that were being incorporated into his voice
and which seemed to disturb her. To all questions, as to names, the girl
in the dim room returned a dull stare and silence, but there were times
when she deliriously rambled intimate confidences. When these times
occurred, Cameron, if he chanced to be present, ordered the nurse from
the room and listened alone. He was relieved to hear that the patient
rarely spoke when he was not with her.

Joan dwelt upon her failure--her longing to go to Pat.

These items Cameron recorded in a small red book, for his memory was
none too good and he was busy to a dangerous degree.

Then, again, the sick girl depicted the night of the storm--the shock
and consequent flight.

"But," she pleaded piteously, holding the strong hand that anchored her
to life, "he won! he won, and it is always going to be all right. Oh! if
he could only know!"

There would be a pause always ending in: "I want Pat."

"Where is--Pat?" Cameron ventured.

"Home!" And then, weakly, but with a wrenching pathos, Joan sang--"_I'll
get to--Scotland_--no! _home_--before you!"

"Come, come, now!" Cameron pressed the thin form down. "You know you've
got to live--for Pat."

"Yes--for Pat." And then Joan would sleep.

It was a day in late May that Cameron noticed a change in his case. She
was weaker, but steadier. She seemed to connect him with something in
the recent past, and that encouraged him. All her previous conscious
moments had been like detached flashes.

"What was it you said I must live for?" she asked Cameron. "I've
forgotten."

"For everything," he replied, throwing off his coat and gripping the
promising moment. "You're not the kind to slink out. Besides, you've got
to tell me about your folks. Give them a chance to prove themselves and
set things straight." Cameron watched the struggle on the thin face.
"And there is--Pat!" he added.

Joan looked amazed and then quivered.

"Yes, Pat, of course!"

There was a long pause, the consciousness was seeking something to which
it might cling. Something forever eluding it.

A day or two later Cameron brought the dog into the sick room. Joan
turned as she heard steps.

"Cuff!" she cried and then, as the dog leaped on to her, she sobbed and
murmured over and over: "Pat's little Cuff; Pat's little Cuff."

Her way on ahead was safer after that--safer but more secretive.

As Joan got control of her thoughts she became more silent and
watchful. She questi