"And the heifer was brown, with one white ear; it was awful cunning,"
she confided mumblingly. "And it ate from my hand--all warm and sticky,
like--loving sandpaper." There was no protest in her voice, nor any
whine of complaint, but merely the abject submission to Fate of one who
from earliest infancy had seen other crops blighted by other frosts.
Then tremulously with the air of one who, just as a matter of spiritual
tidiness, would purge her soul of all sad secrets, she lifted her
entrancing, tear-flushed face from her strong, sturdy, utterly
unemotional fingers and stared with amazing blueness, amazing blandness
into the Senior Surgeon's scowling scrutiny.

"And I'd named her--for you!" she said. "I'd named her--Patience--for
you!"

Instantly then she scrambled to her knees to try and assuage by some
miraculous apology the horrible shock which she read in the Senior
Surgeon's face.

"Oh, of course, sir, I know it isn't scientific!" she pleaded
desperately. "Oh, of course, sir, I know it isn't scientific at all! But
up where I live, you know, instead of praying for anybody, we--we name a
young animal--for the virtue that that person--seems to need the most.
And if you tend the young animal carefully--and train it right--!
Why--it's just a superstition, of course, but--Oh, sir!" she floundered
hopelessly, "the virtue you needed most in your business was what I
meant! Oh, really, sir, I never thought of criticizing your character!"

Gruffly the Senior Surgeon laughed. Embarrassment was in the laugh, and
anger, and a fierce, fiery sort of resentment against both the
embarrassment and the anger,--but no possible trace of amusement.