Ruth's first night on duty at the hospital, ten days later, was eventful.

She had the care of two patients, each in a room by himself, with an open door between. One of these patients was a man with a broken arm, a displaced rib, a bandaged head and wandering brain. He made no trouble and was perfectly quiet, except an occasional mumbling to himself.

The other patient, the one who appealed more strongly to her sympathies, was a boy about fifteen. Both legs had been broken in an automobile collision and he was suffering from internal injuries. In spite of constant pain his courage never weakened. He was always in good spirits and trying his best to smile. His gratitude for any attention went straight to the heart of his nurse:—"That pretty little nurse with the sad face" as one surgeon described her.

Ruth was much impressed by Dr. Gladwin, a tall, heavy man, with a bushy head of the whitest hair. His eyes were threatening, his glance warlike, all in amusing contrast, however, to his friendly, cheerful voice, his gentle manners and his unfailing sympathy. He said to her that evening, after giving his instructions:

"We have not been able to define precisely this boy's injuries. The constant pain about his chest is a bad sign, but we are hoping for the best. His legs will be as good as ever."

While these words were spoken Ruth looked across the room toward the patient. His eyes were closed. The round boyish face was drawn with pain. At that moment his eyes opened and he returned Ruth's look with a smile. It was a smile of friendliness and courage, the resolute, pathetic courage of youth clinging to life. The look itself and the tale it told brought a sudden moistness to the eyes of the new nurse. Then she followed Dr. Gladwin into the adjoining room.

Standing by the bedside of the other patient she looked down upon a man whose eyes were partly covered by the bandage about his head. The pale face had the somewhat disreputable appearance that goes with a scrubby, unshaven chin.

"This man," said the doctor, "has, as you know, a broken arm and rib, with an injury to his head. He remains unconscious. The first few days he made no effort to speak. But now he murmurs something at intervals; always the same words, I am told. The effort to speak is a favorable sign in this case, as it indicates a returning memory. He will probably recover."

A few further instructions as to her own duties, and he departed.

Ruth found the boy more greedy for companionship than the unconscious patient—which was not surprising. No human being could be braver than this boy. Yearning for sympathy he liked to have his hand held by this new nurse. As the night wore on he told her in a fragmentary way, between periods of pain, of his parents in San Francisco, of his ambitions, if he ever recovered. He also gave details of his accident last Saturday, just how he was thrown from the motor when they collided with the other car.

But the new nurse did not neglect the less interesting patient in the next room. He seemed like one in a deep, unending sleep, except for the occasional smile that came to his lips and the muttered words—whatever they were.

About two o'clock in the morning the boy closed his eyes and he, also, slept. Ruth arranged the covering about his neck and shoulders then stepped gently into the adjoining room. For a moment she stood at the bedside of the unconscious man with the scrubby chin. He lay motionless, and in a slumber so deep, so silent, that it seemed to Ruth he could easily pass away and none be wiser. Then, for a time, she stood at the open window, looking out into the peaceful summer night and up at the stars. Her thoughts, when alone these days, were always in the past, and they were heart breaking. To-night, even the rising moon, although in its fullest beauty, seemed a perfect symbol of her own future—a world of dust and ashes.

At last, with a sigh of resignation—a sigh of despair and buried hopes—she left the window. Again she stood beside the unconscious and less interesting patient; he of the bandaged head and scrubby chin. As she was turning away she noticed a movement of his lips—the beginning of the periodic smile. She felt a sudden curiosity to hear the coming words. If, as the doctor said, they were always the same, they might be a message he had wished to send, important to wife or parents, that could lead to his identification. Besides she had a strong desire to learn what words or what thought behind the words—could bring so much happiness, even momentarily, to a half conscious spirit.

The light in the room, while softened by shades, was clear enough to reveal the uncovered portion of his face. And, as she looked more carefully, the face was less "common" than she had judged from the unshaven chin. She leaned over the bed, her face not far from his, and listened. Through the open window came no sound from the sleeping city; only the pale light from the rising moon; that cold, dead world of dust and ashes. It may have been the solitude and the silence of the hour that brought to Ruth a feeling of awe—almost of guilt at this intrusion upon the privacy of another's thoughts; secrets, perhaps, of a defenseless brain. As she was wondering what sort of accident had brought him there the blissful smile became more pronounced. Although his eyes were partly covered by the overhanging bandage it was clear that the dormant spirit within was stirred by memories of a supreme happiness, of a transcendent joy that no physical pain could extinguish.

