But there was nothing in that blank, white face Sheila could reach. He seemed as he had seemed from the beginning, a soul apart, so wrapped in its own despair that no human cry of need could shake it free. In desperation she looked at Larry. His eyes were closed; his face had gone almost as white as Jamie's. Patsy was gazing at the ceiling; the veins on his arms stood out as they had on that first day when he had fainted twice from the pain of his dressing. Down the line of cots the nurse's eyes traveled, and back again. Every lad was past speaking for another; each lay transfixed with his own personal fear. The minutes seemed intolerable. The silence grew heavy with so much muffling of despair. Sheila found herself praying that the men would groan, cry out, curse, anything to break the ghastly hush. Then suddenly "Bertha" propped himself as best he could on an elbow and croaked: "For the love of Mary, miss, can't ye cram us with morphine the night? 'Twould save the British Empire a few shillin's' expense and them at home a deal o' misery." And the color-sergeant choked out, "Aye, in God's mercy send us west, along wi' them lucky seven that has gone already!" Without knowing why she did it, Sheila reached over and gripped one of Jamie's hands. "Help, can't you?" she whispered. The late afternoon sun was shining through the window back of him. The glory of it was full on his face, so that every lad in the ward saw plainly the smile that crept into the lips, a tender, whimsical smile that belonged to the Jamie of old. And the deep, vibrating voice was the voice of the Jamie of fighting days. "Patsy, ye rascal! I'm thinking it was like yourself to come breaking into the first song I've had on my lips in a month. You've nearly ruined it for me, lad." Amazement, incredulity, thanksgiving swept over the faces like puffs of wind over young wheat. Unnoticed, Sheila turned to the window and wept a scattering of tears that could no longer be held back. Jamie pulled himself out of the wheel-chair and found his way down the space at the foot of the cots to the door. He was very straight, and his head was high. "Just a minute, lads." He dug his hands deep into his pockets. "Before I give ye the song I've made for ye, there's something I have to be saying first. Miss O'Leary was right when she said a man has more than one pair of eyes to see with. He can see grand with his heart--if he's shown the way. That's what I have to thank ye for this day, the wiping of my memory clean of those last days, and the showing me how to see anew. Ye've given Ireland back to me with her lark songs, her blue, dancing water, her wind-brushed heather like a purple sea. Ye've made the world beautiful for me again, and ye've given me the heart to sing."