Perplexedly with big staring eyes the Little Crippled Girl glanced up at this strange fatherish person who sounded so suddenly small and scared like herself.  Jealous instantly of her own prerogatives she dropped her futile labors on the mud-stained silk stockings and scrambled precipitously for the White Linen Nurse’s lap where she nestled down finally after many gyrations, and sat glowering forth at all possible interlopers.

“Don’t leave any of us!” she ordered with a peremptoriness not unmixed with supplication.

“Surely some one will see the fire and come and get us,” conceded the Senior Surgeon.

“Yes—­surely,” mused the White Linen Nurse.  Just at that moment she was mostly concerned with adjusting the curve of her shoulder to the curve of the Little Girl’s head.  “I could sit more comfortably,” she suggested to the Senior Surgeon, “if you’d let go my skirt.”

“Let go of your skirt?  Who’s touching your skirt?” gasped the Senior Surgeon incredulously.  Once again the blood mounted darkly to his face.  “I think I’ll get up—­and walk around a bit,” he confided coldly.

“Do, sir,” said the White Linen Nurse.

Ouchily with a tweak of pain through his sprained back the Senior Surgeon sat suddenly down again.  “I sha’n’t get up till I’m good and ready!” he attested.

“I wouldn’t, sir,” said the White Linen Nurse.

Very slowly, very complacently, all the while she kept right on renovating the Little Girl’s personal appearance, smoothing a wrinkled stocking, tucking up obstreperous white ruffles, tugging down parsimonious purple hems, loosening a pinchy hook, tightening a wobbly button.  Very slowly, very complacently the Little Girl drowsed off to sleep with her weazened little iron-cased legs stretched stiffly out before her.  “Poor little legs!  Poor little legs!  Poor little legs!” crooned the White Linen Nurse.

“I don’t know—­as you need to—­make a song about it!” winced the Senior Surgeon.  “It’s just about the crudest case of complete muscular atrophy that I’ve ever seen!”

Blandly the White Linen Nurse lifted her big blue eyes to his.  “It wasn’t her ‘complete muscular atrophy’ that I was thinking about!” she said.  “It’s her panties that are so unbecoming!”

“Eh?” jumped the Senior Surgeon.

“Poor little legs—­poor little legs—­poor little legs,” resumed the White Linen Nurse droningly.

Very slowly, very complacently, all around them April kept right on—­being April.

Very slowly, very complacently, all around them the grass kept On growing, and the trees kept right on budding.  Very slowly, very complacently, all around them the blue sky kept right on fading into its early evening dove-colors.

Nothing brisk, nothing breathless, nothing even remotely hurried was there in all the landscape except just the brook,—­and the flash of a bird,—­and the blaze of the crackling automobile.