Jane had been a nurse in the Red Cross society for a little more than six weeks. She was inexperienced but willing and there was such urgent need for nurses that the army accepted any and all who seemed capable of development under the training of experts. There had been tremendous opposition on the part of the Harbins, but in the end, finding her unalterably determined, the colonel permitted her to go out in the service. She was sent forth on the special expedition in the wake of Major March's forces, her secret desire being to be near Graydon Bansemer in event of his injury. She gave no heed to their protest that the name of Bansemer should be hateful to her; she ignored the ugly remarks of her aunt and the angry reproaches of the colonel. It was more the spirit of spite than any other motive which at last compelled him to accept the situation; he even went so far as to growl to his wife: "Cursed good riddance, that's what I say. I didn't want her to come in the first place."

But when, after a month, she brought Bansemer back to the city, wounded almost to death, the heart, of the soldier was touched. It was Colonel Harbin who wrestled with the hospital authorities and, after two or three days, had her installed regularly as a nurse for Bansemer, a concession not willingly granted. Those days were like years to her. She was thin and worn when she came down from the north, but she was haggard with anxiety and despair when the two days of suspense were ended.

Ethel Harbin was her ablest ally. This rather lawless young person laid aside the hearts with which she was toying and bent her every endeavour to the cause of romance. It was not long before every young officer in the city was more or less interested in the welfare of Graydon Bansemer. She threw a fine cloak of mystery about the "millionaire's son" and the great devotion of her cousin, The youth of the army followed Ethel to and from the hospital for days and days; without Ethel it is quite doubtful if anybody could have known what a monstrous important personage Private Bansemer really was.

At the end of a fortnight he was able to sit up and converse with his nurse and the occasional Ethel, Dr. G—-, chief of the ward, remarked to Colonel Harbin:

"He'll get well, of course. He can't help it. I never knew before what society could do for a fellow. He's got a society nurse and he is visited by a society despot. It beats Christian Science all to pieces."

"Do you think he will be able to do any more fighting? Will he be strong enough?"

"I don't see why. The government won't let him do it, that's all. He can claim a pension and get out of service with an honourable discharge—and maybe a medal. He'll be strong enough, however. That fellow could go on a hike inside of a month."

"I suppose we'll all be going home before long. This war is about over," growled Harbin.

"No sirree! We'll be fighting these fellows for ten years. Ah, there's your daughter, Colonel. Good-day."

With the first returning strength, freed from lassitude and stupor, Graydon began whispering joyous words of love to Jane. His eyes were bright with the gladness that his pain had brought. She checked his weak outbursts at first, but before many days had passed she was obliged to resort to a firmness that shocked him into a resentful silence. She was even harsh in her command. It cut her to the quick to hurt him, but she was steeling herself against the future.

When he was able to walk out in the grounds, she withdrew farther into the background of their daily life. He hungered for her, but she began to avoid him with a strange aloofness that brought starvation to his heart. While she was ever attentive to his wants, her smile lacked the tenderness he had known in the days of danger, and her face was strangely sombre and white.

"Jane," he said to her one day as he came in from his walk and laid down his crutches, "this can't go on any longer. What is the matter? Don't you love me—not at all?"

She stood straight and serious before him, white to the lips, her heart as cold as ice.

"I love you, Graydon, with all my soul. I shall always love you. Please, please, don't ask any more of me. You understand, don't you? We cannot be as we once were—never. That is ended. But, you—you must know that I love you."

"It is sheer madness, dearest, to take that attitude. What else in the world matters so long as we love one another? I felt at first that I could not ask you to be my wife after what my father did that night. That was as silly of me as this is of you. I did not contend long against my love. You have never been out of my mind, night or day. I was tempted more than once to desert-but that was impossible, you know. It was the terrible eagerness to go back to you and compel you to be mine. My father did you a grave wrong. He—-"

"But my father did me a graver wrong, Graydon. I have thought it all out. I have no right to be alive, so what right have I to be any man's wife?"

"Nonsense, dearest. You are alive, and you live for me, as I do for you. You have saved my life; you must save my love. These last few weeks have knit our lives together so completely that neither of us has the right to change God's evident purpose. I love you for yourself, Jane. That is enough. There has not been an instant in which I have felt that any circumstance could alter my hope to marry you. You say; you have no name. You forget that you may have mine, dearest—and it is not much to be proud of, I fear, in the light of certain things. You must be my wife, Jane."

