w vast world, of
which she was wholly ignorant, where she was the merest cypher on
sufferance. The thought was disagreeable to her irritable pride, and she
thrust it aside. She had other things to consider.

They drew up outside one of the general hospitals lined along the Camp
road.

'You'll find him in a special ward,' said Vincent, as he handed her out.
'But I'll take you first to Sister.'

They entered the first hut, and made their way past various small rooms,
amid busy people going to and fro. Bridget was aware of the usual
hospital smell of mingled anesthetic and antiseptic, and presently, her
companion laid a hasty hand on her arm and drew her to one side. A
surgeon passed with a nurse. They entered a room on the right, and left
the door of it a little ajar.

'The operating theatre,' said Vincent, with a gesture that shewed her
where to look; and through the open door Bridget saw a white room
beyond, an operating table and a man, a splendid boy of nineteen or
twenty lying on it, with doctors and nurses standing round. The youth's
features shewed waxen against the white walls, and white overalls of the
nurses.

'This way,' said Vincent. 'Sister, this is Miss Cookson. You
remember--Dr. Howson sent for her.'

A shrewd-faced woman of forty in nurse's dress looked closely at
Bridget.

'We shall be very glad indeed, Miss Cookson, if you can throw any light
on this case. It is one of the saddest we have here. Will you follow me,
please?'

Bridget found herself passing through the main ward of the hut, rows of
beds on either hand. She seemed to be morbidly conscious of scores of
eyes upon her, and was glad when she found herself in the passage beyond
the ward.

The Sister opened a door into a tiny sitting-room, and offered Bridget a
chair.

'They have warned you that this poor fellow is deaf and dumb?'

'Yes--I had heard that.'

'And his brain is very clouded. He tries to do all we tell him--it is
touching to see him. But his real intelligence seems to be far away.
Then there are the wounds. Did Dr. Howson tell you about them?'

'He said there were bad wounds.'

The Sister threw up her hands.

'How he ever managed to do the walking he must have done to get through
the lines is a mystery to us all. What he must have endured! The wounds
must have been dressed to begin with in a German field-hospital. Then on
his way to Germany, before the wounds had properly healed--that at least
is our theory--somew