Leerie, Page 2

  Chapter I

  THE MAN WHO FEARED SLEEP

  Peter Brooks felt himself for a man given up. He had felt his physicalunfitness for some time in the silent, condemning judgment masked underthe too sympathetic gaze of his fellow-men; he had felt it in theover-solicitous inquiries after his health made by the staff; and therewas his chief, who had fallen into the comfortable week-end habit oftelling him he looked first-rate, and in the same breath begging him totake the next week off. For months past he had been conscious of thesidelong glances cast by his brother alumni at the College Club when heappeared, and the way they had of dropping into a contradictory lot oftopics whenever he joined a group unexpectedly showed only too plainlythat he had been the real subject under discussion. Yes, he felt that theworld at large had turned its thumb down as far as he was concerned, butit had caused him surprisingly little worry until that last visit toDoctor Dempsy.

  There it was as if Peter's sensibilities concerning himself had suddenlybecome acute. The doctor sounded too reassuring even for a combined friendand physician; he protested too much that he had found nothing at all thematter with him--nothing at all. When a doctor seems so superlativelyanxious to set a man right with himself, it is time to look out; thereforethe casual, just-happened-to-mention-it way that he finally broached thequestion of a sanitarium came within an inch of knocking the last propfrom under Peter's resolve not to lose his grip. For the first time hefully realized how it felt to be given up, and, characteristically, hethanked the Almighty that there was no one to whom it would really matter.

  For a year he had been slowly going to pieces; for a year he had beendropping in for Dempsy to patch him up. There had been a host of miserablepuny ailments which in themselves meant nothing, but combined and in ayoung man meant a great deal. Of late his memory had failed himoutrageously; he had had frequent attacks of vertigo, and these ofthemselves had rendered him unreliable and unfit for newspaper work.Irresponsible! Unfit! Peter snorted the words out honestly to himself.Under these conditions, and with no one to care, he could see no plausiblereason for trying to coax a mere existence out of life.

  To those who knew him best--to Doctor Dempsy most of all--his conditionseemed unexplainable. Here was a man who never drank, who never overfed,who smoked in moderation, whose life stood out conspicuously decent andclean against the possibilities of his environment. What lay back of thisgoing to pieces? Doctor Dempsy had tried for a year to find out and hadfailed. To Peter, it was not unexplainable at all--he knew. Possessed of aconstitution above the average, he had forced it to do the work of a mindfar above the average, while he had denied it one of the three necessitiesof life and sanity. His will and reason had been powerless to helphim--and now?

  Because he had hated himself for hiding this knowledge from the man whohad tried to do so much for him and wanted to make amends in some way--andbecause it was the easiest thing, after all, to agree--he let DoctorDempsy pick out a sanitarium, make all arrangements, buy his ticket, andsee him off. He drew the line at being personally conducted, however.Whether he went to a sanitarium or not did not matter; what mattered washow long would he stay and where would he go afterward. Or would there bean afterward? These were the questions that mulled through Peter's mind onthe train, and, coupled with the memory of the worried kindliness onDoctor Dempsy's face, they were the only traveling companions Peter had.It was not to be wondered, therefore, that as he left the car and boardedthe sanitarium omnibus he felt indescribably old, weary, and finished withthings.

  At first he thought he was the only passenger, but as the driver leisurelygathered up his reins and gave a cluck to the horses a girl's voice rangout from the station, "Flanders--Flanders! Why, I believe you'reforgetting me." And the next instant the girl herself appeared, suitcasein hand.

  The driver grinned down a sheepish apology and Peter turned to hold thedoor open. She stood framed in the doorway for a moment while she liftedin her case, and for that moment Peter had conflicting impressions. He wasconscious of a modest, nun-like appearance of clothes; the traveling-suitwas gray, and the small gray hat had an encircling breast of whitefeathers. The lips had a quiet, demure curve; but the chin was determined,almost aggressive, while the gray eyes positively emitted sparks. The girlwas not beautiful, she was luminous--and all the gray clothing in theworld could not quench her. Peter found himself instantly wondering howanything so vitally alive and fresh to look at could be headed for asanitarium with broken-down hulks like himself.

  She caught Peter's eye upon her and smiled. "If Flanders will hurry we'llbe there in time to see Hennessy feeding the swans," she announced.

