he passed from a "case" to an individual.

The twilight hour now became something of a function and Cameron dropped
his professional manner with his outdoor trappings and appeared, often,
as a tired but very humanly interesting young man.

He talked of safe, ordinary things, he brought books and flowers, and
while Miss Brown kept a rigid appearance, she inwardly sniffed--or the
equivalent.

And then came the Sunday before Joan was to leave the hospital. It
happened to be Easter, and a woman was singing in the little chapel down
the hall. The room doors were open and the sweet words and melody
floated in to the silent listeners--Joan pictured them as she sat and
felt her tears roll down her cheeks.

"Some--are going out!" she thought, "and others, like me, must go on.
And here we all are with walls between, but our doors open to:

"He weaves the shining garments
Unceasingly and still
Along the quiet waters
In niches of the hills."

The words seemed to paint, in the narrow room, the dim Gap. The sound of
the river was in Joan's ears and she knew that the niches of the safe
hills where her loved ones waited, were full of the spring blossoms.

No leaf that dawns to petal,
But hints the Angel-plan.

Joan looked up and saw Cameron at the doorway. He almost filled it, and
his eyes grew troubled as he noted the thin, white, tear-wet face.

"Shall I close the door?" he asked.

"No. Please do not. I like to think that all the others, down the
corridor, and I are together--listening, growing better!"

"Oh! I see." Cameron tossed aside his coat and sat down.

"I--I don't think you do," Joan smiled at him; "I think I puzzle you
terribly, but some day I am going to explain everything. All my life I
have been, as I am now, in a narrow little room--peeping out and never
touching others any more than I am touching"--she pointed to the right
and left--"my neighbours, here. But we were all listening to much the
same thing then as now.

"I am going"--here Joan dashed her tears off--"I am going somehow to
pull the walls down and know really!"

"Bully!" Cameron had a peculiar feeling in his throat. Then added: "I
cut something out of a paper the other day that seemed to me to hold all
the philosophy necessary for this tug-of-war we call life. Here it is!"

"Read it, please," Joan dropped her eyes.

"A shipwrecked sailor, buried here, bids you set sail.
Full many a gallant bark, when