“What does it matter, sister?” he said cheerfully.  “Yesterday is gone and to-day is a new day.  Also there is to-morrow”—­his Irish eyes twinkled—­“and a fine day it will be by the sunset.”

Then he turned to his small army.

“Boys,” he said, “it’s a poor leader who is afraid to take chances with his men.  I’m going first”—­he said fir-rst.  “It’s a small thing, as I’ve told you—­a bit of skin and it’s over.  Go in smiling and come out smiling!  Are you ready, sir?” This to the interne.

That was a great day in the ward.  The inmates watched Father Feeny and the interne go behind the screens, both smiling, and they watched the father come out very soon after, still smiling but a little bleached.  And they watched the line patiently waiting outside the door, shortening one by one.  After a time the smiles were rather forced, as if waiting was telling on them; but there was no deserter—­only one six-foot youth, walking with a swagger to contribute his little half inch or so of cuticle, added a sensation to the general excitement by fainting halfway up the ward; and he remained in blissful unconsciousness until it was all over.

Though the interne had said there was no way back, the first step had really been taken; and he was greatly pleased with himself and with everybody because it had been his idea.  The Probationer tried to find a chance to thank him; and, failing that, she sent a grateful little note to his room: 

      Is Mimi the Austrian to have a baked apple?
                              [Signed] WARD A.

      P.S.—­It went through wonderfully!  She is so cheerful
      since it is over.  How can I ever thank you?

The reply came back very quickly: 

      Baked apple, without milk, for Mimi.  WARD A.
                              [Signed] D.L.S.

      P.S.—­Can you come up on the roof for a little air?

She hesitated over that for some time.  A really honest-to-goodness nurse may break a rule now and then and nothing happen; but a probationer is only on trial and has to be exceedingly careful—­though any one might go to the roof and watch the sunset.  She decided not to go.  Then she pulled her soft hair down over her forehead, where it was most becoming, and fastened it with tiny hairpins, and went up after all—­not because she intended to, but because as she came out of her room the elevator was going up—­not down.  She was on the roof almost before she knew it.

The interne was there in fresh white ducks, smoking.  At first they talked of skin grafting and the powder that had not done what was expected of it.  After a time, when the autumn twilight had fallen on them like a benediction, she took her courage in her hands and told of her visit to the house on the Avenue, and about the parrot and the plot.

The interne stood very still.  He was young and intolerant.  Some day he would mellow and accept life as it is—­not as he would have it.  When she had finished he seemed to have drawn himself into a shell, turtle fashion, and huddled himself together.  The shell was pride and old prejudice and the intolerance of youth.  “She had to have an alibi!” said the Probationer.