life; and now she opened her eyes and they rested on Aunt Jane's face and smiled a little. Then the lids fluttered together again and sleep came to the face, natural and sweet.

Aunt Jane's eyes grew dark beneath the white cap. She touched a bell and gave the case over to the day nurse that came. "She will be all right now," she said. She spoke in the low, even voice that was not a whisper and not a tone. "Give her plenty of water. She has been very thirsty. But there is no fever. Don't call me unless there is a change.... Then send at once." She departed on her rounds.

No one would have guessed, as the fresh, stout figure moved in and out among the wards, that she had not slept for two nights. There was a tradition that Aunt Jane never slept and that she was never tired. Dr. Carmon laughed at the tradition and said that Aunt Jane slept as much as any one, more than most people, in fact, only she did it with her eyes open—that it was only a superstition that made people think they must shut their eyes to sleep. The Hindoos had a trick worth two of that. Aunt Jane knew the trick, and she might tell other folks if she would, and save the world a lot of trouble.

But Aunt Jane only shook her head, and smiled, and went her way. And when the fight with death came, she went with each one down into that other world, the world of sleep and faith and unconscious power, on the border-land of death, where the soul is reborn, and waited there for life. She had no theories about it, and no pride; and if she had now and then a gentle, imperious scorn of theorists and bunglers, it was only the touch of human nature that made the world love her.

VI

It was late Monday afternoon that a card was brought to Aunt Jane—a thin, slim bit of card, with correct English lettering in plain type on it.

Aunt Jane read it and glanced up at Miss Murray who was on door duty for the afternoon.

"He's in the front room," said the nurse. "And there's a woman—came the same time but separate. I put her in the back room."

"Tell Miss Crosby and Miss Canfield to be ready to go on duty in Number 5 and Suite A," said Aunt Jane.

She said the last words almost with a sniff. If Aunt Jane had had her way, there would have been no Suite A in the House of Mercy.

For Suite A was a big, sunny, southeast room, with a sitting-room on one side and a bath on the other—a royal bath, with overhead shower and side sprays and all the latest words in plumbing and fitting, all the most luxurious and costly appointments of nickel and marble and tile.

Aunt Jane always went by Suite A with her head a little in the air and her nose a trifle raised. And woe to the man or woman who occupied Suite A. For a week or ten days he was left severely to the care of nurses and doctors. It was only after he had experienced to the full what a desolate place a hospital may be, that Aunt Jane condescended to look in and thaw the atmosphere a little.

It was perhaps her feeling for Suite A that led her to attend to ward patients and occupants of humble rooms before those of Suite A. "They'll be comfortable enough when they get to their suite," she had been known to say.

So it was the back room that she entered first—with the card in her hand.

A little woman at the side of the room got up quickly. "I came alone," she said. She fluttered a little and held out her hand nervously as if uncertain what might happen to her in a hospital.

Aunt Jane took it in her plump one and held it a minute. "Sit down."

The woman sat down and looked at her. "John wanted to come. But I told him to stay home," she said.

"Much better," replied Aunt Jane, nodding.

"I told him he'd better kind of make supper for the children. So if they should miss me!" The look was wistful.

Aunt Jane regarded it comfortably.

"All the happier, when you get back home." She had seated herself in a large chair and she rocked a little.

The woman's face relaxed.

She looked about her more happily. "It seems kind of like home, don't it? I didn't think a hospital would be like this—not just like this. I don't seem to mind being here," she said with a little note of surprise.

"You won't mind it," said Aunt Jane. "You'll like it. Everybody likes it. Maybe you won't want to go away."

The woman smiled faintly. "I guess I shall be ready to go—when the time comes," she added slowly.... "There's one thing I wanted to ask somebody about—it's about paying— How much it will be, you know? I asked the doctor once—when he said I'd have to come, but he didn't tell me—not really."

"Dr. Carmon doesn't think so much about his pay." There was something almost like pride in Aunt Jane's voice. "You needn't be afraid he'll overcharge for it."

"It isn't that—only maybe we couldn't pay," said the woman. Her forehead held little wrinkled lines and her face smiled. "And it don't seem quite right to be done—if we can't pay for it."

Aunt Jane rocked a minute. Her eyes travelled to the door leading to the front room. The door was ajar and through the crack there was a glimpse of a light overcoat lying carelessly across the chair. It had a silk lining.

Aunt Jane nodded toward it. "There's a man in there——"

"Yes, I know. I saw him. He got here the same time I did—in his motor-car."

"In his motor-car—that's it! Well—" Aunt Jane smiled. "He's going to pay Dr. Carmon—for your operation."

"Why—!" The little woman gasped. "He don't have any reason to pay for me!"

"Well—" Aunt Jane rocked, turning it over and making it up as she went along: "Well— He's rich. He has a plenty— And he won't be comfortable without." She spoke with conviction.

"But he don't know me," said the woman. "Unless maybe he knows John!" she added thoughtfully.

"That's it," Aunt Jane responded. "Maybe he knows 'John.' Anyway he's going to pay." She touched a bell.

"Well—" The woman looked down at the hands in her lap, the fingers were working in and out. "I'm sure I don't know how to thank him!" she said. She looked up. Her eyes were full of tears. She brushed a quick hand across them. "I don't know how!" she said softly.

"You don't need to thank him," replied Aunt Jane. "He won't expect any thanks, I guess."

A nurse stood in the door. Aunt Jane's hand motioned to the woman. "This is Mrs. Pelton. She's going to be in Room 5. Take good care of her."

The nurse held out her hand with a smile. And the little woman got up. "I've got a bag here somewhere—? That's it—yes. Thank you! I seem all kind of upset, somehow. I didn't know a hospital would be like this!"

Aunt Jane watched her with a smile as she went from the room. There was a gentle look in her eyes. Then she got up, with the card in her hand, and moved toward the front room. She had become serene and austere.

A tall, thin man rose courteously. "I am Dr. Carmon's patient. I understand a room has been reserved for me?" He looked up.

"There's a room, yes," admitted Aunt Jane.

The man's face waited. There was astonishment and a little amusement under its polite gaze.

Aunt Jane rang the bell.

"Won't you sit down," she indicated a chair.

"Thank you. I prefer to keep standing—while I can." He said it smilingly.

If there was an undertone of appeal for sympathy in the words, Aunt Jane's face ignored it. She turned to the nurse who