“How do you know?” The question came from the set lips of the nurse in charge of Ward C.

“How do we know anything in science?  We prove it by undeniable, irrevocable facts.”

“Even then you are not sure of it.  I was proved incurable—­but I got well.”

“That proves absolutely nothing!” And the Senior Surgeon growled as he always did when things went against his liking.  “You were a case in a thousand—­in a lifetime.  Because it happened once—­here in this hospital—­is no reason for believing that it will ever happen again.”

“Oh yes, it is!” persisted Margaret MacLean.  “There is just as much reason for believing as for not believing.  Every one of those children, in the ward now might—­yes, they might—­be a case in a thousand; and no one has any right to take that thousandth of a chance away from them.”

“You are talking nonsense—­stupid, irrational nonsense.”  And the Senior Surgeon glared at her.

The truth was that he had never forgiven her for getting well.  To have had a slip of a girl juggle with the most reliable of scientific data, as well as with his own undeniable skill as a diagnostician, and grow up normally, healthfully perfect, was insufferable.  He had never quite forgiven the Old Senior Surgeon for his share in it.  And to have her stand against him and his great desire, now, and actually throw this thing in his face, was more than he could endure.  He did not know that Margaret MacLean was fighting for what she loved most on earth, the one thing that seemed to belong to her, the thing that had been given into her keeping by the right of a memory bequeathed to her by the man he could not save.  Truth to tell, Margaret MacLean had never quite forgiven the Senior Surgeon for this, blameless as she knew him to be.

And so for the space of a quick breath the two faced each other, aggressive and accusing.

When the Senior Surgeon turned again to the President and the trustees his face wore a faint smile suggestive of amused toleration.

“I hope the time will soon come,” he said very distinctly, “when every training-school for nurses will bar out the so-called sentimental, imaginative type; they do a great deal of harm to the profession.  As I was saying, the incurable ward is doing nothing, and we need it for surgical cases.  Look over the reports for the last few months and you will see how many cases we have had to turn away—­twenty in March, sixteen in February; and this month it is over thirty—­one a day.  Now why waste that room for no purpose?”

“Every one of those cases could get into, some of the other hospitals; but who would take the incurables?  What would you do with the children in Ward C, now?” and Margaret MacLean’s voice rang out its challenge.

The Senior Surgeon managed to check an angry explosive and turned to the President for succor.

“I think,” said that man of charitable parts, “that the meeting is getting a trifle too informal for order.  After the Senior Surgeon has finished I will call on those whom I feel have something of—­hmm—­importance to say.  In the mean time, my dear young lady, I beg of you not to interrupt again.  The children, of course, could all be returned to their homes.”