Further still she bent over, until her face was near his own.

Then, through every nerve of brain and body, she felt a sensation of mingled awe, of terror, of bewilderment, as if she were suddenly in touch with another world, when she heard, hardly above a whisper:

"Cyrus, come back. I have—always—loved you."

Breathless, as in a trance, Ruth gazed at the lips, where lingered—but slowly fading, as if reluctant to pass away—the expression of a great content. The brief liberty of a rapturous thought. Then back into the darkness.

Needless to say that Cyrus Alton was not neglected during his convalescence. And Dr. Gladwin's prophecy was correct. Cyrus not only recovered but his recovery, after once regaining consciousness, was surprisingly rapid. So rapid that the "little nurse with the sad face" threw aside her sadness, as if waking from a dream, and became the happiest and most inspiriting person in her vicinity.

On a certain afternoon, when the convalescent was first allowed to talk as much as he wished, he told his story. And no better audience could be desired than the one then seated on the bed beside him, and quite near the speaker—perhaps to save him the effort of raising his voice. The day was warm, the windows open. Faintly through the closed blinds came the murmur of the city, from beyond the spacious grounds of the hospital.

The story was simply told. He started at night for the red planet. He got there and he landed. The air seemed much like ours. But he found himself in a world quite different from his own. All was architecture; temples, towers and enormous viaducts fading away into the horizon, as far as the eye could see. And everything was tall and slender. The trees were very high with branches pointing upward like poplars, and always formally laid out in avenues, or in geometric patterns. And the color! It was like looking at an endless city through orange glasses. The few people he saw had larger heads than ours, more like children, but like children with very short legs. They were surprisingly light on their feet. He was surprised at their high jumps until he remembered that a man who weighs two hundred pounds on the earth weighs but seventy-five pounds on Mars. He really saw but little, however, for although he had tested the atmosphere he found, after looking about him a moment, that the air, while pleasant enough to breath, was affecting his nerves and brain, almost like laughing gas. Then, as he stood there, and began to realize his danger, the wonderful thing happened!

Like a soft whisper it came to his ears; gently but clearly, the words that made him forget the things about him,—and all else, for that matter. He thought, at first, the lighter air was affecting his nerves and exciting his imagination; that his own brain was fooling him. For he knew, or thought he knew, that such a thing was impossible. But as he stood there, wondering, hoping, trying hard to believe it might be possible, the message came again, in the same words. Then he knew it was no delusion. He knew it was no invention of his own, nor the cry from his own heart of its one desire.

"And, oh, Ruthy, it was the best news that ever came to that planet!"

After various remarks of a not impersonal nature from his audience, he continued:

"And to think of its getting there! I knew it was possible, theoretically, but I didn't really believe it. Three times it came. Then I wasted no more time in wondering. I clambered back into the machine. Foreign countries had no further interest for me!

"Foreign countries indeed!" and Ruth closed her eyes, and shuddered.

"Well," the traveler continued, "I reached home at night, as you know."

"Reached home!"

He laughed. "That shows how relative all things are, doesn't it? By home I meant the Earth. I traveled as fast as I dared for I wanted to meet somebody at Longfields. Instead of coming down over North America I found I was sailing up over the Eastern coast of Africa. When at last I struck Massachusetts, I met a thunderstorm. Any fool would know better than to stay out in it, but I was in a hurry to get to Longfields—where I had important business—and I took a chance. I was nearing Worcester when the storm struck me I had run into it, not realizing how fast I was going."

"Yes, yes—go on!"

"Well, I shall never know just what happened. I don't even know what became of the machine. The next thing I did know I was in this bed, and you beside it. Until you spoke to me and I heard your voice I believed I was dreaming."

"What do you think did happen, Drowsy?"

