long; he was so accustomed to his room, to his nurses, to the routine, and the men he knew, that the place was home, the only home on earth he had. Everyone had been kind. He had no fault to find with the doctors or the nurses. They had done their best, and he had done his best; but the truth remained that he was no better, that lately doubts had arisen as to whether he were even as well as he had been when he came. And then, with all the suddenness of an unexpected blow, clear on his ears came his own name, in that cold, impersonal tone of business men transacting an affair of business with an eye single to the welfare of the greatest good to the greatest number. precisely such tones before. It made him feel as if he were not a man, but merely an object. And then he realized He did not recall ever having heard his name spoken in that the matter under discussion was the disposal of that particular object. He heard his place of enlistment, his war service, his awards, a description of his wounds recited in such a monotonous tone that he realized it was being droned from a book, and then a brisker voice inquired:
“How long has MacFarlane been here?”
The answer came: “A little more than a year.”
Then the question: “Have the springs done him any good? Is he better?”
Then the answer: “Not so well. His wound is stubborn and in spite of all we can do it refuses to heal.”
The sweat of Jamie’s exertion had dried up on his body but it broke out again with the next question.
“Is he tubercular?”
