By some subtle power Priscilla had thought and talked her fancy far and away from the plain room of St. Albans. Her longing, her quaint "for which?" the memory of the Indian guide and the little white birch had performed a miracle. Through the excitement and elation stole the fantastic power of childhood. She was on her Road, bound for her Heart's Desire! No doubt, no misgiving, assailed the moment of joy. Forward, just a little beyond, success awaited her. The possibility of defeat was over forever. From now on, through weariness, toil, and perhaps suffering, she was going to her own. She had never realized the tense mental and physical strain through which she had passed; she did not realize it now, but with the relaxation came an almost dangerous exhilaration. The present, only so far as it verified the past, had no hold upon her; she let herself go.
Back again was she in Kenmore. It was springtime, and the red rocks and hemlocks shone and the water sparkled; she heard it lapping against the tiny islands, so glad was it to be free of the winter's grasp. Some one was dancing to the Spring's Call—a small, graceful thing with a bright red cape flying on the wind, the soft wind of the In-Place. There was music, too! Oh! how clearly it came rising and falling; and then, in the bare hospital room, the blue-clad nurse tripped this way and that, while memory held true to note and step!
Oh! It was on again, on again, that dear old dance. It dried the tears in the tender eyes and held the smile on the joyous lips. Then, as suddenly as it had begun, the dance ceased, a flushed face confronted the reflection in the glass, and a low curtsey followed, while a reverent voice repeated as if in prayer:
"Skib, skib, skibble—de—de—dosh!"
The words came of their own volition; they were part and kin to the mood that held and swayed her. They were a pagan plea for guidance and protection in the opening life where wind and fury would beset her.
Suddenly words of everyday life found their way to her detached consciousness and recalled her to the present with almost cruel force.
"It's the little Canuck he wants! Just fancy! I heard him say so to—to Mrs. Thomas. Such injustice! But there the old Grenadier comes now. Hustle!"
Priscilla heard the scampering feet, then, after a moment's pause, the dignified advance of the superintendent. There was a tap on the door. The doors of some rooms, owing to discipline, were never tapped by Mrs. Thomas, but the reason that compelled her to show this courtesy to Priscilla also caused her to wish this young Canadian was a less serious person; one more prone to frivol in her "hours off," and not have, for her most intimate companion, the strange dwarf. She could have forgiven Priscilla Glenn if, having overdone her "late leave," she had crawled into a back window to escape punishment. It would have made her more understandable. As it was, Mrs. Thomas tapped!
"Come in, please," said Priscilla, and the large, handsome superintendent entered and sat down.
"I thought I would come and tell you," she said, trying to keep her professional expression while her maternal heart warmed to the girl, "that you have been highly honoured. There is to be a very important operation to-morrow at three o'clock. Doctor Ledyard is to perform it, assisted by his young partner. He has asked for several nurses, and he named you—singled you out. He has observed you; wishes to—use you. It's a great compliment, Miss Glynn." So often had Priscilla corrected, to no avail, the wrong pronouncing of her name, that she now accepted it without further demur. Flushing and trembling, she went close to Mrs. Thomas and held her hands out impulsively.