Between Canton and Hartford two giants had risen, invisible but menacing—­Fear and Doubt.  The unknown, previously so attractive, now presented another face—­blank.  The doctor had not heard from his people.  She was reasonably certain why.  They did not want her.

Thus, all her interest in life began to centre upon the patient, who was apparently quite as anchorless as she was.  Sometimes a whole morning would pass without Spurlock uttering a word beyond the request for a drink of water.  Again, he would ask a few questions, and Ruth would answer them.  He would repeat them innumerable times, and patiently Ruth would repeat her answers.

“What is your name?”

“Ruth.”

“Ruth what?”

“Enschede; Ruth Enschede.”

“En-shad-ay.  You are French?”

“No.  Dutch; Pennsylvania Dutch.”

And then his interest would cease.  Perhaps an hour later he would begin again.

At other times he seemed to have regained the normal completely.  He would discuss something she had been reading, and he would give her some unexpected angle, setting a fictional character before her with astonishing clearness.  Then suddenly the curtain would fall.

“What is your name?” To-day, however, he broke the monotony.  “An American.  Enschede—­that’s a queer name.”

“I’m a queer girl,” she replied with a smile.

Perhaps this was the real turning point:  the hour in which the disordered mind began permanently to readjust itself.

“I’ve been wondering, until this morning, if you were real.”

“I’ve been wondering, too.”

“Are you a real nurse?”

“Yes.”

“Professional?”

“Why do you wish to know?”

“Professional nurses wear a sort of uniform.”

“While I look as if I had stepped out of the family album?”

He frowned perplexedly.  “Where did I hear that before?”

“Perhaps that first day, in the water-clock tower.”

“I imagine I’ve been in a kind of trance.”

“And now you are back in the world again, with things to do and places to go.  There is a button loose on that coat under your pillow.  Shall I sew it on for you?”

“If you wish.”

This readiness to surrender the coat to her surprised Ruth.  She had prepared herself to meet violent protest, a recurrence of that burning glance.  But in a moment she believed she understood.  He was normal now, and the coat was only a coat.  It had been his fevered imagination that had endued the garment with some extraordinary value.  Gently she raised his head and withdrew the coat from under the pillow.

“Why did I want it under my pillow?” he asked.

“You were a little out of your head.”

Gravely he watched the needle flash to and fro.  He noted the strong white teeth as they snipped the thread.  At length the task was done, and she jabbed the needle into a cushion, folded the coat, and rose.