ike yours,
Jimmy. Now, what a fortunate girl she was! Oh, my! Some men are so
tender and thoughtful about these little matters. Jim, you never
teased me by stealing a lock of my hair, did you? and so of course
I never asked for yours. What a slow old chap you are! These
letters will teach you a lesson, which I hope you will heed. Put
the lock back with that poetry to preserve it, and do let us hear
the rest of it."

"Listen, then," said Hygeia, continuing:

"'How the fresh breezes must be painting their ruddy hues on those
cheeks of yours, Margaret, for you write me that you are spending
most of your time in the open these beautiful days. How I long to be
with you and behold, for as the poet would sing of you--

"'Her cheeks are like yon crimson gem,
The pride of all the flow'ry scene,
Just opening on its thorny stem.

* * * * *

"'Aye, and then--

"'Her lips are like yon cherries ripe,
That sunny walls from Boreas screen--
They tempt the taste and charm the sight;
An' she has twa sparkling roguish een.'"

* * * * *

At this point I awoke, sat up in bed and reached out for the suspended
electric button, which I pushed for two long rings and a short one, my
private signal. I was thirsty for grape-juice. Hygeia seldom traveled
beyond range of my bell. As soon as she heard it, she stopped reading
and asked to be excused for a few minutes, until she could attend to my
wants.

It was now my eighth week at the hospital, and it found me with little
to do. I pined silently. The nurse flitting in and out cheered and then
distracted me; she was too busy elsewhere most of the time to suit me. I
dared not think too much of my troubles, for I found it discouraging and
weakening. The letters from Obreeon furnished the material I needed to
sustain a happy train of thought. Sitting up in bed with this precious
poetic patchwork piled over my lap, I had many a good sneeze. I am sure
I got some of my money back by reading them over and over again, with
the memory of the original spirit in which they were slapped together.
For a time the happy days of the fifth flat came back to me, and I
smiled and chuckled over the wildest specimens in suppressed glee.
Robert Burns, of Scotland, and I were responsible for many of these lone
lover's laments. I must say that Burns held up his end fairly well,
because I knew j