"I cannot, Graydon. That is final. Don't! Don't plead, dear. It will not avail. Look into my eyes. Don't you see that I mean it, Graydon?"

"By Heaven, Jane, your eyes are lying to me. You can't mean what is back of them. It's cruel—it's wrong."

"Hush! you must not become excited. You are far from strong, and I am still your nurse. Be—-"

"You are my life—you are everything. I can't give you up It's ridiculous to take this stand. Be sensible. Look at it from my point of view."

"There is only one point of view and love has nothing to do with it. Come, let us talk of something else. Have you heard from your—your father? Does he know you've been injured?"

He looked long into her tense face and then muttered, with the sullen despair of the sick: "I don't know. I've had no word from anyone."

"The despatches have doubtless given your name. One of the Chicago correspondents was talking about you recently. Your father will surely write to you now."

"Are you eager to have him do so? I should think you'd hate his name. I can't help caring for dad, Jane. I tried to curse him one time, but he really has been good to me. I don't see how he can have done the things they say he's done."

"There may be a mistake."

"That's good of you, dear, but you forget your mother's statements and all that Rigby says—all that. Oh, I've gone over all of it, and I am convinced. I wonder what has become of him. He was afraid of—of—well, there was talk of an arrest before I left. I have not looked at a newspaper since I saw the headlines that awful morning. God, how they must have hurt you!"

"I, too, have not looked at a newspaper since then, Graydon," she said simply. He smiled wearily and there was response in her eyes.

He took her hand in his and they sat silently side by side on the bench for half an hour, their thoughts far away but of one another.

"Graydon," she said at last, "are you going to remain in the army?"

"No, I am through with it. My discharge is to be recommended. I'm disabled."

"You will be as strong as ever, dear."

"Do you want me to stick to the army? I am only a private."

"You can do greater things out in the world, I know. You will be a great man if you don't lose heart, Graydon."

"I can't be a soldier, dear, and support a wife on the pay I get," he said with a smile.

"You shouldn't marry,"

"But I am going to marry," he said.

"I have decided to become a nurse. It is my intention to give my whole life to—-"

"The Red Cross?"

"No. The hospitals at home—the hospitals for the poor and homeless."

Ethel Harbin was coming through the grounds toward them. Her face was clouded by a dark frown and she was visibly excited.

"It's all off," she announced as she came up.

"Where is the usual hero?" asked Graydon.

"I'm through with the real army. They've dismissed me. That is father and mother have. They are driving me into the Salvation Army," she exclaimed, seating herself beside Graydon. "I wish I were Jane and my own mistress."

"Dear me, Ethel, what an ambition!" said Jane. "What has happened to upset you so?"

"Father has."

"I should have asked who, not what."

"I suppose they expect me to marry a Salvation Army man. They say Harry isn't good enough. I think he is a very moral young man."

"Harry? Who is Harry?"

"Why, haven't you heard? Harry Soper. I'm engaged to him."

"The lieutenant?"

"Certainly. He's going to be promoted, though, if he ever gets on the firing line. It's not his fault that he has to do duty in the walled city. He's aching to get out and fight. But father—-" Here she paused, her lips coming together with a firmness that boded ill.

"Colonel Harbin doesn't approve?"

"No—he says Harry is a 'little pup.' It's outrageous, Jane."

"Don't cry, dear. The world is full of men."

"Not for me," said Ethel dolefully. "I've picked Harry out of a hundred or more and I think my discrimination ought to be considered. I'm the one to be satisfied. Father has no—-"

"But how about that young fellow back in New York? You used to say he was the only one."

"He is the only one in New York. But look how far off he is! It takes weeks for his letters to get to me."

"But he writes every day."

"Harry telephones every day. I tell you, Jane, the voice has a good deal to do with it. You like to HEAR a fellow say nice things. It beats ink all to pieces. It will go hard with him, perhaps, but he's young. He'll get over it."

"You are young, too. That is why you have gotten over George."

