"No. You found that at death's door; I found it at life's. I want to tell you something, dear, that will make you forget yourself—and think of me. You are sure you cannot sleep?"
"I do not want to sleep."
"Priscilla, I have given myself to love! You can understand. Travers has just told me—about him and you!"
A faint colour touched the face on the pillow.
"It was the telling that brought him around. He's superb, and you're a daffy little goose, Cilla. Imagine a man like Travers letting a girl like you slip through his fingers."
"He did!" weakly interrupted Priscilla.
"But he followed you right down, and into—hell!"
"Into life and joy, you mean, Margaret—life!"
"Well, at any rate, he was with you. It is magnificent to see a man, or a woman, big enough, brave enough, and sensible enough to sweep the senseless rubbish of life aside, and get each other! Oh! it's life as God meant it. Priscilla, the letter I wrote to-day was to—my man. He's as splendid as yours. I told you once how I—I loved children. I had taken that love for granted until something happened. A friend of mine married—one of the girls my people thought was the kind for me to know. She didn't understand life any more than I did; she just took one of the men who wore the same label she did. Her child came—a year after; a horrible little creature—diseased; dreadful—can you understand?"
"Yes"—Priscilla had turned toward the girl by her side—"yes, I know what you mean. I have been a nurse."