‘She has guessed as much, doctor.’
‘Does she seem to fear the operation?’
‘Not at all. She talks as though it had to be. Do you think it will be successful?’
Dr. Franks shrugged his shoulders, uttering no word by way of reply.
‘I should not like Milly to slip from us,’ continued the nurse.
‘Nor should I. We'll keep her if we can, and if she'll only help us with a good heart we may possibly manage to pull her through.’
And with a mirthless laugh the doctor turned on his heel, removing, when unobserved, his spectacles and wiping the moisture from them and from his eyes.
From the day that Milly entered the great infirmary, the charm of her childhood laid its spell upon all who came near her. Not only was the gloomy ward brighter for her presence, but patients and nurses were infected with her strange personality and undefinable influence. Even the doctors lingered a moment longer at her bedside, looking pensively into the light of those eyes whose fires had been kindled under sunny skies, and at the beauty of that face, kissed into loveliness by the wandering winds that played around Rehoboth heights.
At last the morning of the operation came, and Milly was wheeled into the theatre, where a crew of noisy students were joking and indulging in the frolics which, from time immemorial, have been the privilege of their order. As soon, however, as they caught sight of the child every voice was hushed, and quietness prevailed, for not a few already knew something of her winsomeness and beauty. As she was placed on the operating-table the sunlight fell through the lanthorn, and lighted up the golden clusters of her hair, the welcome rays calling forth from her now pale features a responsive smile. In another minute she lay peaceful and motionless under the anæsthetic—a statue, immobile, yet expressionful, as though carved by some master hand.