Then, again, the sick girl depicted the night of the storm—the shock and consequent flight.
"But," she pleaded piteously, holding the strong hand that anchored her to life, "he won! he won, and it is always going to be all right. Oh! if he could only know!"
There would be a pause always ending in: "I want Pat."
"Where is—Pat?" Cameron ventured.
"Home!" And then, weakly, but with a wrenching pathos, Joan sang—"I'll get to—Scotland—no! home—before you!"
"Come, come, now!" Cameron pressed the thin form down. "You know you've got to live—for Pat."
"Yes—for Pat." And then Joan would sleep.
It was a day in late May that Cameron noticed a change in his case. She was weaker, but steadier. She seemed to connect him with something in the recent past, and that encouraged him. All her previous conscious moments had been like detached flashes.
"What was it you said I must live for?" she asked Cameron. "I've forgotten."
"For everything," he replied, throwing off his coat and gripping the promising moment. "You're not the kind to slink out. Besides, you've got to tell me about your folks. Give them a chance to prove themselves and set things straight." Cameron watched the struggle on the thin face. "And there is—Pat!" he added.