  There was no response. Peter had suddenly lost the knack of it, along withother things. He could only look bewildered and a trifle more tired. Butthe girl must have understood it was only a temporary lack, for she didnot draw in like a snail and dismiss Peter from her conscious horizon. Shesmiled again.

  "I see. Newcomer?" And, nodding an affirmative to herself, she wentsociably on: "Hennessy and the swans are symbolical. Couldn't tell youwhy--not in a thousand years--but you'll feel it for yourself after you'vebeen here long enough. Hennessy hasn't changed in fifteen years--maybelonger for those who can reckon longer. Same old blue jumper, same oldtawny corduroys; if he ever had a new pair he's kept them to himself. Andthe swans have changed less than Hennessy. If anything gets on your nerveshere--treatment, doctors, nurses, anything--go and watch Hennessy. He'sthe one sure, universal cure."

  The bus swung round the corner and brought the ivy-covered building intosight. The girl's face grew lighter and lighter; in the shadow of the busit seemed to Peter actually to shine. "Dear old San," she said under herbreath. "Heigh-ho! it's good to get back!"

  Before Peter could fathom any reason for this unaccountable rejoicing, thebus had stopped and the girl and suitcase had vanished. Wearily he cameback to his own reason for being there, and docilely he allowed the porterto shoulder his luggage and conduct him within.

  Three days passed--three days in which Peter thought little and felt much.He had been passed about among the staff of doctors very much like adelectable dish, and sampled by all. Half a dozen had taken him in hand.He had been apportioned a treatment, a diet, a bath hour, and a nurse.Looking back on those three days--and looking forward to a continuousprotraction of the same--he could see less reason than ever for coaxing anexistence out of life. Life meant to him work--efficient, tellingwork--and companionship--sharing with a congenial soul recreation,opinions, and meals--and some day, love. Well--what of these was left him?It was then that he remembered the gray girl's advice in the omnibus andwent out to find Hennessy and the swans.

  His nurse was at supper, so he was mercifully free; moreover it was theemptiest time of day for out-of-doors. A few straggling patients wereknocking prescribed golf-balls about the links, and a scattering of nurseswere hurrying in with their wheel-chairs. Half-way between the links andthe last building was the pond, shaded by pines and flanked by a miniaturerustic rest-house, and thither Peter went. On a willow stump emerging fromthe pond he found Hennessy, as wrinkled as a butternut, with a thatch ofgray hair, a mouth shirred into a small, open ellipse, and eyes full ofirrepressible twinkles. He was seated tailor fashion on the stump, a tinplatter of bread across his knees and the swans circling about him. Helooked every whit as Irish as his name, and he was scolding and blarneyingthe birds by turn.

  "Go-wan, there, ye feathered heathen! Can't ye be lettin' them that hasgood manners get a morsel once in a while? Faith, ye'll be havin' old DocWillum afther ye with his stomach cure if ye don't watch out." He lookedover his shoulder and caught Peter's gaze. "Sure, birds or humans, theyall have to be coaxed or scolded into keepin' healthy, I'm thinkin', andHennessy's head nurse to the swans," he ended, with a chuckle.

  But there was something quite different on Peter's mind. "Has one of thepatients--a young person in gray--been here lately? I mean have you seenher about any time?"

  Hennessy shook a puzzled head. "A young gray patient, ye
say? Sure theremight be a hundred--that's not over-distinguishin'. I leave it to ye, sir,just a gray patient is not over-distinguishin'."

  Peter reflected. "It was a quiet, cloister kind of gray, but her eyes werenot--cloistered. They were the shiningest--"

  A chuckle from Hennessy brought him to an abrupt finish. "Eyes? Gray?Patient? Ha, ha! Did ye hear that, Brian Boru?" and he flicked his cap ata gray swan. "Sure, misther, that's no patient. 'Tis Leerie--herself."

  "Leerie?" The name sounded absurd to Peter, and slightly reminiscent ofsomething, he could not tell what.

  "Aye, Leerie. Real name, Sheila O'Leary--as good a name as Hennessy. Butthey named her Leerie her probation year. In course she's Irish an' notScotch, an' I never heard tell of a lass afore that went 'rounda-lightin' street lamps, but for all that the name fits. Ye mind grown-upsan' childher alike watch for her to come 'round."

  "A nurse," repeated Peter, dully.

  "Aye. An' she come back three days since, Heaven be praised! afther bein'gone three years."

