since babyhood--he was six now--and had never worn anything but a
little hospital shirt.

"Good morning, Brown Baby," she said, kissing his forehead. "It's just
the day for you out on the sun-porch; and you'll hear birds--lots of
them."

"Wobins?"

"Yes, and bluebirds, too. I've heard them already."

Next came Sandy--merry of heart--a humpback laddie from Aberdeen. His
parents had gone down with the steerage of a great ocean liner, and
society had cared for him until the first horror of the tragedy had
passed; then some one fortunately had mentioned Saint Margaret's, and
society was relieved of its burden. In the year he had spent here his
Aberdonian burr had softened somewhat and a number of American
colloquialisms had crept into his speech; but for all that he was "the
braw canny Scot"--as the House Surgeon always termed him--and he
objected to kisses. So the good-morning greeting was a hearty
hand-shake between the two--comrade fashion.

"It wad be a bonnie day i' Aberdeen," he reminded her, blithely. "But
'tis no the robins there 'at wad be singin'."

"Shall I guess?"

"Na, I'll tell ye. Laverocks!"

"Really, Sandy?" And then she suddenly remembered something. "Now you