"What is this?" he muttered quite distinctly, with that tone of
self-absorption which characterizes the sayings of an unconscious
man. "What is this silly cap?"

His fingers wandered on over the snowy linen until they came to the
strings.

As an aspirant to the title of gentleman, I felt like running away--
many doctors know this feeling; as a doctor, I could only stay.

His fingers fumbled with the strings. Still Sister bent over the
bed. Perhaps she bent an inch or two nearer. One hand was beneath
his neck, supporting the poor shattered head.

He slowly drew off the cap, and his fingers crept lovingly over the
soft fair hair.

"Marny," he said, quite clearly, "you've done your hair up, and
you're nothing but a little girl, you know--nothing but a little
girl."

I could not help watching his fingers, and yet I felt like a man
committing sacrilege.

"When I left you," said the brainless voice, "you wore it down your
back. You were a little girl--you are a little girl now." And he
slowly drew a hairpin out.

One long lock fell curling to her shoulder. She never looked up,
never noticed me, but knelt there like a ministering angel--