All that afternoon he searched, going from hospital to hospital.
And at each one, as he stopped, that curious feeling of inner
knowledge told him she was not there. But the same instinct told
him she was not dead. He would have known it if she was dead.
There was no reasoning in it. He could not reason. But he knew,
somehow.
Then, late in the afternoon, he found her. He knew that he had
found her. It was as though, at the entrance of the hospital, some
sixth sense had told him this was right at last. He was quite
steady, all at once. She was here, waiting for him to come. And
now he had come, and it would be all right.
Yet, for a time, it seemed all wrong. She was not conscious, had
not roused since she was brought it. There were white screens
around her bed, and behind them she lay alone. They had braided
her hair in two long dark braids, and there was a bandage on one
of her arms. She looked very young and very tired, but quite
peaceful.
His arrival had caused a small stir of excitement, his own
prominence, the disaster with which the country was ringing.
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