Early next morning the doctor came—a thin young man with a stoop, and a crop of sandy hair that stood upright from his forehead. Tilda detested him.
He and the Second Nurse talked apart for quite a long while, and paid no attention to the child, who lay shamming a doze, but with her ears open.
She heard the doctor say—
"She? Oh, move her to the far end of the ward."
The Second Nurse muttered something, and he went on—
"She is well, practically. All she wants now is someone to keep an eye on her, make her lie up for a couple of hours every day, and box her ears if she won't."
"That's me," thought Tilda. "I'm to be moved out of the way because t'other's going to die; and if she's going to die, there's no time to be lost."
She stirred, lifted her head, and piped—
"Doctor!"
"Hullo, imp! I thought you were sleeping."