go.” Gretzel quickly searched his eyes. She had been told before that this ache might go. It had always been a lie. Now Santy himself had told her. On the whole, she was sorry he had told her this. With all her confidence in him she could not believe that such a thing was possible. And if it were not possible, then—he must be like the others. He had risen to go, and was bending over her as tenderly as a mother. She reached up a thin hand and drew down his shaggy head until her lips rested against his ear. “I’m partickly comfy,” she assured him anxiously. “Let the ache be.” He kissed her lips. “Mein kleine mädchen,” he trembled. “Ach, mein kleine mädchen.” It was three o’clock in the morning when he left her, but he routed Burrell out of bed and made him sit up until half-past four, while he discussed everything under the face of the sun except that which was disturbing him. Burrell, dog-tired, listened patiently, but when Schriftman finally explained himself, he gave a start. “Dot case in Ward A,” Schriftman blurted out, dropping into a broad dialect, as he always did when deeply moved. “I t’ink Richards iss der man to do dot—hein?” “To do Gretzel?” exclaimed Burrell. Schriftman nodded, looking up at Burrell from beneath his wiry eyebrows. “Why, doctor,” cried Burrell, “there’s just one man in the world to do that operation—and that’s you!” Schriftman’s head sank. “Richards is a great operator,” admitted Burrell, “but he hasn’t your nerve. And, good Lord, it’s going to take a man of iron to do that operation without ether.”