  "Three years," repeated Peter again. "Why was she gone three years?"

  Hennessy eyed him narrowly for a moment. "A lot of blitherin' fools senther away, that's what, an' she not much more than graduated. Suspension,they called it."

  "Suspension for what?"

  The shirring in Hennessy's lips tightened, and he drew his breath in andout in a sort of asthmatic whistle. This was the only sign of emotion everbetrayed by Hennessy. When he spoke again he fairly whistled his words."If ye want to know what for--ye can ask some one else. Good night." Andwith a bang to the platter Hennessy was away before Peter could stop him.

  Alone with the swans, Peter lingered a moment to consider. A nurse. Thegray person a nurse! And sent away for some--some--Peter's mind gropedinadequately for a reason. Pshaw! He could smile at the absurdity of hisinterest. What did it matter--or she matter--or anything matter? For a manwho has been given up, who has been sent away to a sanitarium to finishwith life as speedily and decently as he can, to stand on one leg by apond, for all the world like a swan himself, and wonder about a girl hehad seen but once, in a sanitarium omnibus, was absurd. And the nameLeerie? Of course they had taken it from Stevenson, but it suited. Yes,Hennessy was right, it certainly suited.

  A rustle of white skirts coming down the path attracted his attention. Itwas his nurse, through supper, coming like a commandant to take him incharge. Thirty-seven, in a sanitarium, with a nurse attendant! Petergroaned inwardly. It was monstrous, a cowardly, blackguard attack of anunthinking Creator on a human being--a decent human being--who mightbe--who wanted to be--of some use in the world. For a breath he wanted toroar forth blasphemy after blasphemy against the universe and its Maker,but in the next breath he suddenly realized how little he cared. With asmile almost tragically senile, he let the nurse lead him away.

  And all the while a girl was leaning over the sill of the littlerest-house, watching him. It was a girl with a demure mouth, a determinedchin, and eyes that shone, who answered impartially to the names ofSheila, Miss O'Leary, or Leerie. The gray was changed for the whiteuniform and cap of a graduate nurse, and the change was becoming. She hadrecognized him at first with casual amusement as she watched him fill herprescription of Hennessy and the swans, but after Hennessy had gone shewatched him with all the intuitive sympathy of her womanhood and theunderstanding of her profession. Not one of the emotions that sweptPeter's face but registered full on the girl's sensibilities: theilluminating interest in something, bewilderment, hopelessness, despair,agony, and a final weary surrender to the inevitable--they were all there.But it was the strange, haunting look in the deep-set eyes that made thegirl sit up, alert and curious.

  "'Phobia," she said, softly, under her breath. "Not over-fed liver oralcoholic heart, but 'phobia, I'll wager, poor childman! Wonder how thedoctors have diagnosed him!"

  She learned how a few days later when Miss Maxwell, the superintendent ofnurses, stopped her in the second-floor corridor. "My dear, I should liketo change you from Madam Courot to another case for a few days. MissJacobs is on now and--"

  "Coppy?" Sheila O'Leary broke in abruptly, a smile of amusement breakingthe demureness of her lips. "Needn't explain, Miss Max. I see. Young malepatient, unattached. Frequent pulse-takings and cerebral massage, withlate evening strolls in the pine woods. Business office takes notice and achange of nurse recommended. Poor Coppy--ripping nurse! If only shewouldn't grow flabby every time a pair of masculine eyes are focused herway!"

  "But it wasn't the business office this time." Miss Maxwell herself smiledas she made the statement. "It was the patient himself. He asked for achange."

  "A man that's a man for all he's a patient. God bless his soul!" and alook of sudden radiant delight swept the girl's face. "What's he herefor? Jilting chorus-girl--fatty degeneration of his check-book?"

  The superintendent shook her head. "He doesn't happen to be that kind.He's a newspaper-man--a personal friend of Doctor Dempsy's. Overwork, hethinks, and for a year he's been trying to put him back on his feet. It'sa case of nerves, with nothing discoverable back of it so far as he cansee, but he wants us to try. Doctor Nichols has analyzed him; teeth havebeen X-rayed; eyes, nose, and throat gone over. There's nothing radicallywrong with stomach or kidneys; heart shows nervous affection, nothingmore. He ought to be fit physically and he isn't. Miss Jacobs reports amaximum of an hour's sleep in twenty-four. Doctor Dempsy writes it's acase for a nurse, not a doctor, and the most tactful, intuitive nurse wehave in the sanitarium. Please take it, Leerie."

