." But here the voice wavered and trailed off into babble, meaningless as a year-old infant's.
Tilda listened hard for a minute, two minutes, then dropped her head back on her pillow as the door-handle rattled.

It was the Second Nurse returning for night duty.
Early next morning the doctor came--a thin young man with a stoop, and a crop of sandy hair that stood upright from his forehead.

Tilda detested him.
He and the Second Nurse talked apart for quite a long while, and paid no attention to the child, who lay shamming a doze, but with her ears open.
She heard the doctor say-- "She?
Oh, move her to the far end of the ward." The Second Nurse muttered something, and he went on-- "She is well, practically.

All she wants now is someone to keep an eye on her, make her lie up for a couple of hours every day, and box her ears if she won't." "That's me," thought Tilda.

"I'm to be moved out of the way because t'other's going to die; and if she's going to die, there's no time to be lost." She stirred, lifted her head, and piped-- "Doctor!" "Hullo, imp! I thought you were sleeping." "So I was.