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 the dressings that covered his side. Then he looked up at his neighbour.

“Margaret Cameron, you are on oath,” he said. “Your right hand’s in the air and you are solemnly swearing that you are going to tell me whether or not one month of the best régime we could devise has taken the colour and the fever out of this wound any. I haven’t had the nerve to look myself, for I cannot face it very well except in a mirror, which is not altogether satisfactory. Let’s go!”

Jamie did not know as he shut his eyes, he did not know that the skin of his face was tightly drawn across its bonework. He did not realize that his hands were trembling as he raised them to uncover his left breast. Margaret Cameron came to the side of the bed and leaned over him and looked intently.

“Turn slightly toward me,” she ordered, sharply.

Jamie’s eyes popped open and at what he saw on her face his heart began to leap and to bound and before he knew what he was doing he was upright and he had both her hands.

“Ch, Margaret!” he cried, “are you sure? Are you sure it’s that much better?”

Margaret was gripping his hands as tight as ever she could.

“Ch, Jamie boy,” she said, “it’s well nigh a miracle the way the colour’s fading out, and as sure as you are six feet high, it is drawing together at the bottom! It is coming clean, and there is more flesh over your ribs and across your chest! You’re not so lean! I’ve been