At two o’clock came the Junior Medical, in a frock-coat and grey trousers.  He expected to sing “The Palms” at the Easter service downstairs in the chapel that afternoon, and, according to precedent, the one who sings “The Palms” on Easter in the chapel must always wear a frock-coat.

Very conscious, because all the ward was staring at his gorgeousness, he went over to the bed where the new mother lay.  Then he came back and stood by the table, looking at a record.

“Have you taken her temperature?” he said, businesslike and erect.

“Ninety-eight.”

“Her pulse is strong?”

“Yes; she’s resting quietly.”

“Good.—­And—­did you get my note?”

This, much as if he had said, “Did you find my scarf-pin?” or anything merely casual; for Liz was hovering near.

“Yes.”  The nurse’s red lips were trembling, but she smiled up at him.  Liz came nearer.  She was only wishing him Godspeed with his wooing, but it made him uncomfortable.

“Watch her closely,” he said, “she’s pretty weak and despondent.”  And he looked at Liz.

“Elizabeth,” said the Nurse, “won’t you sit by Claribel and fan her?”

Claribel was the new mother.  Claribel is, of course, no name for a mother, but she had been named when she was very small.

Liz went away and sat by the girl’s bed, and said a little prayer to the effect that they were both so damned good to everybody, she hoped they’d hit it off.  But perhaps the prayer of the wicked availeth nothing.

“You know I meant that,” he said, from behind a record.  “I—­I love you with all my heart—­and if only you——­”

The nurse shook down a thermometer and examined it closely.  “I love you, too!” she said.  And, walking shakily to one of the beds, she put the thermometer upside down in Maggie McNamara’s mouth.

The Junior Medical went away with his shoulders erect in his frock-coat, and his heavy brown hair, which would never part properly and had to be persuaded with brilliantine, bristling with happiness.

And the Nurse-Queen, looking over her kingdom for somebody to lavish her new joy on, saw Claribel lying in bed, looking at the ceiling and reading there all the tragedy of her broken life, all her despair.

So she rustled out to the baby-room, where the new baby had never batted an eye since her bath and was lying on her back with both fists clenched on her breast, and she did something that no trained nurse is ever supposed to do.

She lifted the baby, asleep and all, and carried her to her mother.

But Claribel’s face only darkened when she saw her.

“Take the brat away,” she said, and went on reading tragedies on the ceiling.

Liz came and proffered her the little mite with every art she knew.  She showed her the wrinkled bits of feet, the tiny, ridiculous hands, and how long the hair grew on the back of her head.  But when Liz put the baby on her arm, she shuddered and turned her head away.  So finally Liz took it back to the other room, and left it there, still sleeping.