"I think a touch of lightning, an electric shock of some kind, knocked me silly, burst the door open and sent me heels over head out of the falling machine."

Then Ruth told him how he was found in a field, the ground, not far away, all dug up, a big tree splintered and a stone wall torn to pieces.

"Yes, yes—it probably took a run for a high jump, went off into space and is now about a thousand billion miles the other side of Neptune."

"Thank heaven, it's gone!" exclaimed Ruth. And obeying a sudden impulse she leaned over and kissed the happy man.

At that moment Dr. Gladwin entered from the adjoining room. Quickly Ruth straightened up and backed away, her cheeks redder than roses.

The old doctor laughed, his face aglow with a boyish delight. "Don't let me interrupt, for that's what makes the world go round. Doesn't it, Mr. Alton?"

"Yes, Doctor. It always has and it will, forever and forever."

"True, indeed! And how far above science, electrical, medical and any other kind, or any human invention—even yours."

"There's no comparison," said the smiling patient.

"And what a heaven-sent cure for a damaged head and arm and ribs!"

"And a damaged heart," said Cyrus, waving a hand toward the rosy Ruth. "It's more than a cure. It's a continuous miracle!"

Here the much embarrassed Ruth interrupted: "Please don't think, Dr. Gladwin, that——"

"That you treat other patients as kindly? Oh, never!"

"God forbid!" exclaimed Cyrus.

"I want you to know," Ruth persisted, "that in September there is to be a——"

Dr. Gladwin nodded. "Wedding. Yes, I knew it."

"You knew it!"

"Several days ago."

"Why, who told you?"

"You both told me."

"We both told you!" exclaimed nurse and patient as they stared first at each other, then at the doctor.

"Some days ago," said Dr. Gladwin, with a serious face and impressive manner, "a certain nurse was waiting for me at my office—early in the morning. She told me she had discovered the identity of a certain patient. Her voice was tremulous. One hand she pressed tight against her heart to silence its beating. She knew, as I did, that loud reverberations might awaken sleeping neighbors. She had eyes. Possibly you have noticed those eyes, Mr. Alton."

"I live in them," said Cyrus.

"Well, deep, down deep within those eyes I could see the Thing that makes the world go round; the tender, unchanging glow that is life to a broken lover."

Here Cyrus smiled, nodded, gulped, started to say something and gave it up.

Dr. Gladwin continued. "She did not tell me she hoped that particular patient would recover. She told me he must recover. She made it clear that nothing in this world, or in any other world, was to be considered until that young man was out of danger."

"Oh, how can you make fun of me!" protested Ruth.

"Make fun of you! Make fun of the most sacred thing in human life!"

"No, Ruth," said Cyrus, "he is not making fun of you. He is simply reciting the most beautiful of all earthly poems."

"Yes, he speaks truly," said the doctor: "the oldest in the world yet always young. An entrancing poem, containing also the secret of the young man with the broken head. But he hides his secret in a louder way. He sings it to any listener—and all day long."

"Oh, come now," from Cyrus. "I say, Doctor, you——"

Ruth laughed. "Don't interrupt. Please go right on, Doctor. It's just lovely!"

Dr. Gladwin obeyed. "Metaphorically he engages an auditorium and a military band to announce the coming tidings. Then, to the assembled multitude, he shouts the joyful secret. But when alone with me, those public methods are not necessary. If I mention, in a casual way, the nurse with the eloquent eyes, the color rushes into his pale face, his lips quiver, his eyes become moist and his pulse jumps and dances like a thing possessed."

Cyrus laughed and leaned back against his pillow. "Yes and ten times more so when I'm in her presence and can see her."

"Of course," said Dr. Gladwin, "a healthy, normal habit. Long life to it! There's no better way to impart the ever welcome tidings 'I am in love, and she's mine!' But what a tonic, this carefully guarded secret! Never, since the world began was cure so swift."

Then, in a more serious tone, but with his friendly smile:

"And all deserved! To both of you has come the high reward of Courage and Devotion."

Ruth returned his smile, the color still in her cheeks.

Cyrus closed his eyes and breathed a sigh of fathomless content.

"It all seems too good to be true," he murmured.