And then a great ball whirling in planetary space, half dark, half incandescent white, having for its sole inhabitant, the small harried thing that struggled to keep in the dark out of the glare of that pitiless white pain.--One watched its struggles from a long way off--like God.--But the ball whirled drunkenly and it made one sick to look.--And then a supervening chaos--no longer a ball but still whirling, reeling, tottering. Rectangles of light, which, had they kept still, would have been windows--a mirror. And then, very fine and small and weak, something that knew it was Rose Stanton--Rose Stanton lying in a bed with people about her. She let her eyes fall heavily shut again lest they should discover she was there and want her to speak or think. The bars came back, but the whiteness of them was no longer so white, and slowly they faded out. Then, for a long time, nothing. Then sounds, movements--soft, skilful, disciplined sounds and movements. And, presently, a hand--a firm powerful hand, that picked up and supported a heavy limp wrist--Rose Stanton's wrist--and two sensitive finger-tips that rested lightly on the upper surface of it. After that, an even measured voice--a voice of authority, whose words no doubt made sense, only Rose was too tired to think what the sense was: "She's out of the ether now, practically. That's a splendid pulse. She's doing the best thing she can, sleeping like that. It's been a thoroughly normal delivery from the beginning. Oh, a long difficult one, I'll admit. But there's nothing now, that you could want better than what you've got." And then another voice, utterly unlike Rodney's and yet unmistakably his--a ragged voice that tried to talk in a whisper but couldn't manage it; broke queerly. "That's all right," it said. "But I'll find it easier to believe when ..." She must see him--must know what it meant that he should talk like that. With a strong physical effort, she opened her eyes and tried to speak his name. She couldn't; but some one must have been watching and seen, because a woman's voice said quickly and quietly, "Mr. Aldrich." And the next moment, vast and towering, and very blurred in outline, but, like his voice, unmistakable, was Rodney--her own big strong Rodney. She tried to hold her arms up to him, but of course she couldn't. And then he shortened suddenly. He had knelt down beside her bed, that was it. And she felt upon her palm, the pressure of his lips, and his unshaven cheek, and on her wrist, a warm wetness that must be--tears. Why was he crying? What had happened? She must try to think.