The four Red Cross girls were walking about in one of the most beautiful gardens in England. It was late afternoon and they were already dressed for dinner.

The Countess of Sussex, to whom they had been introduced by her sister in New York City, had invited them down from London for a few days before leaving for their work among the soldiers. In another thirty-six hours they were expecting to cross the Channel.

Of the four girls, Nona Davis seemed most to have altered in her appearance since leaving the ship. Indeed, no one could have dreamed that she could suddenly have become so pretty. But she had been half-way ill all the time of their crossing and disturbed about a number of things. Here in England for some strange reason she felt unexpectedly at home. The formality of the life on the great country estate, the coldness and dignity of many of the persons to whom they had been presented, the obsequiousness of the servants, troubled her not at all. And this in spite of the fact that the other three girls, although disguising the emotion as well as they knew how, were in a state of being painfully critical of England and the English. Possibly for this very reason Nona had made the best impression, although the letters of introduction which they had so far used had been originally given to Mildred Thornton.

But in a way perhaps Nona was more like an English girl than the others. She had lived the simplest kind of life in the beautiful old southern city of Charleston, she and her father and one old colored woman, almost lost in the big, shabby house that sheltered them. And they had been tragically poor. Nevertheless, a generation before Nona’s ancestors had been accustomed to an existence of much the same kind as the English people about them, although a much more friendly one, with negro servants taking the place of white and with a stronger bond of affection than of caste.

This afternoon Nona felt almost as if she were in her own rose garden in Charleston, grown a hundred times larger and more beautiful. She walked a little ahead of the other three girls, almost unconscious of their presence and dreaming of her own shut-in childhood and the home she had sold in order to give her services to the wounded in this war.

Yet she looked as remote from the thought of war and its horrors as one could possibly imagine. She had on a white muslin dress made with a short waist and long full skirt; a piece of old lace belonging to her father’s mother, an old-time Virginia belle, crossed over her slight bosom, was fastened with a topaz and pearl pin. Her pale gold hair was parted on one side and then coiled loosely on the crown of her head. It did not curl in the wilful fashion that Barbara’s did, but seemed to wave gently. Her pallor was less noticeable than usual and the irises of her brown eyes were like the heart of the topaz. Then with an instinct for color which every normal girl has, Nona had fastened a golden rose, the soleil d’or, or sun of gold, at her waist. Because it was cool she also wore a scarf floating from her shoulders.

“Nona looks like this garden,” Barbara remarked to her two companions, when they had stopped for a moment to examine a curiously trimmed box hedge, cut to resemble a peacock, “while I—I feel exactly like a cactus plant rooted out of a nice bare desert and transplanted in the midst of all this finery. I can feel the prickly thorns sticking out all over me. And if you don’t mind and no one is listening I’d like to let the American eagle screech for a few moments. I never felt so American in my life as I have every minute since we landed. And as we have come to nurse the British I must get it out of my system somehow.”

The two girls laughed, even Eugenia. Barbara had given such an amusing description of herself and her own sensations. And she did not look as if she belonged in her present environment, nevertheless, she was wearing her best dress, made by quite a superior Lincoln, Nebraska, dressmaker. It was of blue silk and white lace and yet somehow was not correct, so that Barbara really did appear like the doll Dick Thornton had once accused her of resembling.

Mildred Thornton had a suitable and beautiful costume of pearl-gray chiffon and Eugenia only a plain brown silk, neither new nor becoming. But, as she had explained to their hostess, she had not come to Europe with any thought of society, but merely in order to assist with the Red Cross nursing. Eugenia seemed to be very poor; indeed, though only one of the three other girls had any fortune, Eugenia’s poverty was more apparent than Nona’s. All her traveling outfit was of the poorest and she was painfully economical. But, as the Countess had declared that they were leading the simplest kind of life in the country, and because of the war doing almost no entertaining, Eugenia had consented to leave their lodgings in London for this short visit. She was particularly interested, since the smaller houses on the estate had been given over to the Belgian refugees, and Eugenia felt that this might be their opportunity for learning something of the war before actually beholding it.

The four girls were on their way now to visit several of the cottages where the Belgian women and children were located. But when the three girls had finished their few moments of conversation Nona Davis had disappeared.

“She will probably follow us a little later,” Eugenia suggested; “we simply must not wait any longer, or dinner may be announced before we can get back to the castle.”

However, Nona did not follow them, although she soon became conscious that the other girls had left her; indeed, saw them disappearing in the distance.

The truth is that at the present time she had no desire to see or talk with the Belgian refugees, nor did she wish any other company than her own for the next half hour.

She had been so accustomed to being alone for a great part of her time that the constant society of her new friends had tired her the least bit. Oh, she liked them immensely. It was not that, only that some natures require occasional solitude. And no one can be really lonely in a garden.

Had there been wounded Belgian soldiers on the Countess’ estate Nona felt that she would have made the effort to meet them, but up to the present she had not seen an injured soldier, although soldiers of the other kind she had seen in great numbers, marching through the gray streets of London, splendid, khaki-clad fellows, handsome and serious. Even for them there had been no beating of drums, no waving of flags. Nona was thinking of this now while half of her attention was being bestowed on the beauties surrounding her. England was not making a game or a gala occasion of her part in this great war; for her it was a somber tragedy with no possible result save victory or death.

During her divided thinking Nona had wandered into a portion of the garden known as “The Maze.” It was formed of a great number of rose trellises, the one overlapping the other until it was almost impossible to tell where the one ended and the other began. Nona must have walked inside for half an hour without the least desire to escape from her perfumed bower. The scene about her seemed so incredibly different from anything that she had the right to expect, she wished the impression to sink deeply into her consciousness that she might remember it in the more sorrowful days to come.

