Ezra grunted derision, but she held out her hand and smiled up at him so whole-heartedly that he was surprised into an answering smile.
“You’re a queer one,” he said, “but you’re better than most.” It was grudging, inadequate, but coming from Ezra it was glowing tribute, and Peggy went out to the car in high spirits.
“I’m going to miss Ezra,” she said as the doctor tucked her in. “Of course he isn’t like Mr. Archibald, but I’ve got real fond of him.”
“Holy Smoke!” commented Dr. Fullerton.
“I have,” she insisted, “and I’m sure now that he likes me. He said I was better than most. That’s a lot for Ezra to say.”
“It’s impassioned eulogy,” said the doctor,—“but, Peg, speaking in cold blood, as doctor to nurse and without any of Ezra’s overflowing sentiment, I’ll admit that you are better than most. You really ought to be trained for a nurse, Peg.”
The small girl’s face flushed with happiness at the praise.
“It’d be lovely,” she said, “but I can’t, because I’m going to be married and I guess my own children will keep me pretty busy. I do hope they’ll have measles and whooping cough and all those things early. It’s so much better, isn’t it? And it’ll take a lot of time for eight of them to have everything.”
“That’s a fact. It will,” agreed the doctor. “You’re counting on eight?”
She nodded.