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 it was therefore permissible—indeed, it was desirable—that his sister see him.

Ruth followed the nurse between the long rows of beds where boys and men lay until the nurse halted beside a boy whose wide-open eyes gazed up, unmoving, at the ceiling; he was very thin and yellow, but his brows yet held some of the boldness, in the set of his chin was still some of the high spirit of defiance of the picture in the portfolio—the boy who had quarreled with his father four years ago and who had run away to the war.

"Here is your sister," the nurse told him gently in French.

"My sister?" he repeated the French words while his eyes sought and found Ruth. A tinge of color came to his cheek; with an effort a hand lifted from the coverlet.

"Hello, Cynth," he said. "They said—you were—here."

Ruth bent and kissed his forehead. "All right, Cynth," he murmured when she withdrew a little. "You can do that again."

Ruth did it again and sat down beside him. His hand was in hers; and whenever she relaxed her tight grasp of it he stirred impatiently. He did not know she was not his sister. His eyes rested upon hers, but vacantly; he was too exhausted to observe critically; his sister had come, they said; and if she was not exactly as he remembered her, why he had not seen her for four years; a great deal had happened to her, and even more had happened to him. Her lips were soft and warm as his sister's always had been; her hands were very gentle, and it was awfully good to have her there.