Miriam delayed only a few seconds to adjust the light so that it would not shine directly in Betty's eyes and awaken her, and then she left the room. She had almost reached her old seat in the alcove, and was debating in her mind whether or not to go at once into Mrs. Nash's room, when her patient's door swung open and Doctor Nash appeared in the hall. He looked relieved to find her there. "I waited until my wife dropped asleep," he said. "You can go in now, but pray don't disturb her." Miriam bit her lip to keep back a heated rejoinder. Instructions in nursing from members of the patient's family, irrespective as to who they were, were generally infuriating, but, from Alexander Nash, doubly so. He evidently expected no answer, for turning abruptly, he sought his bedroom. Nash had not only lowered the lamp before leaving his wife, but had placed a screen about it--however Miriam's familiarity with the room enabled her to move about without colliding with the furniture. The cot did not appeal to her--she felt, as she had once expressed it to a fellow student at the hospital when in training, too "twitchy" to lie down. Going over to the chair which Nash had occupied, she sat down in it. It was not the one which customarily stood near the bed, but another chair, bigger and much lower, and Miriam experienced a sense of sudden shock as she dropped down further than she had expected. It was a chair built for a large man and Miriam felt lost in its depths and squirmed back, hoping to find an easier position, but that made her stretch her legs before her at an uncomfortable angle. Too tired to get up, she put her hand behind her and pulled up the seat cushion. As she did so, she touched a paper--evidently a letter, she judged, as she ran her fingers over what was unmistakably an envelope with stamps upon it. Half rising she turned around and bending down saw that a letter was wedged between the high, tufted cushion and the upholstered back of the chair. In idle curiosity, Miriam took it up, replaced the cushion, and carried the letter over to the lamp. The orange Canadian stamps caught her attention instantly. She turned it over. The black seal was unbroken, the flap uncut--the letter evidently never had been opened. Miriam drew a long, long breath. Turning, she gazed at the chair. Its unwieldy size had induced her to push it behind the bedroom door the first night of Mrs. Nash's illness, to get it out of the way. Evidently Doctor Nash had preferred it to the one in which she generally sat, and had moved it up to the bed. Had he accidentally dropped the letter in the chair and not perceived it when leaving the darkened room? Miriam consulted the postmark and then the address. It bore Paul Abbott's name and was dated January 23, 1923. Miriam stood in deep thought holding the unopened letter, then she slipped it inside her uniform, made sure that it was safe, and, crossing the room, seated herself once more by Mrs. Nash, her mind in a turmoil.