vitally alive and fresh to look at could be headed for a
sanitarium with broken-down hulks like himself.

She caught Peter's eye upon her and smiled. "If Flanders will hurry we'll
be there in time to see Hennessy feeding the swans," she announced.

There was no response. Peter had suddenly lost the knack of it, along with
other things. He could only look bewildered and a trifle more tired. But
the girl must have understood it was only a temporary lack, for she did
not draw in like a snail and dismiss Peter from her conscious horizon. She
smiled again.

"I see. Newcomer?" And, nodding an affirmative to herself, she went
sociably on: "Hennessy and the swans are symbolical. Couldn't tell you
why--not in a thousand years--but you'll feel it for yourself after you've
been here long enough. Hennessy hasn't changed in fifteen years--maybe
longer for those who can reckon longer. Same old blue jumper, same old
tawny corduroys; if he ever had a new pair he's kept them to himself. And
the swans have changed less than Hennessy. If anything gets on your nerves
here--treatment, doctors, nurses, anything--go and watch Hennessy. He's
the one sure, universal cure."

The bus swung round the corner and brought the ivy-covered building into
sight. The girl's face grew lighter and lighter; in the shadow of the bus
it seemed to Peter actually to shine. "Dear old San," she said under her
breath. "Heigh-ho! it's good to get back!"

Before Peter could fathom any reason for this unaccountable rejoicing, the
bus had stopped and the girl and suitcase had vanished. Wearily he came
back to his own reason for being there, and docilely he allowed the porter
to shoulder his luggage and conduct him within.

Three days passed--three days in which Peter thought little and felt much.
He had been passed about among the staff of doctors very much like a
delectable dish, and sampled by all. Half a dozen had taken him in hand.
He had been apportioned a treatment, a diet, a bath hour, and a nurse.
Looking back on those three days--and looking forward to a continuous
protraction of the same--he could see less reason than ever for coaxing an
existence out of life. Life meant to him work--efficient, telling
work--and companionship--sharing with a congenial soul recreation,
opinions, and meals--and some day, love. Well--what of these was left him?
It was then that he remembered the gray girl's advice in the omnibus and
went out to find Hennessy and the swans.