“No!” The doctor fairly thundered it forth.
She stooped and pulled away a fold of the blanket with the tips of her fingers. “Eet look ver’ ugly—like eet die. I theenk—all the same.”
The doctor caught up his cast-off clothing and flung himself out of the room. Sheila watched him go, a faint smile pulling at the corners of her mouth. Strange! He had so evidently reached the end of his self-control, optimism, and patience, while she was just beginning to find hers. In the sweep of a second things looked wonderfully clear and hopeful. She thought she could understand what was in the mind and heart of the señora; what was more significant, she thought she could understand the reason for it. And what you can understand you can cope with.
She watched the señora searching in this trunk and that; she saw her jerk forth a diminutive dress of embroidery and fluted lace; while she thought the whole thing through to the finish and smiled one of her old inscrutable smiles.
“Pret’ dress,” said the señora. “Plent’ lace and reebon. You put on for bury eet—I go find padre.”
“No,” said Sheila, emphatically, “you stay here. I’ll go and find the padre.”
She left them both in the charge of the corridor nurse and flew for the telephone. It took her less than a minute to get Father O’Friel; it took but a trifle more for her to outline her plan and bind him to it. And Father O’Friel, with a comprehension to match his conscientiousness, and a sense of humor to match them both, hardly knew whether to be shocked or amused.
“Why not appeal to the baby’s father?”
“Realize it takes a month for a letter to reach that little South American ant-hill? Write now if you want to, but let me be trying my way while the letter is traveling.”
“All right. But if it doesn’t work—”