"Well, now, I imagine," he said, "well, now, I imagine I've really made you—mad!"
"No, not mad, sir," faltered the White Linen Nurse. "No, not mad, sir,—but very far from well." Coaxingly with a perfectly futile hand she tried to lure one astonished yellow songster back from a swaying yellow bush. "Why, they'll die, sir!" she protested. "Savage cats will get them!"
"It's a choice of their lives—or mine!" said the Senior Surgeon tersely.
"Yes, sir," droned the White Linen Nurse.
Quite snappishly the Senior Surgeon turned upon her. "For Heaven's sake—do you think—canary birds are more valuable than I am?" he demanded stentoriously.
Most disconcertingly before his glowering eyes a great, sad, round tear rolled suddenly down the White Linen Nurse's flushed cheek.
"N—o,—not more valuable," conceded the White Linen Nurse. "But more—c-cunning."
Up to the roots of the Senior Surgeon's hair a flush of real contrition spread hotly.
"Why—Rae!" he stammered. "Why, what a beast I am! Why—! Why!" In sincere perplexity he began to rack his brains for some adequate excuse,—some adequate explanation. "Why, I'm sure I didn't mean to make you feel badly," he persisted. "Only I've lived alone so long that I suppose I've just naturally drifted into the way of having a thing if I wanted it and—throwing it away if I didn't! And canary birds, now? Well—really—" he began to glower all over again. "Oh, thunder!" he finished abruptly, "I guess I'll go on down to the hospital where I belong!"
A little wistfully the White Linen Nurse stepped forward. "The hospital?" she said. "Oh,—the hospital? Do you think that perhaps you could come home a little bit earlier than usual—to-night—and—and help me catch—just one of the canaries?"