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.