  The girl stiffened under the two hands placed on her shoulders, whilesomething indescribably baffling and impenetrable took possession of herwhole being. Her voice became almost curt. "Sorry, can't. Bargain, youknow. Wouldn't have come back at all if you hadn't promised I should notbe asked to take those cases."

  "I'll not ask you to take another, but you know how I feel about anypatient Doctor Dempsy sends to us. Anything I can do means paying back alittle on the great debt I owe him, the debt of a wonderful training.That's why I ask--this once." A look almost fanatical came into the faceof the superintendent.

  The girl smiled wistfully up at her. "Wish I could! Honest I do, Miss Max!I'd fight for the life of any patient under the old San roof--man, woman,or child; but I'll not baby-tend unhealthy-minded young men. You know aswell as I how it's always been: they lose their heads and I mytemper--results, the same. I end by telling them just what I think; theypay their bills and leave the same day. The San loses a perfectly goodannual patient, and the business office feels sore at me. No, I'm no goodat frequent pulses and cerebral massage; leave that to Coppy."

  There was no stinging sarcasm in the girl's voice. She reached out animpulsive hand and slipped it into one of the older woman's, leaving itthere long enough to give it a quick, firm grip. "Remember, it's onlythree years--and it takes so little to set tongues wagging again. So let'sstick fast to the bargain, dear; only nervous old ladies or the badsurgical cases."

  "Very well. Only--if you could change your mind, let me know. In the meantime I'll put Miss Saunders on," and the superintendent turned away,troubled and unsatisfied.

  An hour later Sheila O'Leary came upon Miss Saunders with her new patient,and the patient was the man of the omnibus--the man with the haunting,deep-set eyes. Unnoticed, she watched them sitting on a bench by the pond,the nurse droning aloud from a book, the man sagging listlessly, plainlyhearing nothing and seeing nothing. The picture set Sheila O'Learyshuddering. If it was a case of 'phobia, God help the poor man withSaunders coupled to his nerves! Cumbersome, big-hearted, and hopelesslydull, Saunders was incapable of nursing with tactful insight anerve-racked man. In the whole wide realm of disease there seemed nothingmore tragic to Sheila than a victim of 'phobia. It turned normal men andwomen into pitiful children, afraid of the dark, groping out for the handto reassure them, to put heart and courage back in them again--the handthat nine cases out of ten never reaches them in time.

  With an impulsive toss of her head, She
ila O'Leary swung about in hertracks. She would break her own bargain for this once. She would go toMiss Max and ask to be put on the case. Here was a soul sick unto deathwith a fear of something, and Saunders was nursing it! What did it matterif it was a man or a dog, as long as she could get into the dark after himand show him the way out! Her resolve held to the point of branchingpaths, and there she stopped to consider again.

  Peter's eyes were on the swans; there was nothing to the general droop ofthe shoulders, the thrust-forward bend of the neck, the hollowing of thesmooth-shaven cheeks, and the graying of the hair above the temples towrite him other than an average overworked or habitually harassed businessman here for rest and treatment. If Sheila was mistaken--if there was noabnormal mental condition back of it all, no legitimate reason for notholding fast to the compact she had made three years before with herselfto leave men--young, old, or middle-aged--out of her profession, what afool she would feel! She balanced the paths and her judgment for a second,then decided in favor of the bargain. So Peter was left to theministrations of Saunders.

  That night the unexpected happened, unexpected as far as the sanitarium,the superintendent of nurses, and Sheila O'Leary were concerned. Howunexpected it was to Peter depends largely on whether it was the result ofa decision on his part to stop coaxing existence--or a desire to escapepermanently from Saunders--or merely an accident. However, Sheila O'Learywas called in the middle of the night, when she was sleeping so soundlythat it took the combined efforts of the superintendent and the head nightnurse to shake her awake. As she hurried into her uniform they gave herthe bare details. Somehow the doors of the sun-parlor had not beenfastened as usual, and a patient had stayed up there after lights wereout. He had tried to find his way to the lift, had slipped the fasteningsof the door in his effort to locate the bell, and had fallen four stories,to the top of the lift itself. The whole accident was unbelievable,unprecedented. They might find some plausible explanation in themorning--but in the mean time the patient was in the operating-room andSheila O'Leary was to report at once for night duty.

