He lived, to struggle through agonies undreamed of, back to days of
new pain. There were days and weeks and months when he lay, merely
breathing, now lightly, now just a shade more deeply.

There came a day when great doctors gathered about him to exult that
he undoubtedly, indisputably winced when the hypodermic needle hurt
him. There was a great day, in late summer, when he muttered
something. Then came relapses, discouragements, the bitter retracing
of steps.

On Christmas Day he opened his eyes, and said to the grave, thin
woman who sat with her hand in his:

"Margaret!"

He slipped off again too quickly to know that she had broken into
tears and fallen on her knees beside him.

After a while he sat up, and was read to, and finally wept because
the nurses told him that some day he would want to get up and walk
about again. His wife came every day, and he clung to her like a
child. Sometimes, watching her, a troubled thought would darken his
eyes; but on a day when they first spoke of the terrible past, she
smiled at him the motherly smile that he was beginning so to love,
and told him that all business affairs could wait. And he believed
her.

One glorious spring afternoon, when the park looked deliriously
fresh and green from the hospital windows, John received permission