“But, sir--” fluttered the White Linen Nurse. Her face was suddenly pinker than any rose that ever bloomed.
With an impulse absolutely novel to him, the Senior Surgeon turned and swung his little daughter very gently to his shoulder.
“Your Aunt Agnes is coming to stay with _you_ in just about ten minutes,” he affirmed. “That’s what’s going to happen to _you_. And maybe there’ll be a pony--a white pony.”
“But Peach is so--pleasant!” wailed the Little Crippled Girl. “Peach is so pleasant!” she began to scream and kick.
“So it seems,” growled the Senior Surgeon; “and she’s--dying of it.”
Tearfully the Little Girl wriggled down to the ground, and hobbled around and thrust her finger-tip into the White Linen Nurse’s blushiest cheek.
“I don’t want Peach to die,” she admitted worriedly; “but I don’t want anybody to take her away.”
“The pony is very white,” urged the Senior Surgeon with a diplomacy quite alien to him.
Abruptly the Little Girl turned and faced him.
“What color is Aunt Agnes?” she asked vehemently.
“Aunt Agnes is pretty white, too,” declared the Senior Surgeon.
With the faintest possible tinge of superciliousness the Little Girl lifted her sharp chin a trifle higher.
“If it’s just a perfectly plain white pony,” she said, “I’d rather have Peach. But if it’s a white pony with black blots on it, and if it can pull a little cart, and if I can whip it with a little switch, and if it will eat sugar lumps out of my hand, and if its name is--is ’Beautiful, Pretty Thing--’”
“Its name has always been ‘Beautiful, Pretty Thing,’ I’m quite sure,” insisted the Senior Surgeon. Inadvertently as he spoke he reached out and put a hand very lightly on the White Linen Nurse’s shoulder.
Instantly into the Little Girl’s suspicious face flushed a furiously uncontrollable flame of jealousy and resentment. Madly she turned upon her father.
“You’re a liar!” she screamed. “There _is_ no white pony! You’re a robber! You’re a--a--drunk! You sha’n’t have my darling Peach!” She threw herself frenziedly into the White Linen Nurse’s lap.
Impatiently the Senior Surgeon disentangled the clinging little arms, and, raising the White Linen Nurse to her feet, pushed her gently toward the hall.
“Go to my workroom,” he said. “Quickly! I want to talk with you.”