  As the girl pinned on her cap the superintendent whispered the lastinstructions: "You'll find him in Number Three, Surgical. It's one of yourfighting cases, Leerie, and it's Doctor Dempsy's patient. Remember, yourbest work this time, girl, for all our sakes!"

  And it was a fighting case. Innumerable nights followed, all alike. Thetemperature rose and fell a little, only to rise again; the pulsestrengthened and weakened by turns; delirium continued unbroken. As nightafter night wore on and no fresh sign of internal injury developed, thegirl found herself forgetting the immediate condition of the patient andgoing back to the thing that had brought him here. If she was right and hewas possessed by a fixed idea, the dread of some concrete thing orexperience, his delirium showed no evidence. It seemed more the deliriumof exhaustion than fever, and there was no raving. Consciousness, however,might reveal what delirium hid, so, as the nights slipped monotonously by,the girl found herself waiting with a growing eagerness for the man tocome back to himself.

  The waiting seemed interminable, but a time came at last when Sheilaslipped through the door of No. 3 and found a pair of deep-set, hauntingeyes turned full upon her.

  "It's--it's Leerie." The words came with some difficulty, but there was anuntold relief in Peter's voice.

  For a moment the girl was taken aback, but only for a moment. She laughedhim a friendly little laugh while she put her hand down to the hand thatwas still too weak to reach out in greeting. "Yes. Oh yes, it's Leerie.Been getting pretty well acquainted with you these weeks, but rather asurprise to find it so--so mutual."

  "I got acquainted with you--beforehand," announced Peter.

  "I see--omnibus, Hennessy, and the swans." She laughed again softly."You've been away a long time; hope you're glad to get back."

  Peter reflected. "I'm afraid I'm not. But I'll not say it if it sounds toomuch like a quitter."

  "No, say it and get it out of your system. Getting well always seems aterrible undertaking; and the stronger you've been the harder it seems."Sheila turned to her chart and preparations for the night.

  Lights out, she sat down by the open window to wait for Peter to sleep. Anhour passed, two hours, and sleep did not come. She fed him hot milk andhe still lay open-eyed, almost rigid, staring straight at the ceiling. Atmidnight she stole out for her own supper in the diet-kitchen and foundhim still awake when she returned, the haunting eyes looking more child'sthan man's in the dimness of the night lamp. Had she been free to followher most vagrant impulse, she would have climbed on the head of the bed,taken the bandaged head on her lap, and plunged into the most enthrallingtale of boy adventure her imagination could compass. But she hounded offthe impulse, after the fashion of treating all vagrants, and went back tothe window to wait and wonder. Peter was still awake when the gray of themorning crept down the corridors of the Surgical.

  Sheila questioned Tyler, the day nurse, as she came off duty the nextevening, "Number Three sleep any to boast of?"

  "Why, no! Didn't he sleep well last night?"

  She gave a non-committal shrug and passed into the room. He was watchingfor her coming, and a ghost of a smile flickered at the corners of hismouth. She couldn't remember having seen even so much of a smile before.

  "It's--it's Leerie." He said it just as he had the night before. But therewas a strange, wistful appeal in the voice which set Sheila wonderingafresh.

  "Gorgeous night, full of stars, and air like wine. Smell the verbena andthyme from the San gardens?" Sheila threw back her head and sniffed theair like a wild thing. "Took me a month to trail that smell--be sure ofit. You only get it at night after a light rain. Take some long breaths ofit and you'll be asleep before lights are out."

  But he was not. He lay rigid as the night before, his eyes staringstraight before him. Sheila remembered a description she had read once ofa mountain guide who had been caught on the edge of a landslide and hungfor hours over the abyss, clutching a half-felled tree and trying to keepawake until help came. The man she was nursing might almost be livingthrough such an agony of mind and body, afraid to yield up hisconsciousness lest he should go plunging off into some horrible abyss.What did he fear? Was it sleep? Was somnophobia what lay behind thewrecking of this fine, clean manhood? The thing seemed incredible, andyet--and yet--

  Before dawn crept again into the Surgical, the mind of Sheila O'Leary wasmade up. Peter was suddenly aware that the nurse was close at his bedside,chafing the clenched fingers free. It was that mysterious hour that hangsbetween the going night and coming day, the most non-resisting time forbody and mind, when the human will gives up the struggle if it gives it upat all. And Sheila O'Leary, being well aware of this, rubbed the tensenerves into a comfortable state of relaxation and talked.

