When Time began to tick normally again, she found herself lying with an almost solid cotton face in a pleasant, puffy bed that seemed to rock, and roll, and tug against her straining arm that clutched its fingers like an anchor into somebody's perfectly firm, kind hand. As far away as a voice on a shore, tired, hoarse, desperately incessant, some one was signaling reassurance to her: "You're all right, honey, You're all right, honey." After a long time her fingers twittered in the warm grasp. "Who are you?" she stammered perplexedly. "Just your 'own man,'" whispered Drew. The lips struggling out from the edge of the bandage quivered a little. "My 'own man'?" she repeated with surprise. "Who was the tattletale that told you?" She began to shiver suddenly in mental or physical agony. "Oh, I remember it all now," she gasped. "Was the little boy killed who sat in the corner seat?" "Why, I don't know," said Drew, and his voice rasped unexpectedly with the sickening strain of the past few hours. At the sound she gave a panic-stricken sob. "I believe I'm dead myself, Drew," she cried, "and you're trying to keep it from me. Where am I? Tell me instantly where I am." Drew's laugh rang out before he could control it. "You're here in your own little room," he assured her. "Prove it," she whimpered hysterically. "Tell me what's on my bureau." He jumped up and walked across the room to make sure. "Why, there's a silver-backed mirror, and a box of violet powder, and a package of safety pins." "Pshaw!" she said. "Those might be on any angel's bureau. What else do you see?" He fumbled a minute among the glass and silver and gave a quick sigh of surprise. "Here's your wedding ring." "Bring it to me," she pleaded, and took the tiny golden circlet blindly from his hand and slipped it experimentally once or twice up and down her finger. "Yes, that's it," she assented, and handed it back to him. "Hurry--quick--before anybody comes." "What do you want?" faltered Drew. She reached up wilfully and yanked the bandage away from the corner of one eye. "Why, put the ring back on my finger where it belongs!" she said. "We're going to begin all over again. Play that I am your wife!" she demanded tremulously. Drew winced like raw flesh. "You are my wife," he cried. "You are! You are! You are!" With all the strength that was left to her she groped out and drew his face down to her lips. "Oh, I've invented a lots better game than that," she whispered. "If we're going to play any game at all--let's--play--that--I--love--you!" HEART OF THE CITY THE dining-room was green, as green could be. Under the orange-colored candle-light, the walls, rugs, ceiling, draperies, ferns, glowed verdant, mysterious, intense, like night woods arching round a camp fire. Into this fervid, pastoral verdure the round white table, sparkling with silver, limpid with wine-lights, seemed to roll forth resplendent and incongruous as a huge, tinseled snowball.