“They’ve done nothing of the sort.
I’ve told you that.”
“You’re going back?”
“Absolutely.”
“Because you love the hospital, or because you
love somebody connected with the hospital?”
Sidney was thoroughly angry by this time, angry and
reckless. She had come through so much that every
nerve was crying in passionate protest.
“If it will make you understand things any better,”
she cried, “I am going back for both reasons!”
She was sorry the next moment. But her words
seemed, surprisingly enough, to steady him.
For the first time, he sat down.
“Then, as far as I am concerned, it’s
all over, is it?”
“Yes, Joe. I told you that long ago.”
He seemed hardly to be listening. His thoughts
had ranged far ahead. Suddenly:—
“You think Christine has her hands full with
Palmer, don’t you? Well, if you take Max
Wilson, you’re going to have more trouble than
Christine ever dreamed of. I can tell you some
things about him now that will make you think twice.”
But Sidney had reached her limit. She went over
and flung open the door.
“Every word that you say shows me how right
I am in not marrying you, Joe,” she said.
“Real men do not say those things about each
other under any circumstances. You’re
behaving like a bad boy. I don’t want you
to come back until you have grown up.”
He was very white, but he picked up his hat and went
to the door.
“I guess I am crazy,” he said.
“I’ve been wanting to go away, but mother
raises such a fuss—I’ll not annoy
you any more.”
He reached in his pocket and, pulling out a small
box, held it toward her. The lid was punched
full of holes.
“Reginald,” he said solemnly. “I’ve
had him all winter. Some boys caught him in
the park, and I brought him home.”
He left her standing there speechless with surprise,
with the box in her hand, and ran down the stairs
and out into the Street. At the foot of the
steps he almost collided with Dr. Ed.
“Back to see Sidney?” said Dr. Ed genially.
“That’s fine, Joe. I’m glad
you’ve made it up.”
The boy went blindly down the Street.
Winter relaxed its clutch slowly that year.
March was bitterly cold; even April found the roads
still frozen and the hedgerows clustered with ice.
But at mid-day there was spring in the air. In
the courtyard of the hospital, convalescents sat on
the benches and watched for robins. The fountain,
which had frozen out, was being repaired. Here
and there on ward window-sills tulips opened their
gaudy petals to the sun.
Harriet had gone abroad for a flying trip in March
and came back laden with new ideas, model gowns, and
fresh enthusiasm. She carried out and planted
flowers on her sister’s grave, and went back
to her work with a feeling of duty done. A combination
of crocuses and snow on the ground had given her an
inspiration for a gown. She drew it in pencil
on an envelope on her way back in the street car.
