Galusha Bangs returned to his beloved work at the National Institute and his income was reinvested for him by the senior partner of Cabot, Bancroft and Cabot. Occasionally Galusha requested that a portion of it be sent him, usually for donation to this department or that or to assist in fitting out an expedition of his own, but, generally speaking, he was quite content with his modest salary. He unwrapped his mummies and deciphered his moldering papyri, living far more in ancient Egypt than in modern Washington. The Great War and its demands upon the youth of the world left the Institute short-handed and he labored harder than ever, doing the work of two assistants as well as his own. It was the only thing he could do for his country, the only thing that country would permit him to do, but he tried to do that well. Then the Hindenburg line was broken, the armistice was signed and the civilized world rejoiced. But Galusha Bangs did not rejoice, for his health had broken, like the enemy's resistance, and the doctors told him that he was to go away at once. “You must leave all this,” commanded the doctor; “forget it. You must get away, get out of doors and stay out.” For a moment Galusha was downcast. Then he brightened. “There is an expedition from the New York museum about to start for Syria,” he said. “I am quite sure I would be permitted to accompany it. I'll write at once and--” “Here, here! Wait! You'll do nothing of the sort. I said forget that sort of thing. You can't go wandering off to dig in the desert; you might as well stay in this place and dig here. Get away from it all. Go where there are people.” “But, Doctor Raymond, there are people in Syria, a great many of them, and most interesting people. I have--” “No. You are to forget Syria and Egypt and your work altogether. Keep out of doors, meet people, exercise--play golf, perhaps. The main trouble with you just now is nerve weariness and lack of strength. Eat, sleep, rest, build up. Eat regular meals at regular times. Go to bed at a regular hour. I would suggest your going to some resort, either in the mountains or at the seashore. Enjoy yourself.” “But, doctor, I DON'T enjoy myself at such places. I am quite wretched. Really I am.” “Look here, you must do precisely as I tell you. Your lungs are quite all right at present, but, as you know, they have a tendency to become all wrong with very little provocation. I tell you to go away at once, at once. And STAY away, for a year at least. If you don't, my friend, you are going to die. Is that plain?” It was plain, certainly. Galusha took off his spectacles and rubbed them, absently. “Dear me!... Dear me!--ah--Oh, dear!” he observed.