Pray to Him, Myrtella! Ask Him to do what's best for Chick,
whatever it may be."
Myrtella's head had sunken on her knees, and her coarse, work-hardened
hands were clinging to Miss Lady's slender ones.
Suddenly they both started. The elevator descended creakingly and
halted beside them. There was a shuffling of feet and the stretcher
was wheeled past with a small, white-sheeted form lying motionless
upon it.
"It's all over," said Dr. Wyeth, following briskly. "He put up a
pretty stiff fight while taking the anesthetic, but we downed him at
last. The conditions were less serious than I anticipated. With care
and good nursing he ought to get well right away now. Hello! Here's
another patient!"
For Myrtella, glaring at him through her steel-rimmed spectacles, had
dropped like a log straight across the corridor and lay unconscious
with her fly-away hat crushed under one ear.
"Loosen her collar," directed Dr. Wyeth, "and bring me some ice water.
There! She'll come around in a minute."
He knelt beside her with his hand on her pulse, looking at her
curiously. Then he turned to Miss Lady:
"Queer how faces come back to you.
Pages:
349
350
351
352
353
354
355
356
357
358
359
360
361
362
363
364
365
366
367
368
369
370
371
372
373