“Will it be a very painful operation?” asked the girl.

“Not at all; and the anaesthetic prevents consciousness.  If Swot were a little older, I should not have had to trouble you.  It is a curious fact that boys, as a rule, face operations more bravely than any other class of patient we have.”

“I wonder why that is?” queried Constance.

“It is due to the same ambition which makes cigarette-smokers of them—­a desire to be thought manly.”

Once the carriage reached the hospital, Constance followed the doctor up the stairs and through the corridor.  “Let me relieve you of the coat, Miss Durant,” he advised, and took it from her and passed it over to one of the orderlies.  Then, opening a door, he made way for her to enter.

[Illustration:  “The two were quickly seated on the floor”]

Constance passed into a medium-sized room, which a first glance showed her to be completely lined with marble; but there her investigations ceased, for her eyes rested on the glass table upon which lay the little fellow, while beside him stood a young doctor and a nurse.  At the sound of her footsteps the boy turned his head till he caught sight of her, when, after an instant’s stare, he surprised the girl by hiding his eyes and beginning to cry.

“Ise knowed all along youse wuz goin’ to kill me,” he sobbed.

“Why, Swot,” cried Constance, going to his side.  “Nobody is going to kill you.”

The hands were removed from the eyes, and still full of tears, they blinkingly stared a moment at the girl.

“Hully gee!  Is dat youse?” he ejaculated.  “Ise tought youse wuz de angel come for me.”

“You may go many years in society, Miss Durant, without winning another compliment so genuine,” remarked Dr. Armstrong, smiling.  “Nor is it surprising that he was misled,” he added.

Constance smiled in return as she answered, “And it only proves how the value of a compliment is not in its truthfulness, but in its being truth to the one who speaks it.”

“Say, youse won’t let dem do nuttin’ bad to me, will youse?” implored the boy.

“They are only going to help you, Swot,” the girl assured him, as she took his hand.

“Den w’y do dey want to put me to sleep for?”

“To spare you suffering,”

“Dis oin’t no knock-out drops, or dat sorter goime?  Honest?”

“No.  I won’t let them do you any harm.”

“Will youse watch dem all de time dey’s doin’ tings to me?”

“Yes.  And if you’ll be quiet and take it nicely, I’ll bring you a present to-morrow.”

“Dat’s grand!  Wot’ll youse guv me?  Say, don’t do dat,” he protested, as the nurse applied the sponge and cone to his face.

“Lie still, Swot,” said Constance, soothingly, “and tell me what you would best like me to give you.  Shall it be a box of building-blocks—­or some soldiers—­or a fire-engine—­or—­”