"'Sh dear; he belongs to Matron." "Why doesn't she have him in her room? Shut _up_, polly." "He'd be rather a roomful in a little room." "Well--what is he _here_? It's the wickedest thing of its kind I've ever heard of; some great fat healthy woman ... why don't the _doctors_ stop it?" "Perhaps they hardly notice it dear. There's such a bustle going on in the morning when they all come round." "But hang it all she's here to look after you, not to leave her luggage all over the ward." 3 The ripe afternoon light ... even outside a hospital ... the strange indistinguishable friend, mighty welcome, unutterable happiness. Oh death, where is thy sting? Oh grave, where is thy victory? The light has no end. I know it and it knows me, no misunderstanding, no barrier. I love you--people say things. But nothing that anybody says has any meaning. Nothing that anybody says has any meaning. There is something more than anything that anybody says, that comes, first, before they speak ... vehicles travelling along through heaven; everybody in heaven without knowing it; the sound the vehicles made all together, sounding out through the universe ... life touches your heart like dew; that is _true_ ... the edge of his greasy knowing selfish hair touches the light; he brushes it; there is something in him that remembers. It is in everybody; but they won't stop. How maddening. But they know. When people die they must stop. Then they remember. Remorse may be complete; until it is complete you cannot live. When it is complete something is burned away ... ou-agh, flows out of you, burning, inky, acid, flows right out ... purged ... though thy sins are as _scarlet_ they shall be white as snow. _Then_ the light is there, nothing but the light, and new memory, sweet and bright; but only when you have been killed by remorse. * * * * *