“But, sir—” fluttered the White Linen Nurse. Her face was suddenly pinker than any rose that ever bloomed.
With an impulse absolutely novel to him, the Senior Surgeon turned and swung his little daughter very gently to his shoulder.
“Your Aunt Agnes is coming to stay with you in just about ten minutes,” he affirmed. “That’s what’s going to happen to you. And maybe there’ll be a pony—a white pony.”
“But Peach is so—pleasant!” wailed the Little Crippled Girl. “Peach is so pleasant!” she began to scream and kick.
“So it seems,” growled the Senior Surgeon; “and she’s—dying of it.”
Tearfully the Little Girl wriggled down to the ground, and hobbled around and thrust her finger-tip into the White Linen Nurse’s blushiest cheek.
“I don’t want Peach to die,” she admitted worriedly; “but I don’t want anybody to take her away.”
“The pony is very white,” urged the Senior Surgeon with a diplomacy quite alien to him.
Abruptly the Little Girl turned and faced him.
“What color is Aunt Agnes?” she asked vehemently.