The White Linen Nurse | Page 3

her soft dark hair parted madonna-like across her
beautiful brow, her whole face was like some exquisite, composite picture of all the saints
of history. Her voice also was amazingly tranquil.
"Oh, Fudge!" she drawled. "What's eating you, Rae Malgregor? I won't either get out! It's
my room just as much as it is yours! And Helene's just as much as it is ours! And
besides," she added more briskly, "it's four o'clock now, and with graduation at eight and
the dance afterwards, if we don't get our stuff packed up now, when in thunder shall we
get it done?" Quite irrelevantly she began to laugh. Her laugh was perceptibly shriller
than her speaking voice. "Say, Rae!" she confided. "That minister I nursed through
pneumonia last winter wants me to pose as 'Sanctity' for a stained-glass window in his

new church! Isn't he the softie?"
"Shall--you--do--it?" quizzed Rae Malgregor a trifle tensely.
"Shall I do it?" mocked the newcomer. "Well, you just watch me! Four mornings a week
in June--at full week's wages? Fresh Easter lilies every day? White silk angel-robes? All
the high-souls and high-paints kowtowing around me? Why it would be more fun than a
box of monkeys! Sure I'll do it!"
Expeditiously as she spoke the newcomer reached up for the framed motto over her own
ample mirror and yanking it down with one single tug began to busy herself adroitly with
a snarl in the picture-cord. Like a withe of willow yearning over a brook her slender
figure curved to the task. Very scintillatingly the afternoon light seemed to brighten
suddenly across her lap. _You'll Be a Long Time Dead!_ glinted the motto through its
sun-dazzled glass.
Still panting with excitement, still bristling with resentment, Rae Malgregor stood
surveying the intrusion and the intruder. A dozen impertinent speeches were rioting in her
mind. Twice her mouth opened and shut before she finally achieved the particular
opprobrium that completely satisfied her.
"Bah! You look like a--Trained Nurse!" she blurted forth at last with hysterical triumph.
"So do you!" said the newcomer amiably.
With a little gasp of dismay Rae Malgregor sprang suddenly forward. Her eyes were
flooded with tears.
"Why, that's just exactly what's the matter with me!" she cried. "My face is all worn out
trying to look like a Trained Nurse! Oh, Zillah, how do you know you were meant to be a
Trained Nurse? How does anybody know? Oh, Zillah! Save me! Save me!"
Languorously Zillah Forsyth looked up from her work, and laughed. Her laugh was like
the accidental tinkle of sleighbells in mid-summer, vaguely disquieting, a shiver of frost
across the face of a lily.
"Save you from what, you great big overgrown, tow-headed doll-baby?" she questioned
blandly. "For Heaven's sake, the only thing you need is to go back to whatever toy-shop
you came from and get a new head. What in Creation's the matter with you lately,
anyway? Oh, of course, you've had rotten luck this past month, but what of it? That's the
trouble with you country girls. You haven't got any stamina."
With slow, shuffling-footed astonishment Rae Malgregor stepped out into the center of
the room. "Country girls," she repeated blankly. "Why, you're a country girl yourself!"
"I am not!" snapped Zillah Forsyth. "I'll have you understand that there are nine thousand
people in the town I come from--and not a rube among them. Why I tended soda fountain
in the swellest drug-store there a whole year before I even thought of taking up nursing.

And I wasn't as green--when I was six months old--as you are now!"
Slowly with a soft-snuggling sigh of contentment she raised her slim white fingers to
coax her dusky hair a little looser, a little farther down, a little more madonna-like across
her sweet, mild forehead, then snatching out abruptly at a convenient shirt-waist began
with extraordinary skill to apply its dangly lace sleeves as a protective bandage for the
delicate glass-faced motto still in her lap, placed the completed parcel with inordinate
scientific precision in the exact corner of her packing-box, and then went on very
diligently, very zealously, to strip the men's photographs from the mirror on her bureau.
There were twenty-seven photographs in all, and for each one she had already cut and
prepared a small square of perfectly fresh, perfectly immaculate white tissue
wrapping-paper. No one so transcendently fastidious, so exquisitely neat, in all her
personal habits had ever trained in that particular hospital before.
Very soberly the doll-faced girl stood watching the men's pleasant paper countenances
smooth away one by one into their chaste white veilings, until at last quite without
warning she poked an accusing, inquisitive finger directly across Zillah Forsyth's
shoulder.
"Zillah!" she demanded peremptorily. "All the year I've wanted to know! All the year
every other