truest tribute, and with the instant composing of the restless ward to peace.
She was pretty in a young, pathetic way, and because to her Christmas was a festival and meant hope and the promise of the young Lord, she played cheerful things.
The ward sat up, remembered that it was not the Sabbath, smiled across from bed to bed.
The probationer, whose name was Wardwell, was a tall, lean girl with a long, pointed nose. She kept up a running accompaniment of small talk to the music.
“Last Christmas,” she said plaintively, “we went out into the country in a hay-wagon and had a real time. I don’t know what I am here for, anyhow. I am a fool.”
“Undoubtedly,” said Carlotta.
“Turkey and goose, mince pie and pumpkin pie, four kinds of cake; that’s the sort of spread we have up in our part of the world. When I think of what I sat down to to-day—!”
She had a profound respect for Carlotta, and her motto in the hospital differed from Sidney’s in that it was to placate her superiors, while Sidney’s had been to care for her patients.
Seeing Carlotta bored, she ventured a little gossip. She had idly glued the label of a medicine bottle on the back of her hand, and was scratching a skull and cross-bones on it.
“I wonder if you have noticed something,” she said, eyes on the label.
“I have noticed that the three-o’clock medicines are not given,” said Carlotta sharply; and Miss Wardwell, still labeled and adorned, made the rounds of the ward.
When she came back she was sulky.
“I’m no gossip,” she said, putting the tray on the table. “If you won’t see, you won’t. That Rosenfeld boy is crying.”
As it was not required that tears be recorded on the record, Carlotta paid no attention to this.
“What won’t I see?”
It required a little urging now. Miss Wardwell swelled with importance and let her superior ask her twice. Then:—
“Dr. Wilson’s crazy about Miss Page.”
A hand seemed to catch Carlotta’s heart and hold it.
“They’re old friends.”
“Piffle! Being an old friend doesn’t make you look at a girl as if you wanted to take a bite out of her. Mark my word, Miss Harrison, she’ll never finish her training; she’ll marry him. I wish,” concluded the probationer plaintively, “that some good-looking fellow like that would take a fancy to me. I’d do him credit. I am as ugly as a mud fence, but I’ve got style.”
She was right, probably. She was long and sinuous, but she wore her lanky, ill-fitting clothes with a certain distinction. Harriet Kennedy would have dressed her in jade green to match her eyes, and with long jade earrings, and made her a fashion.
Carlotta’s lips were dry. The violinist had seen the tears on Johnny Rosenfeld’s white cheeks, and had rushed into rollicking, joyous music. The ward echoed with it. “I’m twenty-one and she’s eighteen,” hummed the ward under its breath. Miss Wardwell’s thin body swayed.
“Lord, how I’d like to dance! If I ever get out of this charnel-house!”
The medicine-tray lay at Carlotta’s elbow; beside it the box of labels. This crude girl was right—right. Carlotta knew it down to the depths of her tortured brain. As inevitably as the night followed the day, she was losing her game. She had lost already, unless—
If she could get Sidney out of the hospital, it would simplify things. She surmised shrewdly that on the Street their interests were wide apart. It was here that they met on common ground.
The lame violin-player limped out of the ward; the shadows of the early winter twilight settled down. At five o’clock Carlotta sent Miss Wardwell to first supper, to the surprise of that seldom surprised person. The ward lay still or shuffled abut quietly. Christmas was over, and there were no evening papers to look forward to.
Carlotta gave the five-o’clock medicines. Then she sat down at the table near the door, with the tray in front of her. There are certain thoughts that are at first functions of the brain; after a long time the spinal cord takes them up and converts them into acts almost automatically. Perhaps because for the last month she had done the thing so often in her mind, its actual performance was almost without conscious thought.
Carlotta took a bottle from her medicine cupboard, and, writing a new label for it, pasted it over the old one. Then she exchanged it for one of the same size on the medicine tray.
In the dining-room, at the probationers’ table, Miss Wardwell was talking.
“Believe me,” she said, “me for the country and the simple life after this. They think I’m only a probationer and don’t see anything, but I’ve got eyes in my head. Harrison is stark crazy over Dr. Wilson, and she thinks I don’t see it. But never mind; I paid, her up to-day for a few of the jolts she has given me.”
Throughout the dining-room busy and competent young women came and ate, hastily or leisurely as their opportunity was, and went on their way again. In their hands they held the keys, not always of life and death perhaps, but of ease from pain, of tenderness, of smooth pillows, and cups of water to thirsty lips. In their eyes, as in Sidney’s, burned the light of service.
But here and there one found women, like Carlotta and Miss Wardwell, who had mistaken their vocation, who railed against the monotony of the life, its limitations, its endless sacrifices. They showed it in their eyes.
Fifty or so against two—fifty who looked out on the world with the fearless glance of those who have seen life to its depths, and, with the broad understanding of actual contact, still found it good. Fifty who were learning or had learned not to draw aside their clean starched skirts from the drab of the streets. And the fifty, who found the very scum of the gutters not too filthy for tenderness and care, let Carlotta and, in lesser measure, the new probationer
