Two weeks later, when Quin struggled back to consciousness, he labored under the delusion that he was still in the army and back in the camp hospital. Eleanor, who scarcely left his bedside, was once more Miss Bartlett, the ward visitor, and he was Patient Number 7. He tried to explain to all those dim figures moving about the darkened room that he was making her a bead chain, and unless they got him more beads he could not finish it in time. When they reassured him and tried to get him to take food, he invariably wanted to know if Miss Bartlett had brought it, and which was her day to come again. Then the doctor and the nurse would argue with him, and try to make him remember things he was sure had never happened, and his mental distress would become acute. At such times somebody, who of course could not be Miss Bartlett, but who had her voice and eyes, would take his hand and tell him to go to sleep, then the tangles would all come straight. One day he was startled out of a stupor by the sound of a querulous old voice saying: "I guess if he could get out of bed to come across the city to me, I can come across the hall to him. Wheel me closer!" Quin was drifting off again, when a hand gripped his wrist. "Open your eyes, boy! Look at me. Do you know who this is?" He lifted his heavy lids, and wondered dully what Madam was doing at the camp hospital. "Put the blinds up," she commanded to some one back of her. "Let him see the wall-paper, the furniture. Move that fool screen away." For the first time, Quin brought his confused attention to bear on his surroundings, and even glanced at the space over the mantel to see if a certain picture was at its old place. "You are in my house," said Madam, with a finality that was not to be disputed. "Do you remember the first time you came here?" He shook his head. "Yes, you do. I fell down the steps and broke my leg, and you came in off the street to tie me up with an umbrella and the best table napkins. What are you smiling about?" "Smelling salts," Quin murmured, as if to himself. "You don't need any smelling salts!" cried Madam, missing his allusion. "All you need is to rouse yourself and put your mind on what I am saying. Do you remember living in this house?" He could not truthfully say that he did, though familiar objects and sounds seemed to be all around him. "Well, I'll make you," said Madam, nothing daunted. "You stayed in this very room for three months to keep the burglars from stealing Isobel and Enid, and every night you walked me up and down the hall on my crutches." She paused and looked at him expectantly; but things were still a blur to him. "You surely remember the Easter party?" she persisted. "If you can forget the way your shirt kept popping open that night, and the way your jaw swelled up, it's more than I can!" Quin winced. Even concussion of the brain had failed to deaden the memory of that awful night. "I sort of remember," he admitted.