She looked past the surgeon.

"Very few in here to-night, Doctor Brandt," she urged.

"I wonder what would become of hospital rules if we left it to you
nurses!" he protested, as he stepped aside and gently drew the girl
within.

Down the dim aisle between the snowy beds we went, until the surgeon
stopped at one, beside which sat a nurse, her fingers on the wrist of
the bandaged occupant.

One bloodless hand picked feebly at the covering. The girl took this
in both her own and pressed it to her cheek. Then stooping even lower,
she cooed to the head on the pillow.

"The Big Train's pulled in . . ." muttered a far voice from between the
bandages.

"Railroad man--isn't he?" inquired the surgeon of me.

"No. A horseman," I replied.

"He talks about trains. Was it a railroad accident?"

"He was injured by a horse called The Big Train," I explained.

"Oh--that one," he said, enlightened.

"Why don't they shoot him?"

"They did," I said.

"Good!" exclaimed the surgeon. "That is fine!"

After taking the girl to her home, I sent telegrams to "Mr. Van," as I
had heard Blister call him--one to Morrisville, New Jersey, and one to
the Union Club, New York. Judge and Mrs. Dillon were abroad.

When I had telephoned to the hospital the next morning, I went to the
office and found a message on my desk. It read:

"Have everything possible done. Send all bills to me. He must come
here to convalesce."

It was headed Morrisville, and was signed, "W. D. Van Voast."

That same day Blister was taken to a big, airy, private room with two
nurses in attendance.

For a time it seemed hopeless. And then the fates decided to spare
that valiant whimsical spirit and Death drew slowly back. The stallion
had been unshod, and to this and the semi-darkness Blister owed his
life.

I had met the girl frequently at the hospital and at last they told us
we could see Blister for a moment the next day. Ten o'clock was the
time set and as we sat in the visitor's room together, waiting, she
seemed worried.

"You should be more cheerful," I said. "The danger is past, or we
would not be allowed to see him."

"It isn't that," she replied. "I used to like horses. Now every horse
I see scares me to death." Then she hesitated and looked at me timidly.

"Well," I encouraged, "that's natural, what of it?"

"I've been thinking--" she said slowly, "every girl should like what
her husb--" she stopped and blushed till she lo