  First she talked of the city, and found he was not city-born. Then shetalked of the country--of South, East, and West--and located hisbirthplace in a small New England village. She talked of the outdoorfreedom of a country boy, of the wholesome work and fun on a farm with alarge family and good old-fashioned parents, and she found that he hadbeen an only child, motherless, with a family consisting of amisanthropic, grief-stricken father and a hired girl. His voice soundedtoneless and more tired than ever as he spoke of his childhood.

  "Lonely?" queried Sheila.

  "Perhaps."

  "Neglected and--frightened?"

  "What do you mean?"

  The girl leaned over the bed and looked straight into the eyes that seemedto be daring her to find the way into his darkness and at the same timebarring fast the door against her coming. She smiled gently. "Tell me--canyou remember when you first began to fear sleep?"

  There was no denial, no protest. Peter sighed as a little worn-out boymight have sighed with the irksome concealment of some forbidden act. "Idon't know," he said at last. "I can't think back to a time when I wasn'tafraid--afraid of the dropping out, into the dark. God!" He turned hishead away, and for the first time in two weary, wakeful nig
hts Sheila sawhim close his eyes.

  Off duty, instead of going to breakfast and bed, Sheila O'Leary went tothe office of the superintendent of nurses. In her usual fashion she camestraight to her point. "Put Saunders back on Number Three and give me acouple of days off. Please, Miss Max."

  Her abruptness shook the almost unshakable calm of Miss Maxwell. She gazedat the girl in frank amazement. "May I ask why?" There was a kindly ironyin the question.

  "Sounds queer, I know, but I've simply got to go. Lots depends on it, andno time now to explain. Want to catch that eight-thirty-five; Flanders isholding the bus. Tell you when I get back--please, Miss Max?" And takingconsent for granted, Sheila started for the door.

  There was an odd look on the face of the superintendent as she watchedher go--a look of amused, loving pride. She might hide it from theirlittle world, but she could not deny it to herself, that of all the girlsshe had helped to train, none had come so close to her heart as this girlwith her wonderful insight, her honesty, her plain speaking, and her heartof gold. A hundred times she had defied the rules of the sanitarium, hadswept the superintendent's dignity to the four winds. And she wouldcontinue to do so, and they would continue to overlook it. Such pettyoffenses are forgiven the Leeries the world over. And now, watching thegray, alive figure climbing into the omnibus, Miss Maxwell had no mind toresent her breach of discipline. She knew the girl had asked nothing forherself; she had gone to do something for somebody who needed it, and shewould report for duty again when that was accomplished.

  And two days later, accordingly, she came, a luminous, ecstatic figurethat flew into the office with arms outstretched to swing thesuperintendent almost off her feet in joyful triumph. "It _was_ just whatI thought! Found the girl--only she is an old woman now--got the wholemiserable story from her, and--and--I think--I think--Good heart alive! Ithink I can pull him out of the beastly old hole!"

  "Meaning--? Remember, my dear, I haven't the grain of an idea why youwent, or where you went, or what the miserable story is about. Pleaseshine your lantern this way and light up my intelligence." Miss Maxwellwas beaming.

  Sheila O'Leary laughed. "I began by jumping at conclusions--same as Ialways do--jumped at 'phobia in Number Three. Almost came and asked to beput on the case after you told me. But he isn't Number Three anymore--he's a little boy named Peter--a little boy, almost a baby,frightened night after night for years and years into lying still in thedark under the eaves in a little attic room, deliberately frightened by ahired girl who wanted to be free to go off gadding with her young man. Igot the place and her name from Peter--coaxed it out of him--and I madeher tell me the story. The father paid her extra wages to stay at night sothe little boy wouldn't be lonely and miss his mother too much, and shedidn't want him to find out she had gone. So she'd put Peter to bed andtell him that if he stirred or cried out the walls would close in onhim--or the floor would swallow him up--or the ghosts would come out ofthe corners and eat him up or carry him off. Can't you see him there, alittle quivering heap of a boy, awake in the dark, afraid to move? Can'tyou feel how he would lie and listen to all the sounds about him--thesquealing mice, the creaking rafters, the wind moaning in the eaves--tooterrified to go to sleep? And when he did sleep--worn out--can't youimagine what his dreams would be like? Oh, women like that--women whocould frighten little sensitive children--ought to be burned as theyburned the witches!" The girl's eyes blazed and she shook a pair ofclenched fists into the air. "And can you see the rest of it? How the feargrew and grew even as the memory of the tales faded, grew into a nameless,unexplainable fear of sleep? And because he was a boy he hid it; andbecause he was a man he fought it; but the thing nailed him at last. Hefought sleep until he lost the habit of sleep. He couldn't get alongwithout it, and here he is!"

