Young Carmody had never been in a hospital, but the atmosphere of this room did not in any way conform to his rather vague notion of what a hospital should be. There was no long row of white beds all just alike, nor white walls, nor tiled floors over which people tip-toed to and fro and talked in hurried, low-voiced tones; nor was the air laden with the smell of drugs which he had always associated in his mind with such places. He must ask the nurse. He was so drowsily comfortable that it was with an effort he opened his eyes. A rebellious lock of hair strayed from under her cap as she leaned over her work. The sunlight caught it and through the rich threads of its length shot tiny glints of gold. "Ethel!" The name sprang involuntarily from his lips and even as he spoke he smiled at the thought. The girl laid aside her work and crossed to the bed. "You called?" she asked, and the man realized vaguely that her voice was low and very pleasant. "Yes--that is, no--I mean, you _are_ pretty, aren't you?" He smiled frankly up at her, and somehow the smile was contagious--she even blushed slightly. "You must excuse me this time," he continued, "I must have been thinking out loud." "You seem to be a--well, a rather abrupt young man," she smiled. "But you must not try to think--yet. And my name is not Ethel." "Oh, that's all right. You can't help that, you know--I mean, I think your name is very pretty--whatever it is," he floundered. "The truth is, I don't seem to be able to say what I do mean. But really I am not a fool, although I don't suppose you will ever believe it." "There, you have talked quite enough. The doctor said you must rest and not get excited." She smoothed the covers with little pats of her soft hands. "But what I want to know," he persisted, with a frown of perplexity, "is, where am I?" "You are all right," she soothed. "You are here." "But why am I here?" "Because. Now go to sleep like a good boy. The doctor will be here before long and he will hold me responsible for your condition." Oddly enough her answers seemed eminently sufficient and satisfactory, and he closed his eyes and slept contentedly. Hours later he was awakened by the opening of a door. A tall, dark man, with a brown beard neatly trimmed to a point, entered closely followed by an elderly man who carried his arm in a sling, and whom young Carmody recognized as his fellow-passenger of the smoker. At once the whole train of recent events flashed through his brain: the wild escapade on Broadway, the scene with his father, his parting with Ethel Manton, the wreck, and his fight in the dark--each in its proper sequence. He was very wide awake now and watched the brown-bearded man eagerly as he picked up a chart from the table and scrutinized it minutely. "How is the head?" the man asked, with his fingers on the pulse.