Then unexpectedly the garden came to an end and the girl stepped out onto a green lawn, with a small stone house near by which she recognized as the gardener’s cottage.

Between the garden and the house, however, prone on the ground and asleep, lay a long figure.

Nona caught her breath, first from surprise and next from pity.

A heavy rug had been placed under the sleeper and a lighter one thrown over him. Evidently he had been reading and afterwards had fallen asleep, for magazines and papers were tumbled about and the cover partly tossed off.

At least, Nona could see that the figure was that of a young man of about twenty-two or three and that he must recently have been seriously ill. It was odd that under his tan his skin could yet manage to show so pallid and be so tightly drawn over his rather prominent cheek bones and nose. By his side were a pair of tall crutches and one of his long legs was heavily bandaged.

Nona was standing within a few feet of him, perfectly still, not daring to move or speak for fear of waking him. Evidently the young man was the gardener’s son who had come home on a leave of absence while recovering from a wound.

But the next instant and without stirring, his eyes had opened and were gazing lazily into Nona’s.

“It is the fairy story of the ‘Sleeping Beauty’ backwards,” he began, without the least betrayal of amusement or surprise. “You see, our positions really ought to be reversed. You should be sleeping here. Then I should not in the least mind behaving as the Prince did when he woke the lovely Princess. He kissed her, I believe.”

Nona was startled and a little frightened. But one could not be frightened of a boy who must have been terribly injured and was now trying to fight his way back to life with what gayety he could.

“Are you the gardener’s son?” she asked, a little after Eugenia’s manner and really quite foreign to her own. She had never seen a young man with such blue eyes as this one had, nor such queer brown hair that seemed to have been burned to red in spots.

“I am a son of Adam,” he answered, still grave as ever, “and he was, I have been told, the earth’s first gardener. Now tell me: Are you a Princess?”

The girl smiled a little more graciously. She had possessed very few boy friends and certainly no one of them had ever talked to her in this fashion. However, it was amusing and if it entertained the young fellow there could be no harm in their talking. Nona Davis had the poise and understanding that came of gentle birth.

So she shook her golden head gravely.

“I am not a Princess, I am sorry to spoil your fairy story. No, I am just an American girl who has come over to try and be a little useful with the Red Cross work. My friends and I met the Countess of Sussex the other day and she was kind enough to ask us down to see her place before we leave for the front.”

During her speech the young man had been attempting to get himself off the ground by rising on his elbow. But even with this movement he must have wrenched his wounded leg, for immediately after he dropped back again, and although suppressing a groan, Nona could see that perspiration had broken out on his thin temples and on his smooth boyish lips.

The next instant she was down on her knees at his side. He had gotten into an abominably awkward position so that his head hung over the pillows instead of resting upon them.

How often Nona had assisted her old father in a like difficulty!

She may not have had the training of the other three American Red Cross girls, but she had practical experience and the nursing instinct.

With skill and with gentleness and without a word she now slipped her bare white arm under the stranger’s shoulders and gradually drew him back into a comfortable position. Then she took her arm away again, but continued to kneel on the corner of his rug waiting to see if there were to be any signs of faintness.

There were none. Without appearing surprised or even thanking her, the young Englishman continued his fantastic conversation.

“We have turned American girls into Princesses in Europe quite an extraordinary number of times. I have wondered sometimes how they liked it, since I have been told they are all queens in their own land.”

Then observing that his companion considered his remarks degenerating into foolishness, he groped about until his hand touched the book he desired.

“Forgive my nonsense,” he urged penitently. “You can put it down to the fact that I have actually been reading Andersen’s Fairy Tales half the afternoon. I have grown so terribly bored with everything for the past six weeks while I have been trying to get this confounded leg well enough to go back and join my regiment.”

He offered the little book to Nona, and almost instinctively, as the wind scattered the pages, she glanced down upon the front leaf to discover her companion’s name. There it was written in an unformed handwriting. “Robert Hume, from Mother Susan.”

“Robert Hume,” Nona repeated the name to herself mentally without lifting her eyes. It was a fine name, and yet it had a kind of middle class English sound like George Eliot, or Charles Dickens. Nona realized that what is known in English society as the middle class had produced most of England’s greatness. Nevertheless it was surprising to find the son of a gardener possessed of so much intelligence.

He even pretended not to have noticed that she had endeavored to discover his name.

She put the book on the ground and got up on her feet again.

“I must go now,” she said gently, “but it is growing late. May I not call some one to take you indoors?”

“Please,” he answered, “if you will go there to the small stone house and tell Mother Susan I am awake, she will have some one look after me. But I say it has been ripping meeting you in this unexpected way when I thought I was too used up even to want to look at a girl. Tomorrow perhaps——”

“Tomorrow we are returning to London on the early morning train.” Nona suffered a relapse into her former cold manner. She was a democrat, of course, and came from a land which taught that all men were equal. But she was a southern girl and the south had been living a good many years on the thought of its old families after their wealth had been taken away. Therefore, there were limits as to what degree of friendliness, even of familiarity, one could endure from a gardener’s son.

Nevertheless, the young fellow was a soldier and, one felt instinctively, a gallant one.

“Good-by; I hope you may soon be quite well again,” Nona added, and then went across the grass to the gardener’s house.

The young man was not accustomed to the poetic fancies that had been besetting him this last quarter of an hour; they must be due to weakness. But somehow the strange girl looked to him like a pale ray of afternoon sunshine as he watched her disappear. She did not come near his resting place again.