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“She’s in bad shape, is she?”

“She may recover, but she’ll be badly scarred–not her face, but her chest and shoulders.”

That was another way of looking at it. If the girl was scarred—-

“Just what do you want me to do?” she asked. Now that it was down to brass tacks and no talk about home and mother, she was more comfortable.

“If you could just come over to the hospital while her people are there and–and say she’d lived with you all the time—-“

“That’s the truth all right!”

“And–that she worked for you, sewing–she sews very well, she says. And–oh, you’ll know what to say; that she’s been–all right, you know; anything to make them comfortable and happy.”

Now the stout woman was softening–not that she was really hard, but she had developed a sort of artificial veneer of hardness, and good impulses had a hard time crawling through.

“I guess I could do that much,” she conceded. “She nursed me when I was down and out with the grippe and that worthless nigger was drunk in the kitchen. But you folks over there have got a parrot that belongs to me. What about that?”

The Probationer knew about the parrot. The Dummy had slipped it into the ward more than once and its profanity had delighted the patients. The Avenue Girl had been glad to see it too; and as it sat on the bedside table and shrieked defiance and oaths the Dummy had smiled benignly. John and the dove–the girl and the parrot!

“I am sorry about the parrot. I–perhaps I could buy him from you.”

She got out her shabby little purse, in which she carried her munificent monthly allowance of eight dollars and a little money she had brought from home.

“Twenty dollars takes him. That’s what she owed me.”

The Probationer had seventeen dollars and eleven cents. She spread it out in her lap and counted it twice.

“I’m afraid that’s all,” she said. She had hoped the second count would show up better. “I could bring the rest next month.”

The Probationer folded the money together and held it out. The stout woman took it eagerly.

“He’s yours,” she said largely. “Don’t bother about the balance. When do you want me?”

“I’ll send you word,” said the Probationer, and got up. She was almost dizzy with excitement and the feeling of having no money at all in the world and a parrot she did not want. She got out into the air somehow and back to the hospital. She took a bath immediately and put on everything fresh, and felt much better–but very poor. Before she went on duty she said a little prayer about thermometers–that she should not break hers until she had money for a new one.

* * * * *

Father Feeny came and lined up six budding priests outside the door of the ward. He was a fine specimen of manhood and he had asked no questions at all. The Senior thought she had better tell him something, but he put up a white hand.

“What does it matter, sister?” he said cheerfully. “Yesterday is gone and to-day is a new day. Also there is to-morrow”–his Irish eyes twinkled–“and a fine day it will be by the sunset.”

Then he turned to his small army.

“Boys,” he said, “it’s a poor leader who is afraid to take chances with his men. I’m going first”–he said fir-rst. “It’s a small thing, as I’ve told you–a bit of skin and it’s over. Go in smiling and come out smiling! Are you ready, sir?” This to the interne.

That was a great day in the ward. The inmates watched Father Feeny and the interne go behind the screens, both smiling, and they watched the father come out very soon after, still smiling but a little bleached. And they watched the line patiently waiting outside the door, shortening one by one. After a time the smiles were rather forced, as if waiting was telling on them; but there was no deserter–only one six-foot youth, walking with a swagger to contribute his little half inch or so of cuticle, added a sensation to the general excitement by fainting halfway up the ward; and he remained in blissful unconsciousness until it was all over.