"So I was. I sleep 'eaps better now." She drew her hurt leg up and
down in the bed. "Doctor, I 'd be all right, certain sure, if you let
me out for arf-an-hour. Sister let me sit out for ever so long
yestiday, an' while she was dustin' out the men's ward I practised
walkin'--all the lenth of the room an' back."

"When I told you never, on any account!" the Sister scolded.

"If I'd only the loan of a crutch!" pleaded Tilda; "an' it couldn' do me
no 'arm in this weather."

"Pining for liberty, hey?" said the doctor. (She saw what was passing
through his mind, and despised him for it.) "Well, suppose, now, we let
you out for just half an hour?"

Tilda clapped her palms together, and her eyes shone. To herself she
said: "Kiddin' of me, that's what they are. Want to get me out of the
way while they shift the beddin'. Lemme get back my clothes, that's
all, an' I'll teach him about pinin' for liberty."

"But," said the doctor severely, lifting a finger, "you're to keep to
the pavement mind--just outside, where it's nice and shady. Only so far
as the next turning and back; no crossing anywhere or getting in the way
of traffic, and only for half an hour. The chimes from St. Barnabas
will tell you, if you can't read the clock."

She had learnt to read the time before she was five years old, and had a
mind to tell him, but checked herself and merely nodded her head.

"Half an hour, and the pavement only. Is that understood?"