"And I? Am I a tree, too," queried Donald with amusement.
She studied him judiciously and then answered with quiet assurance, "Yo're the oak. Hit don't bend, neither."
"And yourself?"
"Why," she laughed, "I'm jest a rose like my name. A rose jest growrn' inter er bush."
"To be sure you are. Except that roses have thorns."
"I hev thorns, too," she said with conviction, and Donald doubted it—then.
"I should plumb love ter take keer of babies an' make 'em well an' strong like yo' do," she went on pensively.
"Perhaps you may, someday. You'll have babies of your own."
"Yes," was her simple reply, "I shall have babies ter love an' keer for, but I meant thet I wanted ter help all little children."
"A children's nurse, perhaps, like those who work with me," and he went on to tell her graphically of the wonderful things done at the Children's Hospital, upon the staff of which he was.