  "Well, what are you going to do?" The superintendent eyed her narrowly;her cheeks were as flushed as the girl's.

  A little enigmatical smile curved up the corners of the usually demuremouth. "Going to play Leerie--going to play it harder than I ever did inmy life before."

  And that night as Peter turned his head wearily toward the door to greetthe kindly, cumbersome Saunders, he found, to his surprise, the owner ofthe shining eyes come back. He felt so ridiculously glad about it that hecouldn't even trust himself to tell her so. Instead he repeated foolishlythe same old thing, "Why, it's--it's Leerie!"

  When everything was ready for the night, Sheila turned the night-light outand lowered the curtain until it was quite dark. Then she drew her chairclose to the bed and slipped her hand into the lean, clenched one on thecoverlid. "Don't think of me as a girl--a nurse--a person--at all,to-night," she said, softly. "I'm just a piece of Stevenson's poem come tolife--a lamplighter for a little boy going to sleep all alone in afarm-house attic. It's very dark. You can hear the mice squeal and therafters creak, if you listen, and the window's so small the stars can'tcreep in. In the daytime the attic doesn't seem far away or very strange,but at night it's miles--miles away from the rest of the house, and it'sfull of things that may happen. That's why I'm here with my lamp."

  Sheila stopped a moment. She could hear the man's breath coming quick,with a catch in it--a child breathes that way when it is fighting down acry or a sob. Then she went on: "Of course it's a magical lamp I carry,and with the first sputter and spark it lights up and turns the atticinside out--and there we are, the little boy and I, hand in hand, runningstraight for the brook back of the house. The lamp burns as bright as thesun now, so it seems like day--a spring day. It isn't the mice squealingat all that you hear, but the birds singing and the brook running. Thereare cowslips down by the brook, and 'Jacks.' Here by the big stone is achance to build a bully good dam and sailboats made out of the shinglesblown off from the barn roof. Want to stop and build it now?"

  "All right." There was almost a suppressed laugh in the voice; itcertainly sounded glad. And the hand on the coverlid was as relaxed asthat of a child being led somewhere it wants to go.

  Sheila smiled happily in the dark: "You must get stones, then--lots andlots of them--and we'll pile them together. There's one stone--and twostones--and three stones. Another stone here--another here--anotherhere--a big one there where the current runs swiftest, and little stonesfor the chinks."

  According to Sheila O'Leary's best reckoning the dam was only half builtwhen the little boy fell fast asleep over his work. And when the gray ofthe morning stole down the corridors of the Surgical, No. 3 was sleeping,with one arm thrown over his head as little boys sleep, and the otherholding fast to the nurse on night duty.

  But it takes a long while to break down an old habit and build up a newone, as it takes a long while to build a dam. No less than tons of stonesmust have gone to the building of Peter's before the time came when hecould drop asleep alone and unguided. In all that time neither he nor thegirl ever spoke of what lay between the putting out of the night lamp andthe waking fresh and rested to a welcomed day.

  With sleep came speedy recovery, and Peter was the most popularconvalescent in the Surgical. His laugh had suddenly grown contagious, hishumor irresistible, his outlook on life so optimistically bubbling thatless cheery patients turned their wheel-chairs to No. 3 for revitalizing.The chief came up with Doctor Dempsy from town, and both went away wearingthe look of men who have seen miracles. Life in its fullness had come toPeter, the life he had dreamed of, as a lost crosser of the desert dreamsof water. Efficient work was to be his again, and companionship, and--yes,for the first time he hoped for the third and best of life'singredients--he hoped for love.

  And then, just as everything looked best and brightest, he was told thathe no longer needed a night nurse. Sheila O'Leary was put on the case ofan old lady with chronic dyspepsia. She told him herself, as she went offduty in the Surgical for the last time.

