as if no one had spoken.

"Am I not right in supposing that you wish to further, as far as it
lies within your power, the physical welfare and betterment of the poor
in this city? That you wish to do the greatest possible good to the
greatest number of children? Ah! I thought so. Well, do you not see
how continuing to keep a number of incurable cases for two or three
years--or as long as they live--is hindering this? You are keeping out
so many more curable cases. For every case in that ward now we could
handle ten or fifteen surgical cases each year. Is that not worth
considering?"

The trustees nodded approval to one another; it was as if they would
say, "The Senior Surgeon is always right."

The surgeon himself looked at his watch; he had three minutes left to
clinch their convictions. Clearly and admirably he outlined his
present scope of work; then, stepping into the future, he showed into
what it might easily grow, had it the room and beds. He showed
indisputably what experimental surgery had done for science--what a
fertile field it was; and wherein lay Saint Margaret's chance to plow a
furrow more and reap its harvest. At the end he intimated that he had
outgrown his present limited conditions there, that unless these were
changed he should have to betake himself and his operative skill
elsewhere.

A painfully embarrassing hush closed in on the meeting as the Senior
Surgeon resumed his seat. It was broken by an enthusiastic chirp from
the Youngest and Prettiest Trustee. She had never attempted to keep
her interest for him concealed in the bud, causing much perturbation to
the House Surgeon, and leading the Disagreeable Trustee to remark,
frequently:

"Good Lord! She'll throw herself at his head until he loses
consciousness, and then she'll marry him."

"I think," said she, beaming in the direction of the Senior Surgeon,
"that it would be perfectly wonderful to be the means of discovering
some great new thing in surgery. And as our own great surgeon has just
said, it is really ridiculous to let a few perfectly incurable cases
stand in the way of science."

The House Surgeon looked from the beaming profile to the tense, drawn
outline of mouth and chin belonging to the nurse in charge of Ward C,
and he found himself wondering if art had ever pictured a crucified
Madonna, and, if so, why it had not taken Margaret MacLean as a model.
That moment the President called his name.

[Illustration: