"But a nurse doesn"t live at the hospital always, you know. After she graduates, most of her cases are in private homes, and it all depends upon where she is on the holidays as to what she gets to eat or how she amuses herself. Now, Christmas Day this year I spent with my married brother on his farm near St. Cloud, but it is the first time I have been with any of my own people for a holiday during the last four years. On Thanksgiving I was taking care of a little girl who had diphtheria, and we were shut off upstairs all by ourselves, seeing no one but the doctor from one day"s end to the next. Poor Zella was too sick to know what day it was, and I was too anxious about her to care, so neither of us got any turkey.
"One year I was miles out in the country, nursing a worn-out mother, who had seven children, all younger than you. She was a farmer"s wife, and they were huddled in the dirtiest bit of a hovel that I ever saw. The hogs and chickens used to come into the kitchen whenever the door was opened, and no one ever thought of driving them out. They didn"t know what it meant to be clean, and were shocked almost to death when I tried to give the latest baby a bath. There wasn"t a broom in the house and no one knew what I wanted when I asked for a mop. We had literally to _shovel_ the dirt off those floors.
"The children had never been taught to pray, they knew absolutely nothing about the Bible, had never even heard the name of Jesus except in swearing. Christmas Day was unheard of, and Thanksgiving a riddle; and when I asked the father if we might not have a hen for dinner on that occasion, he said there were none to spare for such nonsensical purposes."
"But you got one anyway, didn"t you?" Peace eagerly asked, for she had learned to love Miss Wayne dearly, and seemed to think that the earnest, whole-hearted, sympathizing woman was capable of anything.
"No, not from him," the nurse replied, knitting her brows as if the thought still made her angry. "But his answer got my dander up, and the children were so disappointed, for I had told them all about our Thanksgiving Day, that I determined to cook them a sure-enough Thanksgiving dinner if I could manage it. There was one girl in the family,--little five-year-old Essie,--and I gave her a half dollar and sent her over to their nearest neighbor to see if he would sell us a small turkey. He had already disposed of his turkeys, however, and had no hens for sale either; but he gave Essie a big duck and a handful of silver in exchange for the money she had given him, and she came back as proud as a peac.o.c.k to display her wares. I saw at once when she pa.s.sed me the change that he had not charged her a cent for the duck, so I put the money back into her little hand and told her that she was to keep it. At first she was reluctant, though her big, eager eyes showed how much she really wanted it; and after a while I made her understand that I actually meant to give it to her for her very own. But when she took it to her mother, the little woman called me to the bed and explained that it would do the child no good in that form, because the lazy, shiftless, good-for-nothing father would take it to buy tobacco. "The children can"t save a penny," she said sadly. "When once he gets his hands on it, they never see it again. But if you really want Essie to have the money, won"t you take it and buy her a doll? She has never had one of her own, and it would please her more than anything you could do."
"So I put the money back into my purse and promised Essie a doll instead, which should open and shut its eyes and have real hair.
Christmas was near at hand, and I made up my mind that I would dress the doll as daintily as possible and send it to her in time for Christmas Eve, so the mother could put it in her little stocking, for all the children had expressed a determination to hang up their stockings that year like the children in the stories I had told them. So, when about a week before Christmas, I was able to leave the dirty little hovel, I searched the stores through for the kind of a doll Essie wanted, and made it a beautiful set of lace-trimmed clothes which really b.u.t.toned up. My mother and sisters were greatly interested in the story of this neglected family, and they decided that we must pack a box for all the children, so none of the little stockings would be empty on Christmas morn. Accordingly, we picked up some old clothing, whole and serviceable--"
"Just like the ladies do each year for the missionaries on the frontier," Peace interrupted with breathless interest.