"I'm not as young as I was. But I've decided on Harry. If father doesn't let us get married right away, I'm liable to get over him, too. It's silly doing that all the time; one might never get married, you know. But father is firm. He says I can't, and he says he'll kick Harry into the middle of next summer. Father says I shall not marry into the regular army. He says they don't make good husbands. I've got the joke on him, though. He appealed to mother, and she forgot herself and said the same thing. They were quarrelling about it when I left the hotel. It was an awful jar to father. For two cents I'd elope with Harry."

"It would be pretty difficult for an officer on duty to elope, don't you think?" asked Graydon, amused.

"Not if he loved the girl. He does, too. But I haven't told you the worst. Mother says I am being absolutely spoiled out here in Manila, and she says flatly, that she's going to take me back to the States. Isn't it awful?"

"Back to the fellow in New York?" smiled Jane encouragingly.

Ethel thought for a moment and a dear little smile came into her troubled eyes.

"I hope he hasn't gone and fallen in love with some other girl," she said.

It was true, as Jane soon learned, that Mrs. Harbin had concluded to return to the United States with Ethel. Jane's aunt had grown immeasurably tired of Manila—and perhaps a little more tired of the Colonel. It was she who aroused the Colonel's antipathy to little Lieutenant Soper. She dwelt upon the dire misfortune that was possible if Ethel continued to bask in the society of "those young ninnies." The Colonel developed a towering rage and a great fear that Ethel might become fatally contaminated before she could be whisked off of the island. It was decided that Mrs. Harbin and Ethel should return to the United States soon after the first of March, to take up their residence in New York City.

"Mother wants to be a soldier's widow—on parole," sniffed Ethel, almost audibly enough for her father's ears.

Mrs. Harbin at once informed Jane that she was expected to return with them. She demurred at first, purely for the sake of appearances, but in the end agreed to tender her resignation to the Red Cross society. The knowledge that Graydon Bansemer's discharge was soon forthcoming and that he intended to return to America in the spring had more to do with this decision than she was willing to admit. She therefore announced her ambition to become a trained nurse and gave no heed to Mrs. Harbin's insinuating smile.

Letters, of late, from Mrs. Cable, had been urging her to return to Chicago; David Cable was far from well—breaking fast—and he was wearing out his heart in silent longing for her return. He wrote to her himself that he expected to retire from active business early in the year, and that his time and fortune from that day on would be devoted to his family. He held out attractive visions of travel, of residence abroad, of endless pleasure which they could enjoy together.

Jane had written to them that she would not live in Chicago—any place else in the world, she said—and they understood. There was no word of James Bansemer in all these letters. She was always daughter to them and they were father and mother.

Graydon Bansemer one day received three letters—all from Chicago. He knew the handwriting on the envelope of each. Three men had written to him, his father, Elias Droom, and Rigby. A dark scowl came over his face as he looked at the Rigby envelope. It was the first letter that he opened and read. Jane was sitting near by watching the expression on his face.

"It's from Rigby," he said as he finished.

"What does he say?" she asked anxiously.

"He says he is my devoted friend for life," replied Graydon bitterly. "I can't forget, though, Jane. He is not the sort of friend I want."

"He thought it was for the best, Graydon."

"Yes, and he may have thought he was my friend, too. This letter says as much. But I like an enemy better, dear. You know what to expect of an enemy at all times. Here's one from Elias Droom—old Elias." Droom scrawled a few words of cheer to the young soldier, urging him not to re-enlist, but to come home, at the end of his two years. He enclosed a letter from Mr. Clegg, in which that gentleman promised to put Graydon in charge of their New York office, if he would take the place. This news sent his spirits bounding. Tears of a gratefulness he never expected to feel sprang to his eyes. Jane's happiness was a reflection of his own.

James Bansemer's letter was not read aloud to Jane. When he had finished the perusal of the long epistle he folded it and stuck it away in his pocket. His eyes seemed a bit wistful and his face drawn, but there was no word to let her know what had been written by the man who had denounced her.

"He is well," was all he said. He did not tell her that his father had urged him to go into business in the Philippines, saying that he would provide ample means with which to begin and carry on any enterprise he cared to exploit. One paragraph cut Graydon to the quick:

"I'd advise you to steer clear of Chicago. If they don't kill you in the Philippines, you're better off there. They hate us here."