That same evening, in the fever ward of a Milan hospital, two figures were standing beside a narrow cot in earnest consultation. The patient was a child of ten. The little face had the look of many another little fever-stricken face, but the hair that lay tossed upon the pillow was of exceptional beauty.
"Can we save her, Signor Dottore?" It was the nun who spoke.
"We must," the doctor answered, with quiet emphasis.
He stooped and lifted in his hand one of the disordered tresses. It was neither blonde nor auburn, but pure gold, the lovely gold that sometimes shines in the heart of the sunset. Even the nun felt the beauty of it.
"Did you ever see such hair as that?" she asked.
He laid the tress back upon the pillow, very gently, and, looking into the quiet eyes of the Sister, he answered:
"Never but once."
