It was late Monday afternoon that a card was brought to Aunt Jane--a
thin, slim bit of card, with correct English lettering in plain type on
it.
Aunt Jane read it and glanced up at Miss Murray who was on door duty for
the afternoon.
"He's in the front room," said the nurse. "And there's a woman--came the
same time but separate. I put her in the back room."
"Tell Miss Crosby and Miss Canfield to be ready to go on duty in Number
5 and Suite A," said Aunt Jane.
She said the last words almost with a sniff. If Aunt Jane had had her
way, there would have been no Suite A in the House of Mercy.
For Suite A was a big, sunny, southeast room, with a sitting-room on one
side and a bath on the other--a royal bath, with overhead shower and
side sprays and all the latest words in plumbing and fitting, all the
most luxurious and costly appointments of nickel and marble and tile.
Aunt Jane always went by Suite A with her head a little in the air and
her nose a trifle raised. And woe to the man or woman who occupied Suite
A. For a week or ten days he was left severely to the care of nurses and
doctors. It was only after he had experienced to the full what a
desolate place a hospital may be, that Aunt Jane condescended to look in
and thaw the atmosphere a little.
It was perhaps her feeling for Suite A that led her to attend to ward
patients and occupants of humble rooms before those of Suite A. "They'll
be comfortable enough when they get to their suite," she had been known
to say.
So it was the back room that she entered first--with the card in her
hand.
A little woman at the side of the room got up quickly. "I came alone,"
she said. She fluttered a little and held out her hand nervously as if
uncertain what might happen to her in a hospital.