“Will you take that, Miss Hamlin?” the nurse in charge of the case asked the tallest and fairest of the young assistants.
“Certainly.” Eleanor, demure in cap and kerchief as the most ravishing of young Priscillas, rose obediently at the request. “May I read to her a little if she wants me to?” 283
“Yes, if you keep the door closed. I think most of the others are sleeping.”
The little old lady who had just had her appendix out, smiled weakly up at Eleanor.
“I hoped ’twould be you,” she said, “and then after I’d rung I lay in fear and trembling lest one o’ them young flipperti-gibbets should come, and get me all worked up while she was trying to shift me. I want to be turned the least little mite on my left side.”
“That’s better, isn’t it?” Eleanor asked, as she made the adjustment.
“I dunno whether that’s better, or whether it just seems better to me, because ’twas you that fixed me,” the little old lady said. “You certainly have got a soothin’ and comfortin’ way with you.”
“I used to take care of my grandmother years ago, and the more hospital work I do, the more it comes back to me,—and the better I remember the things that she liked to have done for her.”
“There’s nobody like your own kith and kin,” the little old lady sighed. “There’s none left of mine. That other nurse—that black haired one—she said you was an orphan, alone in the world. Well, I pity a young girl alone in the world.” 284
“It’s all right to be alone in the world—if you just keep busy enough,” Eleanor said. “But you mustn’t talk any more. I’m going to give you your medicine and then sit here and read to you.”