Dr. Gladwin continued. "She did not tell me she hoped that particular patient would recover. She told me he must recover. She made it clear that nothing in this world, or in any other world, was to be considered until that young man was out of danger."
"Oh, how can you make fun of me!" protested Ruth.
"Make fun of you! Make fun of the most sacred thing in human life!"
"No, Ruth," said Cyrus, "he is not making fun of you. He is simply reciting the most beautiful of all earthly poems."
"Yes, he speaks truly," said the doctor: "the oldest in the world yet always young. An entrancing poem, containing also the secret of the young man with the broken head. But he hides his secret in a louder way. He sings it to any listener—and all day long."
"Oh, come now," from Cyrus. "I say, Doctor, you——"
Ruth laughed. "Don't interrupt. Please go right on, Doctor. It's just lovely!"
Dr. Gladwin obeyed. "Metaphorically he engages an auditorium and a military band to announce the coming tidings. Then, to the assembled multitude, he shouts the joyful secret. But when alone with me, those public methods are not necessary. If I mention, in a casual way, the nurse with the eloquent eyes, the color rushes into his pale face, his lips quiver, his eyes become moist and his pulse jumps and dances like a thing possessed."
Cyrus laughed and leaned back against his pillow. "Yes and ten times more so when I'm in her presence and can see her."