down any more, for one thing. What was wrong between you and Joe, Sidney?”      

       “I didn't want to marry him; that's all.”      

       “That's considerable. The boy's taking it hard.”      

       Then, seeing her face:—     

       “But you're right, of course. Don't marry anyone unless you can't live without him. That's been my motto, and here I am, still single.”      

       He went out and down the corridor. He had known Sidney all his life. During the lonely times when Max was at college and in Europe, he had watched her grow from a child to a young girl. He did not suspect for a moment that in that secret heart of hers he sat newly enthroned, in a glow of white light, as Max's brother; that the mere thought that he lived in Max's house (it was, of course Max's house to her), sat at Max's breakfast table, could see him whenever he wished, made the touch of his hand on hers a benediction and a caress.     

       Sidney finished folding linen and went back to the ward. It was Friday and a visiting day. Almost every bed had its visitor beside it; but Sidney, running an eye over the ward, found the girl of whom she had spoken to Le Moyne quite alone. She was propped up in bed, reading; but at each new step in the corridor hope would spring into her eyes and die again.     

       “Want anything, Grace?”      

       “Me? I'm all right. If these people would only get out and let me read in peace—Say, sit down and talk to me, won't you? It beats the mischief the way your friends forget you when you're laid up in a place like this.”      

       “People can't always come at visiting hours. Besides, it's hot.”      

       “A girl I knew was sick here last year, and it wasn't too hot for me to trot in twice a week with a bunch of flowers for her. Do you think she's been here once? She hasn't.”      

       Then, suddenly:—     

       “You know that man I told you about the other day?”      

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