"Very much, only on a smaller scale. We didn"t try to outfit the whole family, but included something for each member,--except the father,--and filled up the corners with candy and nuts. Poor Mrs. Martin had been so interested in the Bible stories which she had heard me telling the children that I got her a nicely bound Bible, marking the pa.s.sages which she had liked the best; and she really seemed delighted to get it. She could write a little, and she sent me a very grateful little letter of thanks when the box arrived, telling me how much the children had enjoyed their share of the good things, and particularly how pleased Essie was with her doll.
"When I first went to care for Mrs. Martin on the worthless little farm, there was only one stove in the ramshackle house and that was in the kitchen. It was positively necessary to have her bed-room warm and comfortable, so I made Mr. Martin get another stove for that purpose.
There was no chimney in that part of the house, however, and he cut a hole through the ceiling and stuck the stove-pipe through that into a big chamber above, where, by some means or other, he connected it up with the kitchen chimney. It was very unsafe, of course, and I protested against it, but he would not listen to me; so all the while I was under that roof, I watched the stove every minute, for fear it would set the house afire. But it didn"t, and he laughed at my worry, but not long after I had left there while it was still very cold weather, the old place did burn down one night. The family was rescued by their neighbors, but they lost everything they had. Mrs. Martin wrote me about the disaster, telling how sorry she was to lose her Bible, and how terribly grieved Essie was over the loss of her treasure. Naturally I was sorry, too, and when Christmas came again, I dressed another doll for Essie, bought another Bible for Mrs. Martin, and packed another box for the whole family. Again the mother wrote me a letter of thanks, but it didn"t sound sincere to me this time, and when in closing she said that Jerry, her husband, thought I might at least have included a plug of tobacco for him, I made up my mind that all they wanted was what they could get out of me."
"So you didn"t send them any more dolls and Bibles," Peace soliloquized, when the nurse paused in her narrative.
"They didn"t appreciate them," Miss Wayne answered wistfully. "One doesn"t enjoy being liked for one"s money. I want folks to like _me_."
The little invalid lay with intent eyes fixed upon the ceiling while she reviewed the story she had just heard; then she said gravely, "I think it was Jerry who wrote for the plug of tobacco."
"Jerry!"
"Well, Mr. Martin, I mean."
"But Mrs. Martin wrote the letter."
"I"ll bet he was peeking over her shoulder and made her put in about that plug of tobacco, just the same," Peace persisted. "I b"lieve Essie and her mother really cared. "Twas him that wanted just your money. Some women get married to some awful mean men."
"Yes," sighed the nurse, more to herself than for Peace"s benefit. "That is very true, and Jerry was one of them."
"There are lots of nice men, though," Peace hastened to add, for Miss Wayne"s face looked so unusually grave and sad. "There"s Grandpa and St. John, and--and Dr. d.i.c.k. _He_ isn"t married yet, either. Neither is Dr. Race, is he? When I was in the sun parlor yesterday afternoon, I heard one of the nurses tell that new special that Miss Swift had set her _trap_ for Dr. Race. What did she mean? It sounded like they thought he was a mouse--"
"Hush! O, Peace! You misunderstood. You mustn"t repeat such things.
It--I--oh, dear, what can I say?"
"Well, I "xpect they meant that Miss Swift is trying to marry Dr. Race, and I s"pose the rest are jealous. Frances Sherrar is going to be married to one of the professors at the University, and I heard Gail telling Grandma how jealous some of the girls are. I s"pose it"s the same with the nurses. Only I sh"d hate to see Dr. Race marry Miss Swift "cause I don"t like her. She"s too snippy. Why didn"t you ever get married? You"re so nice and--and--"
Miss Wayne"s face had flushed a brilliant crimson, and hastily gathering up soap and towels, she made ready for a hurried flight, but found her way blocked by a stalwart figure in the doorway, whose twinkling eyes and smiling lips betrayed the fact that he had overheard at least part of their conversation.
Embarra.s.sed, the nurse set down the bowl of water poised perilously on one arm, and stammered, "I--I beg your pardon, Dr. Shumway. You are rather late this morning, or am I early? I mean, you--I--we--"
"There, there. Miss Wayne, don"t get excited," a laughing voice said teasingly. "Take heart. Remember, "the Race is not always to the Swift.""
