“I guess he wants to know whether that girl from the Avenue’s going to get well,” said Irish Delia.  “He seems to know her.”

There was a titter through the ward at this.  Old Maggie’s gossiping tongue had been busy during the hour.  From pity the ward had veered to contempt.

“Humph!” said the Senior, and put the orange back.  “Why, yes; I guess she’ll get well.  But how in Heaven’s name am I to let him know?”

She was a resourceful person, however, and by pointing to the Avenue Girl and then nodding reassuringly she got her message of cheer over the gulf of his understanding.  In return the Dummy told her by gestures how he knew the girl and how she had bound up the leg of the superintendent’s dog.  The Senior was a literal person and not occult; and she was very busy.  When the Dummy stooped to indicate the dog, a foot or so from the ground, she seized that as the key of the situation.

“He’s trying to let me know that he knew her when she was a baby,” she observed generally.  “All right, if that’s the case.  Come in and see her when you want to.  And now get out, for goodness’ sake!”

The Dummy, with his patient shamble, made his way out of the ward and stored his polishes for the night in the corner of a scrub-closet.  Then, ignoring supper, he went down the stairs, flight after flight, to the chapel.  The late autumn sun had set behind the buildings across the courtyard and the lower part of the silent room was in shadow; but the afterglow came palely through the stained-glass window, with the young John and tall stalks of white lilies, and “To the Memory of My Daughter Elizabeth” beneath.

It was only a coincidence—­and not even that to the Dummy—­but Elizabeth had been the Avenue Girl’s name not so long ago.

The Dummy sat down near the door very humbly and gazed at the memorial window.

II

Time may be measured in different ways—­by joys; by throbs of pain; by instants; by centuries.  In a hospital it is marked by night nurses and day nurses; by rounds of the Staff; by visiting days; by medicines and temperatures and milk diets and fever baths; by the distant singing in the chapel on Sundays; by the shift of the morning sun on the east beds to the evening sun on the beds along the west windows.

The Avenue Girl lay alone most of the time.  The friendly offices of the ward were not for her.  Private curiosity and possible kindliness were over-shadowed by a general arrogance of goodness.  The ward flung its virtue at her like a weapon and she raised no defence.  In the first days things were not so bad.  She lay in shock for a time, and there were not wanting hands during the bad hours to lift a cup of water to her lips; but after that came the tedious time when death no longer hovered overhead and life was there for the asking.

The curious thing was that the Avenue Girl did not ask.  She lay for hours without moving, with eyes that seemed tired with looking into the dregs of life.  The Probationer was in despair.