Once a dreadful scream rang out from a neighbouring ward, where a man had suddenly gone insane; and he could hear the sounds of the struggle, the startled orders, the shrieks, the crash of a cot; then the dreadful uproar grew fainter, receding.

He roused himself, passed an unsteady hand across his eyes, looked blindly at the letter, saw only a white blurr, and, crushing it in his clenched fist, he went down the kitchen stairs and out across the road.
A hospital guard stopped him, but on learning who he was and that he had business with Miss Lynden, directed him toward a low, one-storied, stone structure, where, under the trees, a figure wrapped in a shawl lay asleep in a chair.
"She's been on duty all night," observed the guard.

"If you've got to speak to her, go ahead." "Yes," said Berkley in a dull voice, "I've got to speak to her." And he walked toward her across the dead brown grass.
Letty's head lay on a rough pine table; her slim body, supported by a broken chair, was covered by a faded shawl; and, as he looked down at her, somehow into his memory came the recollection of the first time he ever saw her so--asleep in Casson's rooms, her childish face on the table, the room reeking with tobacco smoke and the stale odour of wine and dying flowers.
He stood for a long while beside her, looking down at the thin, pale face.

Then, in pity, he turned away; and at the same moment she stirred, sat up, confused, and saw him.
"Letty, dear," he said, coming back, both hands held out to her, "I did not mean to rob you of your sleep." "Oh--it doesn't matter! I am so glad--" She sat up suddenly, staring at him.

The next moment the tears rushed to her eyes.
"O--h," she whispered, "I wished so to see you.