the only one of the gang with a real voice.”
Ellen laughed. She was entirely familiar with the superintendent’s determination to manage things in her own way. She might ask for suggestions—criticisms even, but in the more than two years of Ellen’s association with her, she had not known of Miss Forsyth adopting one suggestion or accepting one bit of criticism, no matter how constructive either might be. Miss Williams, the night superintendent, and she got along beautifully because Hattie Williams kept her ideas to herself. But in spite of this, Ellen liked Miss Forsyth—liked and admired her.
“Oh, well, what does it matter, Ann? I love car o l singing and I didn’t think she would allow it. I wonder why she thought of it this year.”
“Nitwit!” Ann jeered. “Haven’t you tumbled to the fact she’s soft on Braddock? Braddock mentioned the fact that down in the missus’s home town, carols were sung at Christmastime and this year she had mentioned that she missed them. The old girl is failing, they tell me. Really getting ready to pass in her checks at last so it’s no particular strain on Agatha’s part to donate our services to make her happy—or at least less miserable. Do you mean to say you didn’t know she was soft on him?”
“Oh, you! You’re soft in the head, Ann.” Ellen spoke rancor and Ann wasn’t in the least offended. “You know, Ann,” Ellen went on, “Christmas just naturally seems to call for carols.”
Ann wasn’t so sure. As she said, she had no ear for music and had difficulty in following a tune; but Ellen assured her she would lend physical if not vocal beauty to any group and Ann’s interest quickened, then sagged.
“But we’ll be on duty, Ellen. How can we sing carols?”
“We can’t, but that doesn’t alter the fact that we ought to have carols on Christmas Eve. We can listen, can’t we? I’m all for it.”
“Listen? ’Way back here? Probably can’t hear a note. Oh, I don’t care, Ellen. You sing to the ward—they’ll love it.”
The hospital was awakening. Not noisily, but with the subdued hum of a giant beehive. Lights flashed oftener; the elevators swished up and down; telephones rang and from the courtyard below, truck brakes squealed and the siren of the ambulance shrilled as it reached the street. Ann yawned and stretched. Ellen straightened the table and went down the ward for a final inspection before she should go off duty.
With the exception of one or two, the ward was asleep. Ellen paused beside Lady X. Did she look a little less waxen? She felt her pulse, smiled and added a note to her chart. Another night had gone to join its millions of brothers. This one had been without incident and like most quiet, uneventful nights, had been a little trying. Ellen looked forward gratefully to the luxury of a warm bath and bed.
CHAPTER SIX
The tree was up in Ward L—a shapely spruce. Dent and an orderly had placed it at one end of the long room—the end nearest the bed of Lady X. Hospital discipline had relaxed somewhat. Ann and Ellen brought their gaily wrapped packages while the day staff was still on duty and the four girls worked swiftly. At first the mystery girl had shown little interest in the unusual activity going on about her; but when the nurses began hanging the gay decorations and strings of colored lights, the wide, violet eyes glistened.
The whole ward watched—even Mrs. Slavonski, who had been sullen for hours, brightened, and Mrs. Nolan, the latest fractured-hip case, forgot for a moment the excruciating pain and the discomfort of her inactivity and joined with the others in offering suggestions and comments, some of which were, to say the least, decidedly frank.
Angela Dubail, the little diabetic-heart case, wore her perpetual smile, her dark eyes purple rimmed and inordinately brilliant. She lay with her rosary-entwined hands clasped on her childishly flat breast and watched, wanting nothing. She never wanted anything. Ellen
Ellen laughed. She was entirely familiar with the superintendent’s determination to manage things in her own way. She might ask for suggestions—criticisms even, but in the more than two years of Ellen’s association with her, she had not known of Miss Forsyth adopting one suggestion or accepting one bit of criticism, no matter how constructive either might be. Miss Williams, the night superintendent, and she got along beautifully because Hattie Williams kept her ideas to herself. But in spite of this, Ellen liked Miss Forsyth—liked and admired her.
“Oh, well, what does it matter, Ann? I love car o l singing and I didn’t think she would allow it. I wonder why she thought of it this year.”
“Nitwit!” Ann jeered. “Haven’t you tumbled to the fact she’s soft on Braddock? Braddock mentioned the fact that down in the missus’s home town, carols were sung at Christmastime and this year she had mentioned that she missed them. The old girl is failing, they tell me. Really getting ready to pass in her checks at last so it’s no particular strain on Agatha’s part to donate our services to make her happy—or at least less miserable. Do you mean to say you didn’t know she was soft on him?”
“Oh, you! You’re soft in the head, Ann.” Ellen spoke rancor and Ann wasn’t in the least offended. “You know, Ann,” Ellen went on, “Christmas just naturally seems to call for carols.”
Ann wasn’t so sure. As she said, she had no ear for music and had difficulty in following a tune; but Ellen assured her she would lend physical if not vocal beauty to any group and Ann’s interest quickened, then sagged.
“But we’ll be on duty, Ellen. How can we sing carols?”
“We can’t, but that doesn’t alter the fact that we ought to have carols on Christmas Eve. We can listen, can’t we? I’m all for it.”
“Listen? ’Way back here? Probably can’t hear a note. Oh, I don’t care, Ellen. You sing to the ward—they’ll love it.”
The hospital was awakening. Not noisily, but with the subdued hum of a giant beehive. Lights flashed oftener; the elevators swished up and down; telephones rang and from the courtyard below, truck brakes squealed and the siren of the ambulance shrilled as it reached the street. Ann yawned and stretched. Ellen straightened the table and went down the ward for a final inspection before she should go off duty.
With the exception of one or two, the ward was asleep. Ellen paused beside Lady X. Did she look a little less waxen? She felt her pulse, smiled and added a note to her chart. Another night had gone to join its millions of brothers. This one had been without incident and like most quiet, uneventful nights, had been a little trying. Ellen looked forward gratefully to the luxury of a warm bath and bed.
CHAPTER SIX
The tree was up in Ward L—a shapely spruce. Dent and an orderly had placed it at one end of the long room—the end nearest the bed of Lady X. Hospital discipline had relaxed somewhat. Ann and Ellen brought their gaily wrapped packages while the day staff was still on duty and the four girls worked swiftly. At first the mystery girl had shown little interest in the unusual activity going on about her; but when the nurses began hanging the gay decorations and strings of colored lights, the wide, violet eyes glistened.
The whole ward watched—even Mrs. Slavonski, who had been sullen for hours, brightened, and Mrs. Nolan, the latest fractured-hip case, forgot for a moment the excruciating pain and the discomfort of her inactivity and joined with the others in offering suggestions and comments, some of which were, to say the least, decidedly frank.
Angela Dubail, the little diabetic-heart case, wore her perpetual smile, her dark eyes purple rimmed and inordinately brilliant. She lay with her rosary-entwined hands clasped on her childishly flat breast and watched, wanting nothing. She never wanted anything. Ellen
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