The house-surgeon came down to say good-bye. He had always been as free and friendly as Sister Allworthy would allow. They stood a moment at the door together.
“Where are you going to?” he asked.
“Anywhere—nowhere—everywhere; to 'all the airts the wind can blaw.'”
It was a clear, bright morning, with a light, keen frost. On looking out, Glory saw that flags were flying on the public buildings.
“Why, what's going on?” she said.
“Don't you know? It's the ninth of November—Lord Mayor's Day.”
She laughed merrily. “A good omen. I'm the female Dick Whittington! Here goes for it! Good-bye, hospital nursing.—By-bye, doctor.”
She dropped him a playful curtsy at the bottom of the steps, and then tripped along the street.
“What a girl it is!” he thought. “And what is to become of her in this merciless old London?”
She had taken less than a score of steps from the hospital when blinding teardrops leaped from her eyes and ran down her cheeks; but she only dropped her veil and walked on boldly.