Belinda of the Red Cross

Two white-uniformed orderlies guided the stretcher on its rubber-tired wheels into the corridor--the corridor which was all white tile, marble, enameled steel and glass.

The military-looking surgeon stalking ahead had not adjusted his mask; the jetty, cropped beard he wore on his full chin gave his countenance an especially sinister expression. His black eyes--their glance of a peculiarly penetrating quality--embraced the two immaculately dressed nurses on the settee beside the door of the operating room. Sue Blaine and Belinda Melnotte had just been speaking of the Herr Doktor; perhaps they looked conscious under his swift, keen scrutiny.

Sue Blaine had begun tragically: "Belinda, I hear the elevator creaking again. It's either you or me to assist the Herr Doktor. And I'm so tired of it all!"

"Yet you took upon yourself the novitiate of a trained nurse for two years." Belinda Melnotte's laugh was low, full, delicious. It was no saccharine giggle, but came from a splendid chest in a robust body with a bell-like tone to it that delighted the ear. "Two whole years, Sue! Still, I wish I were just entering, after all."

"What?" gasped the other. "Why! when I am through here I shall incinerate my apron, cap and first-aid kit with appropriate ceremonies in our back-yard. I'll refuse even to do up my little brother's finger if he cuts it. No, I am through--through!"

"Hush! The Herr Doktor!" Belinda Melnotte breathed.

The black-browed surgeon arrived.

"You will please to act with me, Miss Belinda. It is perhaps an important case."

Belinda Melnotte's cheeks burned warmly. It secretly angered her that she should blush when Doctor Herschall looked at her or spoke to her. But she almost always betrayed that mark of confusion. He was the only member of the great hospital's medical staff who called her by her given name.

He was quite a wonderful man, she knew, this tall and broad-shouldered surgeon. Many of the nurses admired him immensely, for he was not unsocial in spite of his stern and aggressive appearance.

He was a keen and analytical surgeon, with ten years of practice in the city to add to his first fame gained in his own country. He was but thirty-five. Others of the medical staff of the hospital, ten years his senior, were of sprightlier manner than Doctor Herschall and seemed to Belinda far younger. Then there were his personal peculiarities--the boring glance of his black eyes, the almost feline touch of his hand--which were obnoxious to the nurse.

Having been called into consultation as a specialist in her father's case, Doctor Herschall had met Belinda in her own home. Therefore he assumed a familiar manner toward her from the very beginning of her hospital training that incensed her, yet it was too indefinite for her to show open resentment.

Had she wished to do so, this was not a time to display her private distaste for the Herr Doktor, as he was called throughout the hospital. The rolling stretcher was at hand. Under the canvas sheet was a still form; but a high, querulous voice--the unmistakable tones of delirium--babbled like a running brook:

"What d'you think of her, Doc? And after all I'd done for the old girl! Talk about ingratitude! Nursing her along all this way--clear from the Hempstead grounds; and then, when I had to land her, doing it as though I were putting her to sleep in a feather-bed--cranky old thing! I hopped out to see what was wrong with the propeller, and what does she do to me? Slapped me! That's what she did. Slapped me--and I never did a thing to her----"