The Prince Ward.
by Claude M. Girardeau.
THE hospital was almost finished, but, as there were several wards still unendowed, the board of managers gave a reception. Ostensibly, to enable a curious public to inspect the building; in reality, to obtain benefactions. Among the visitors was a Mr. Prince, a Southerner, and reputed wealthy. He seemed greatly interested in the hospital, and selected for endowment a single ward on the second floor, department of surgery. It was at once completed at his expense and christened with his name.
Its first occupant was his wife. She looked like a dying woman to the superintendent, but he entered her case on the new books without comment, and she was examined by the surgeons in charge. They advised an immediate operation as the only hope—and that a slight one—of saving her life. In fact, they knew she could not recover either with or without it; but the operation would be an interesting one.
"I did not think I was so ill," said Mrs. Prince pathetically, as the nurse took her back to her room.
"Guess she hasn't looked in a glass lately," was the attendant's unspoken comment.
"She looks for all the world like a starved cat," she said to another nurse, later on, "with her big green eyes and her black hair. Won't I have a sweet time combing all that hair? It's about two yards long. She's more hair than anything else."
The morning of the operation found Mrs. Prince cold with nervous terror.
"Do you think I will suffer much?" she inquired of the nurse tremulously.
"Oh, no, indeed," replied that functionary, with professional cheerfulness, plaiting away at the endless lengths of hair. "If I was you, I'd have about half of this cut off."
33
