Aunt Jane's eyes grew dark beneath the white cap. She touched a bell and gave the case over to the day nurse that came. "She will be all right now," she said. She spoke in the low, even voice that was not a whisper and not a tone. "Give her plenty of water. She has been very thirsty. But there is no fever. Don't call me unless there is a change.... Then send at once." She departed on her rounds. No one would have guessed, as the fresh, stout figure moved in and out among the wards, that she had not slept for two nights. There was a tradition that Aunt Jane never slept and that she was never tired. Dr. Carmon laughed at the tradition and said that Aunt Jane slept as much as any one, more than most people, in fact, only she did it with her eyes open--that it was only a superstition that made people think they must shut their eyes to sleep. The Hindoos had a trick worth two of that. Aunt Jane knew the trick, and she might tell other folks if she would, and save the world a lot of trouble. But Aunt Jane only shook her head, and smiled, and went her way. And when the fight with death came, she went with each one down into that other world, the world of sleep and faith and unconscious power, on the border-land of death, where the soul is reborn, and waited there for life. She had no theories about it, and no pride; and if she had now and then a gentle, imperious scorn of theorists and bunglers, it was only the touch of human nature that made the world love her. VI It was late Monday afternoon that a card was brought to Aunt Jane--a thin, slim bit of card, with correct English lettering in plain type on it. Aunt Jane read it and glanced up at Miss Murray who was on door duty for the afternoon. "He's in the front room," said the nurse. "And there's a woman--came the same time but separate. I put her in the back room." "Tell Miss Crosby and Miss Canfield to be ready to go on duty in Number 5 and Suite A," said Aunt Jane. She said the last words almost with a sniff. If Aunt Jane had had her way, there would have been no Suite A in the House of Mercy. For Suite A was a big, sunny, southeast room, with a sitting-room on one side and a bath on the other--a royal bath, with overhead shower and side sprays and all the latest words in plumbing and fitting, all the most luxurious and costly appointments of nickel and marble and tile. Aunt Jane always went by Suite A with her head a little in the air and her nose a trifle raised. And woe to the man or woman who occupied Suite A. For a week or ten days he was left severely to the care of nurses and doctors. It was only after he had experienced to the full what a desolate place a hospital may be, that Aunt Jane condescended to look in and thaw the atmosphere a little. It was perhaps her feeling for Suite A that led her to attend to ward patients and occupants of humble rooms before those of Suite A. "They'll be comfortable enough when they get to their suite," she had been known to say.