ind which became a
corollary of his pain, pulsing with it, never quiet, an overtone that
tragically would not yield.

Into the blur of wind and weakness and pain came two miracles--a red
geranium peering out of the dusk of the room like a glowing coal,
unfamiliar and therefore a delight--a bit of velvet laughter in the
drab that caught his whole attention . . . the other a face. The face
came first in a cloud of flower-spotted purple that he knew clearly was
in some way related to the hypodermic needle Frank had plunged into his
arm while the sunset still lay painted on the window. . . . It took
form in the purple like a pansy--that face--grew sweet and vivid and
very real. Mercifully its loveliness was changeable, losing its pansy
purples and gaining glints of gold . . . becoming less a pansy . . .
more a face flower-like with compassion.

"And now?" wondered Brian when the face came again.

"It is morning," said Joan.

At the sound of her voice there came within him an extraordinary
fusing, at once a pain and a delight . . . fragments of memory . . . a
moonbeam . . . tears . . . the crackle of a fire . . . a quarry
mist . . . the glory of stars . . . a meaning . . . a motive that
startled and defied him.

"There should be moonlight on your hair," said Brian, drifting slowly
back to a knowledge of reality and pain.

"Moonlight?"

"You are Joan."

"Yes. At least until Doctor Cole finds someone else, I am at times
your nurse. The pain, Brian?" She bent over him, straightening a
pillow, touching his forehead with cool, questioning fingers.

"Not worse," said Brian.

"I am glad."

"There was a purple cloud," he said, frowning.

"The drug. Doctor Barrington wanted you to sleep."

"And the geranium?" His eyes sought it with relief.

"Kenny found it. Grogan's wife had it in her window. I think he must
have bullied her a little--"

"Bless him! . . . Where's the mirror?"

"Downstairs. I'm sleeping there."

"Thank God!" He closed his eyes, his color ebbing. "This plaster
cast," he apologized, "is like a suit of armor. It bothers me."

"Poor fellow! . . . Can you eat?"

"Not--yet. . . . Who's cooking?"

"Sometimes Don; sometimes I--unless the doctor sends me here.
Once--Kenny."

Brian smiled.

"You are very good," he said simply.

CHAPTER XXXV

THE PENITENT

Brian's skull was young and elastic. It saved him much, but Barrington
lingered until the period of suspense was a