“Yes!” snapped Rae Malgregor.

A little shyly Helene Churchill picked up her copy of Marcus Aurelius and cuddled her cheek against its tender Morocco cover.  “Really?” she questioned with palpable hesitation.  “Really you want to know?  Why, why—­it’s rather a—­sacred little story to me.  I wouldn’t exactly want to have anybody—­laugh about it.”

“I’ll laugh if I want to!” attested Zillah Forsyth forcibly from the other side of the room.

Like a pugnacious boy, Rae Malgregor’s fluent fingers doubled up into two firm fists.

“I’ll punch her if she even looks as though she wanted to!” she signaled surreptitiously to Helene.

Shrewdly for an instant the city girl’s narrowing eyes challenged and appraised the country girl’s desperate sincerity.  Then quite abruptly she began her little story.

“Why, it was on an Easter Sunday—­Oh, ages and ages ago,” she faltered.  “Why, I couldn’t have been more than nine years old at the time.”  A trifle self-consciously she turned her face away from Zillah Forsyth’s supercilious smile.  “And I was coming home from a Sunday school festival in my best white muslin dress with a big pot of purple pansies in my hand,” she hastened somewhat nervously to explain.  “And just at the edge of the gutter there was a dreadful drunken man lying in the mud with a great crowd of cruel people teasing and tormenting him.  And, because—­because I couldn’t think of anything else to do about it, I—­I walked right up to the poor old creature,—­scared as I could be—­and—­and I presented him with my pot of purple pansies.  And everybody of course began to laugh, to scream, I mean, and shout with amusement.  And I, of course, began to cry.  And the old drunken man straightened up very oddly for an instant, with his battered hat in one hand and the pot of pansies in the other,—­and he raised the pot of pansies very high, as though it had been a glass of rarest wine—­and bowed to me as—­reverently as though he had been toasting me at my father’s table at some very grand dinner.  And ‘Inasmuch!’ he said.  Just that,—­’Inasmuch!’ So that’s how I happened to go into nursing!” she finished as abruptly as she had begun.  Like some wonderful phosphorescent manifestation her whole shining soul seemed to flare forth suddenly through her plain face.

With honest perplexity Zillah Forsyth looked up from her work.

“So that’s—­how you happened to go into nursing?” she quizzed impatiently.  Her long, straight nose was all puckered tight with interrogation.  Her dove-like eyes were fairly dilated with slow-dawning astonishment.  “You—­don’t—­mean?” she gasped.  “You don’t mean that—­just for that—?” Incredulously she jumped to her feet and stood staring blankly into the city girl’s strangely illuminated features.

“Well, if I were a swell—­like you!” she scoffed, “it would take a heap sight more than a drunken man munching pansies and rum and Bible-texts to—­to jolt me out of my limousines and steam yachts and Adirondack bungalows!”