as made him forget that the sun
shines and birds sing and the world is a place to be glad in. The bright
colors have faded out of life for him; everything looks gray and somber."

"Gee! and how he used to like a good cabaret with a jazz band!" The girl
whispered it, and there was awe in her voice. "And colors! I had to wear
the gayest things I had, to please him."

"Yes, I know. And he'll like them best again, some day. Just be patient,
dear. And the waiting won't be hard, you'll have so much to do for him.
You'll have to be bringing the sunshine back, making him listen to the
bird-songs, teaching him how to be glad, to love doing all the happy,
foolish boy-things he used to like."

"I see--I can." The girl's voice was breathless.

"I'm sure you can." Sheila tried to put conviction into her words. "At
first you may find it a little hard. It means--"

"Yes?"

"It means creeping into his prison with him, so gently, so lovingly, and
staying close beside him while you cut the memory-cords one by one. Could
you do that?"

The girl sprang past Sheila toward the door. "Come! What are we waiting
for?"

"But he doesn't know you are here yet," parried the nurse.

"Let's go and tell him, then. He always adored surprises." The dimples in
her cheeks danced in anticipation while she took Sheila's hand and tried
to drag her nearer the door. But at the threshold something in the woman's
face stopped her. She hesitated. "Maybe--maybe he doesn't like surprises
any more." Again the impulsive hands were thrust into the nurse's. "Tell
me, tell me honestly--You said you sent for me. Was it--Didn't he want
me--to come?"

And Sheila, remembering what the boy had loved about her, gave her back
the truth: "No, he has grown afraid of you. That's another thing you will
have to bring back to him with the songs and the sunlight--his love for
you."

Her hand was flung aside and the girl flew past her, back to the wicker
chair under Old King Cole. Burying her head in her arms, she burst into
uncontrollable sobs, while Sheila stood motionless in the doorway and
waited. She must have waited an hour before the girl raised her eyes, wet
as her own. For Sheila knew that a woman's soul was being born into the
world, and none understood better than she what the agony of travail meant
to the child who was giving it birth.

"Come," said Sheila, gently.

The girl rose uncertainly; all the divine assurance of youth was gone. "I
think I see," she