  "You've had the best sleep of all." She smiled at his efforts to pullhimself awake. "I'll drop in when I'm passing, to see how you're gettingon, but otherwise this is good-by and good luck." She held out her hand.

 
"Why--but--Hang it all! I can't get along without a night nurse. And if Idon't need one, why can't you take Miss Tyler's place in the day?"

  "Orders." Sheila announced it as an unshakable fact.

  "I'll see Miss Maxwell."

  "No use. She wouldn't listen."

  "Guess if I'm paying for it I can have--"

  Sheila O'Leary's chin squared and her body stiffened. "There are somethings no one can pay for, Mr. Brooks."

  Peter colored crimson. He reached quickly for the hand Sheila had pulledaway. "What an ungrateful cur you must think I am! And I've never said aword--never thanked you."

  "There was nothing to thank for. I was only undoing what another woman haddone long ago. That's one of the glad things about nursing; we so oftenhave a chance at just that sort of thing--the chance to make up for someof the blind mistakes in life. Good-by. I'm late now."

  "But--but--" Peter held frantically to the hand. "'Pon my soul, I can'tlet you go until--until--" He broke off, crimsoning again. "Promise atime when you will come back--just a minute I can count on and lookforward to. Please!"

  "All right--I'll be back at four--just for a minute."

  It happened, however, that Miss Jacobs--pink-cheeked, auburn-haired,green-eyed little Miss Jacobs, the first nurse on Peter's case, blew intoNo. 3 a few minutes before four. She had developed the habit of blowing inat least once in the day and telling Peter how perfectly splendid it wasto see him getting along so well. But as he did not happen to look quiteso well this time, she condoled and wormed the reason out of Peter.

  "Leerie off duty! Don't you think it's rather remarkable they let her stayso long? Of course the management, as a rule, doesn't let her have casesof--of this kind. A girl who's been sent away on accountof--of--questionable conduct isn't exactly safe to trust. Don't you thinkso? And the San can't afford to risk its reputation." For an instant thegreen eyes shimmered and glistened balefully, while she tossed her auburncurls coyly at Peter. "It's really too bad, for she's a wonderful surgicalnurse. All the best surgeons want her on their cases. That's why they puther on with you; that's really why they let her come back at all."

  A look in Peter's eyes stopped her and made her look back over hershoulder. Sheila O'Leary stood in the open doorway. For an instant theperpetual assurance of Miss Jacobs was shaken, but only for an instant.She smiled tolerantly. "Hello, Leerie! I've been telling Mr. Brooks what awonderful surgical nurse you are."

  The gray eyes of the girl in the doorway looked steadily into the greeneyes of the girl by the bed. "Thank you, Coppy, I heard you." And shestepped aside to let the other pass out.

  "Well?" she asked when the two were alone.

  "Well!" answered Peter, emphatically. "Everything is very, very well. Doyou know," and he smiled up at her like a happy small boy--"do you knowthat all the while you were building that dam I was building somethingelse?"

  "Were you?"

  "I was building my life over again--building it fresh, with the fear goneand everything sound and strong and fine. And into the chinks where allthe miserable empty places had been--the places where loneliness andheartache eternally leaked through--I was fitting love, the love I neverdared dream of."

  "Yes?"

  The girl's lips looked strangely hard--almost bitter, Peter thought; andthis time he reached out both arms to her.

  "Hang it all! It's tough on a man who's never dared dream of love to haveit take him, bandaged and tied to his bed. Leerie--Leerie! You wouldn'thave the heart to blow out the lamp now, would you?"

  The lips softened, she gave a sad little shake of her head. "No, butyou've got to keep it burning yourself. You're a man; you can do it.Sorry--can't help it. And please don't say anything more. Don't spoil itall, and make me say things I wish I hadn't and send you off to pay yourbill and leave the San to-night." She smiled wistfully. "Dear, grown-upboy! Don't you know that it's the customary thing for a man to think he'sfallen in love with his nurse when he's convalescing? Just get well andforget it--as all the others do." She turned toward the door.

  "I'm not going to pay my bill to-night, and I'm not going to forget it. Iguess all those chinks haven't been filled up yet. I'm going to stay untilthey are. Good plan, don't you think?" And Peter Brooks smiled like a manwho had never been given up--nor ever intended giving up, now that lifehad given him back the things for which he had a right to fight.