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Page 7
For a moment he patted her hand; after which he said, very solemnly:
"Wait for a year and a day--then look. You will find out then just
what the next faery brought."
Margaret MacLean had obeyed this command to the letter. When the year
and a day came she had been able to stand on tiptoe and look at herself
for the first time in her life; and she would never forget the gladness
of that moment. It had appeared nothing short of a miracle to her that
she should actually possess something of which she need not be
ashamed--something nice to share with the world. And whenever Margaret
MacLean thought of her looks at all, which was rare, she thought of
them in that way.
She took up the memory again where she had dropped it on the second
flight of stairs, slowly climbing her way to Ward C, and went on with
the story.
They came to the place where Thumbkin was pricked by the wicked faery
with the sleeping-thorn and put to sleep for a hundred years, after the
fashion of many another story princess; and the Old Senior Surgeon
suddenly stopped and looked at her sharply.
"Some day, Thumbkin, I may play the wicked faery and put you to sleep.
What would you say to that?"
She did not say--then.
More months passed, months which brought an ashen, drawn look to the
face of the Old Senior Surgeon, and a tired-out droop to his shoulders
and eyes. She began to notice that the nurses eyed him pityingly
whenever he came into the ward, and the house surgeon shook his head
ominously. She wondered what it meant; she wondered more when he came
at last to remind her of his threatened promise.
"You remember, Thumbkin, about that sleep? Would you let an old faery
doctor put you to sleep, for a little while, if he was very sure you
would wake up to find happiness--and health--and love--and all the
other gifts the godmothers brought?"
She tried her best to keep the frightened look out of her eyes. By the
way he watched her, however, she knew some of it must have crept in.
"Operation?" she managed to choke out at last.
Operation was a fairly common word in Ward C, and not an over-hopeful
one.
"It's this way, Thumbkin; and let's make a bargain of it. I think
there's a cure for that back of yours. It hasn't been tried very much;
about often enough to make it worth while for us to take a chance.
I'll be honest with you and tell you the house surgeon doesn't think it
can be done; but that's where the bargain comes in. He thinks he can
mend my trouble, and I don't; and we're both dreadfully greedy to prove
we're right. Now if you will give me my way with you I will give him
his. But you must come first."
"A hundred years is a long time to be asleep," she objected.
"Bless you, it won't be a hundred minutes."
"And does your back need it, too?"
"Not my back; my stomach. It's about the only chance for either of us,
Thumbkin."
"And you won't unless I do?"
The Old Senior Surgeon gave his head a terrific shake; then he caught
her small hands in his great, warm, comforting ones. "Think. It means
a strong back; a pair of sturdy little legs to take you anywhere; and
the whole world before you!"
"And you'll have them, too?"
He smiled convincingly.
"All right. Let's." She gave his hand a hard, trustful squeeze.
She liked to remember that squeeze. She often wondered if it might not
have helped him to do what he had to do.
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