"Any amount of time."

Sidney led the way into the small parlor, where Joe's roses, refused by the
petulant invalid upstairs, bloomed alone.

"First of all," said Sidney, "did you mean what you said upstairs?"

Dr. Ed thought quickly.

"Of course; but what?"

"You said I was a born nurse."

The Street was very fond of Dr. Ed. It did not always approve of him. It
said--which was perfectly true--that he had sacrificed himself to his
brother's career: that, for the sake of that brilliant young surgeon, Dr.
Ed had done without wife and children; that to send him abroad he had saved
and skimped; that he still went shabby and drove the old buggy, while Max
drove about in an automobile coupe. Sidney, not at all of the stuff
martyrs are made of, sat in the scented parlor and, remembering all this,
was ashamed of her rebellion.

"I'm going into a hospital," said Sidney.

Dr. Ed waited. He liked to have all the symptoms before he made a
diagnosis or ventured an opinion. So Sidney, trying to be cheerful, and
quite unconscious of the anxiety in her voice, told her story.

"It's fearfully hard work, of course," he commented, when she had finished.