"O, Dr. d.i.c.k!" Peace interrupted from the little cot by the window. "Is that you at last? I"ve been watching _hours_ for you to come. I"ve got the splendidest news to tell. _Gail_ is here,--my sister Gail. I know you will like her." Then, as her eyes fell upon the great wicker chair which the doctor was dragging behind him, she straightway forgot all else, and shrieked ecstatically, "_Dr. d.i.c.k_, what have you got there?
Is it for me? A wheel-chair? Oh, oh, oh! Put me in it right away. _Now_ I can go and see some of the other sick folks, can"t I?"
CHAPTER XIII
THE LITTLE AUTHOR LADY
"Well, Peace, my dear little Peace, I am afraid the time has come for me to leave you."
Miss Wayne had entered the sick room noiselessly, and, pausing beside the wheel-chair, stood looking with tenderly wistful eyes down at the face of her small charge, who, propped up among her pillows, was animatedly watching the traffic in the street below.
"O, Miss Wayne," Peace, so engrossed with what she had seen that she did not catch the significance of the nurse"s remark, lifted her bright shining eyes to the face above her and giggled, "why didn"t you come sooner? You missed the biggest sight of your life. It was _so_ funny!
There was a runaway, and the horse chased across our lawn just as Dr.
Canfield came up the walk. He had his med"cine case in one hand and an umbrella in the other, and he let out a big yell and began to wave them both around his head while he danced up and down in front of the horse.
I guess he was trying to keep it out of a garden in the middle of the yard, but the old beast didn"t shoo worth a cent, and the doctor had to do some lively dodging to get out of its way. He is so short and fat and pudgy that he did look too funny for anything, hopping around like a rubber ball and squealing like a pig. He kept a-hollering, "O, my cannons, oh, my cannons!" But the horse went straight through the garden just the same, and now the doctor"s down on his knees in the mud digging up some onions and looking "em all over carefully."
Miss Wayne"s merry laugh joined in with that of her patient, and following Peace"s example, she pressed her face against the window pane and looked down at the panting, puffing figure on the muddy, trampled turf below. "It"s his cannas," she explained. "He always has an immense bed of red canna lilies in the center of the lawn every summer. They are the pride of his heart, and I can imagine what he felt like to have a team plough through his precious garden. Fortunately, it is so early in the Spring that the bulbs have not yet sprouted, so I guess there is not much damage done. "Canfield"s Cannas" is a hospital joke. I wish I could have seen his encounter with that runaway."
Wiping the mirthful tears from her eyes, she turned to the tiny closet in the corner of the room, dragged forth a suitcase, and began to take down some garments from the hooks, preparatory to packing.
"Why, Miss Wayne," cried Peace, her attention attracted by the sound of the valise on the floor. "Whatever are you doing?"
"Gathering up my scattered belongings ready for departure--"
"Departure!" echoed the child in great dismay. "Why, where are you going?"
"I have another case, my dear, which needs my attention."
"But you can"t go now! You"ve got me to look after."
"My dear child!" cried the woman in shocked surprise. "Do you mean to say that no one has told you that I must go?"
"I hain"t heard a word about it before," declared the distressed Peace.
"_Why_ do you have to go?"
"You don"t need me any longer--"
"But I _want_ you. _Please_ don"t go!"
"I must, childie. It is no longer necessary for you to have a special nurse. Your sister is here almost all the daytime, and you are getting around splendidly in your wheel-chair."
"But can"t folks have special nurses when they don"t _need_ them, but just _want_ them?"
"O, yes, if they have plenty of money so they can afford it, but it is a needless expense, and as you will have to stay here for many weeks yet, you surely don"t want to make your grandfather pay extra for a special nurse whose work is done, do you?"
"N--o," Peace reluctantly replied. "But I like you. I--I don"t want you to go--yet."