. There are three of
us--you, myself, and a probationer."

The first light of the Christmas morning was coming through the windows.
Carlotta put out the lights and turned in a business-like way to her
records.

"The probationer's name is Wardwell," she said. "Perhaps you'd better
help her with the breakfasts. If there's any way to make a mistake, she
makes it."

It was after eight when Sidney found Johnny Rosenfeld.

"You here in the ward, Johnny!" she said.

Suffering had refined the boy's features. His dark, heavily fringed eyes
looked at her from a pale face. But he smiled up at her cheerfully.

"I was in a private room; but it cost thirty plunks a week, so I moved.
Why pay rent?"

Sidney had not seen him since his accident. She had wished to go, but K.
had urged against it. She was not strong, and she had already suffered
much. And now the work of the ward pressed hard. She had only a moment.
She stood beside him and stroked his hand.

"I'm sorry, Johnny."

He pretended to think that her sympathy was for his fall from the estate
of a private patient to the free ward.

"Oh, I'm all right, Miss Sidney," he said. "Mr. Howe is paying six
dollars a week for me. The difference between me and the other fellows
around here is that I get a napkin on my tray and they don't."

Before his determined cheerfulness Sidney choked.

"Six dollars a week for a napkin is going some. I wish you'd tell Mr.
Howe to give ma the six dollars. She'll be needing it. I'm no bloated
aristocrat; I don't have to have a napkin."

"Have they told you what the trouble is?"

"Back's broke. But don't let that worry you. Dr. Max Wilson is going to
operate on me. I'll be doing the tango yet."

Sidney's eyes shone. Of course, Max could do it. What a thing it was
to be able to take this life-in-death of Johnny Rosenfeld's and make it
life again!

All sorts of men made up Sidney's world: the derelicts who wandered
through the ward in flapping slippers, listlessly carrying trays; the
unshaven men in the beds, looking forward to another day of boredom, if
not of pain; Palmer Howe with his broken arm; K., tender and strong, but
filling no especial place in the world. Towering over them all was the
younger Wilson. He meant for her, that Christmas morning, all that the
other men were not--to their weakness strength, courage, daring, power.

Johnny Rosenfeld lay back on the pillows and watched her face.

"When I was a kid," he said, "and ra