I was riding with Billie through the early morning, and seeing her face for the first time with the sunlight reflected in her smiling eyes; I was facing Grant, receiving orders; I was struggling with Le Gaire, his olive face vindictive and cruel; I was with Billie again, hearing her voice, tantalized by her coquetry; then I was searching for Le Gaire's murderer, and in the fight, slashing madly at the faces fronting me.

It must have been delirium, the wild fantasy of fever, for it was all so real, leaving me staring about half crazed, every nerve throbbing.

Then I sank back dazed and tired, sobbing from the reaction, all life apparently departed from the brain.

I could not realize where I was, or how I got there, and a memory of mother came gliding in to take Billie's place.

I was in the old room at home, the old room with the oak tree before the window, and father's picture upon the wall at the foot of the bed.