an instant over
the bed.

"Oh you angels!" murmured the girl as they left her, her eyes following
them.

* * * * *

It was ten days later, in the middle of a wonderful night in early May,
that Miss Arden, beginning to be sure that the case which had interested
her so much was going to give her a hard time before it should be
through, listened to words which roused in her deeper wonder than she
had yet felt for the most unusual patient she had had in a long time.
Although there was as yet nothing that could be called real delirium, a
tendency to talk in a light-headed sort of way was becoming noticeable.
Sitting by the window, the one light in the room deeply shaded, she
heard the voice suddenly say:

"This evens things up a little, doesn't it? I know a little
more about it now--you must realize that, if you are keeping
track of me--and I know you are--you would--even from another
world. Things aren't fair--they aren't. That you should have
to suffer all you did, to bring you to that pass--while I--But
I know a good deal about it now--really I do. And I'm going to
know more. I didn't sell a single book to-day. You had lots of
such days, didn't you?
Poor--pale--tired--heartsick--heartbroken girl!"

A little mirthless laugh sounded from the bed. "I wonder how many people
ever let a person who is selling something at the door get into the
house. And if they let her in, do they ever, _ever_ ask her to sit down?
The places where I've stood, telling them about the book, while they
were telling me they didn't want it--stood and stood--and stood--with
great easy chairs in sight! Oh, that chair in my doctor's office--it was
the first chair I'd sat in that whole morning. I went to sleep in it, I
think."

There followed a long silence, as if the thought of sleep had brought
it on. But then the rambling talk began again.

"His hair is red--red, like mine. I think that's why his heart
is so warm. Yet her heart is warm, too, and her hair is almost
black. The other man's hair was pretty dark, too, and his
heart seemed--well, not exactly cold. Did he send me some
daffodils the other day? I can't seem to remember. It seems as
if I had seen some--pretty things--lovely, springy things.
Perhaps Mrs.--the red-headed doctor's wife--queer I can't
think of their names--perhaps she sent them. It would be like
her."