The Staff Man, who had finished up a hard day with a hospital supper of steak and fried potatoes, sat down on the doorstep and fished out a digestive tablet from his surgical bag.

“It’s pretty sad, little girl,” he said, over the pill.  He had known the Nurse for some time, having, in fact, brought her—­according to report at the time—­in a predecessor of the very bag at his feet, and he had the fatherly manner that belongs by right to the man who has first thumped one between the shoulder-blades to make one breathe, and who had remarked on this occasion to some one beyond the door:  “A girl, and fat as butter!”

The Nurse tiptoed in and found Billy Grant apparently asleep.  Actually he had only closed his eyes, hoping to lure one of the monkeys within clutching distance.  So the Nurse came out again, with the symptom record.

“Delirious, with two r’s,” said the Staff Doctor, glancing over his spectacles.  “He must have been pretty bad.”

“Not wild; he—­he wanted me to marry him!”

She smiled, showing a most alluring dimple in one cheek.

“I see!  Well, that’s not necessarily delirium.  H’m—­pulse, respiration—­look at that temperature!  Yes, it’s pretty sad—­away from home, too, poor lad!”

“You——­ Isn’t there any hope, doctor?”

“None at all—­at least, I’ve never had ’em get well.”

Now the Nurse should, by all the ethics of hospital practice, have walked behind the Staff Doctor, listening reverentially to what he said, not speaking until she was spoken to, and carrying in one hand an order blank on which said august personage would presently inscribe certain cabalistic characters, to be deciphered later by the pharmacy clerk with a strong light and much blasphemy, and in the other hand a clean towel.  The clean towel does not enter into the story, but for the curious be it said that were said personage to desire to listen to the patient’s heart, the towel would be unfolded and spread, without creases, over the patient’s chest—­which reminds me of the Irishman and the weary practitioner; but every one knows that story.

Now that is what the Nurse should have done; instead of which, in the darkened passageway, being very tired and exhausted and under a hideous strain, she suddenly slipped her arm through the Staff Doctor’s and, putting her head on his shoulder, began to cry softly.

“What’s this?” demanded the Staff Doctor sternly and, putting his arm round her:  “Don’t you know that Junior Nurses are not supposed to weep over the Staff?” And, getting no answer but a choke:  “We can’t have you used up like this; I’ll make them relieve you.  When did you sleep?”

“I don’t want to be relieved,” said the Nurse, very muffled.  “No-nobody else would know wh-what he wanted.  I just—­I just can’t bear to see him—­to see him——­”

The Staff Doctor picked up the clean towel, which belonged on the Nurse’s left arm, and dried her eyes for her; then he sighed.