With the first crunching grit of gravel under his feet, something transcendently naked and unashamed that was neither Brazen Sorrow nor Brazen Pain thrilled across his startled consciousness.  Over the rolling, marshy meadow, beyond the succulent willow-hedge that hid the winding river, up from some fluent, slim canoe, out from a chorus of virile young tenor voices, a little passionate Love Song—­divinely tender—­most incomparably innocent—­came stealing palpitantly forth into that inflammable Spring world without a single vestige of accompaniment on it!

Kiss me, Sweet, the Spring is here,
And Love is Lord of you and me,
There’s no bird in brake or brere,
But to his little mate sings he,
“Kiss me, Sweet, the Spring is here
And Love is Lord of you—­and me!”

Wrenched like a sob out of his own lost youth the Senior Surgeon’s faltering college memories took up the old refrain.

As I go singing, to my dear,
“Kiss me, Sweet, the Spring is here,
And Love is Lord of you and me!”

Just for an instant a dozen long-forgotten pictures lanced themselves poignantly into his brain,—­dingy, uncontrovertible old recitation rooms where young ideas flashed bright and futile as parade swords,—­elm-shaded slopes where lithe young bodies lolled on green velvet grasses to expound their harshest cynicisms!  Book-history, book-science, book-economics, book-love,—­all the paper passion of all the paper poets swaggering imperiously on boyish lips that would have died a thousand bashful deaths before the threatening imminence of a real girl’s kiss!  Magic days, with Youth the one glittering, positive treasure on the Tree of Life—­and Woman still a mystery!

“Woman a mystery?” Harshly the phrase ripped through the Senior Surgeon’s brain.  Croakingly in that instant all the grim gray scientific years re-overtook him, swamped him, strangled him.  “Woman a mystery?  Oh ye Gods!  And Youth?  Bah!  Youth,—­a mere tinsel tinkle on a rotting Christmas tree!”

Furiously with renewed venom he turned and threw his weight again upon the stubbornly resistant crank of his automobile.

Vaguely disturbed by the noise and vibration the White Linen Nurse opened her big, drowsy, blue eyes upon him.

“Don’t—­jerk—­it—­so!” she admonished hazily, “You’ll wake the Little Girl!”

“Well, what about my convenience, I’d like to know?” snapped the Senior Surgeon in some astonishment.

Heavily the White Linen Nurse’s lashes shadowed down again across her sleep-flushed cheeks.

“Oh, never mind—­about—­that,” she mumbled non-concernedly.

“Oh, for Heaven’s sake—­wake up there!” bellowed the Senior Surgeon above the sudden roar of his engine.

Adroitly for a man of his bulk he ran around the radiator and jumped into his seat.  Joggled unmercifully into wakefulness, the Little Girl greeted his return with a generous if distinctly non-tactful demonstration of affection.  Grabbing the unwitting fingers of his momentarily free hand she tapped them proudly against the White Linen Nurse’s plump pink cheek.