A few days after Eugenia Peabody opened the door of one of the rooms on the top floor used for the nurses. It was a small room which fortunately the four American Red Cross girls were allowed to share without any of the other nurses. Simple as possible, it contained four cot beds, a single bureau, and a great old-fashioned wardrobe. Convents in France were built long before the days of closets.

Eugenia, looking very exhausted, was like most tired persons, cross, when she discovered Nona and Barbara lying on opposite beds peacefully talking.

However, both girls got up instantly.

“Do try and rest a while, Eugenia,” Barbara urged. “You seem dreadfully worn out. Isn’t there anything I can do to help you?”

Eugenia dropped down upon the nearest wooden chair shaking her head. And in spite of her weariness the two other girls watched her admiringly. One had to see Eugenia in her nurse’s costume to realize what a handsome, almost noble looking girl she was. Her ordinary clothes were so shabby and unbecoming and so old style. But the stiff white cap outlined her broad forehead, her somber dark eyes. Even her too serious and sometimes too severe expression seemed in a measure fitted to the responsibility of her work.

“You are wanted downstairs in the convalescent ward, Nona,” she began. “The Superintendent says she finds the things you are able to do very useful, even though you are not trained for the more responsible nursing. But before you go here is a letter that has come from London for you. Who can you know in London, child, to be writing you here?”

Nona was moving toward the door, but she paused long enough to receive her letter and then to stand staring in the stupid fashion people have at the unfamiliar handwriting on the outside.

“I haven’t the faintest idea,” she answered Eugenia, but tearing apart the envelope she suddenly flushed.

“The letter is from Lady Dorian, Eugenia. Remember we met her on the steamer where she was accused of all kinds of dreadful things. She has been imprisoned in London, but this letter must mean that she is free. Anyhow, I’ll tell you what she writes when I come back. I am on duty now and haven’t time to wait and read it.” This was entirely true. Nevertheless Nona had other reasons for wishing to read her letter alone. Lady Dorian had made a strange impression upon her for so short an acquaintance. She had scarcely confessed it even to herself, but she felt a girl’s peculiar hero worship for the older woman. Moreover, she was passionately convinced of her innocence and yet did not wish Barbara or Eugenia to know at once what must be told them afterwards. For Lady Dorian could only have written either to say she had been released or to ask aid. There had been no suggestion of their exchanging letters in their brief acquaintance.

Once Nona was out of the room Barbara inquired:

“What has become of Mildred? Isn’t this her afternoon to rest? Nona and I were expecting her in here.”

The older girl did not answer; she had gotten up and in spite of her fatigue was walking about the small room. She stopped now and looked out of the tiny casement window.

“Oh, Mildred,” she returned carelessly, “has gone to spend the afternoon with that Mrs. Curtis. They are to take a walk somewhere, I think. Mildred said she felt the need of fresh air. I believe Mildred is missing her family more than she likes to confess and this Mrs. Curtis is so kind, Mildred seems pleased to find her living so near us.”

On her small cot bed Barbara had managed to get herself into an extraordinary position. She had on her kimono and sat hunched up with her knees in the air and her arms about them while her curly head bobbed up and down like a Chinese mandarin’s.

“Sorry,” she commented briefly. “I told you on the ship I was afraid Mildred was becoming interested in Brooks Curtis. I don’t like Mrs. Curtis locating so near the hospital. Don’t see any reason for it except that she and her son do not want to lose sight of Mildred. And it would not surprise me if her son turned up in this neighborhood himself fairly often—oh, to see his mother, of course.”

Barbara spoke petulantly, particularly when she discovered that Eugenia was paying scant attention to her remarks.

“Oh, do come on and lie down a while, Eugenia,” she concluded. “You behave as if all the Allied forces would go to pieces if you stayed off your job an hour, or at least as if all the soldiers in the hospital would die at once.”

Still Eugenia made no reply. Although getting out of her working uniform, she too slipped into a comfortable negligÉe and letting down her heavy dark hair followed Barbara’s rather ungraciously offered advice.

A few minutes later the younger girl stood at the side of her bed with a cup of beef tea in her hands which she had just made over a tiny alcohol lamp.

“Drink this, please, and forgive my bad temper, Eugenia,” she murmured. “I presume if I confessed the truth even to myself, I am jealous of your success at the hospital. But honestly I don’t think I am being given a fair chance here. Ever since we arrived I have been shoved into the background and never called on for any really important work. Oh, I know I failed that one time, but that is no reason why I shouldn’t be all right the next.”

While the older girl finished the bouillon Barbara sat down on the side of the bed. Then the moment the cup had been set down, to her surprise Eugenia took hold of her hand almost affectionately.

“You are going to be given a chance, Barbara, at least one that will take a whole lot of courage. It is what I came upstairs to tell you and Nona, and what I have been feeling so worried about. For really I don’t know whether you ought to agree. You are both so young and pretty.” Eugenia hesitated and Barbara took hold of both her shoulders, giving her a tiny shake.

“What do you mean? I hate suspense worse than anything.”

“Oh, simply that four girls have to be appointed for service in the two new motor ambulances that are to bring the wounded soldiers from the battle front to the hospital. The Superintendent has decided to ask you and Nona to take charge of one and Lady Mathers and Daisy Redmond the other. Of course, you can refuse if you like, Barbara, for the work may be dangerous. It isn’t that you will have to do very much for the soldiers except to see that they are properly bandaged and keep life in them till you can get them here. Of course there is a surgeon in each ambulance to tell you what to do. The danger is that you will have to go much nearer the fighting line and that you may see even more painful things than you have been seeing in the hospital. Really, child, I don’t advise you to attempt it.”

For with the first realization of what Eugenia meant Barbara had turned deathly pale and was now fighting a sensation of faintness.

“It isn’t that I am in the least afraid, Eugenia,” she faltered, as soon as she could trust her voice. Even then it was fairly shaky. “I don’t mind running the risk or the work or any of those things. You know what it is, Eugenia; there is no use trying to hide it. I simply haven’t the nerve I thought I had. It is seeing the wounded soldiers, so many of them. I lie awake at night and dream the most dreadful dreams. I keep thinking I—but I had better not speak of it. I’ve simply got to say I can’t undertake the work. I hate it too on account of Nona; she is sure to try this ambulance work, for only the other day she told me that she longed to get closer to the scene of action. But what must I say, Eugenia, when I refuse? I’m afraid I can’t make any one understand that I’m not exactly a coward; I am used to sickness, but somehow this all seems so different.”

Again Eugenia pressed the small hand she held in her large, capable one.

“Tell the truth, my dear, and then go back home to the United States. From the moment I saw you I didn’t believe this Red Cross work would be suitable for you. I told you you were too young, and I thought you were too quick-tempered and emotional, though I did not speak of this. There is plenty of nursing you might be able to do at home—children, or old people.”

Eugenia was growing sleepy; she had such a little while to rest that she was forgetting to be tactful.

“Whether you wish to go back home or not, Barbara, I’m afraid you must if you won’t undertake this ambulance work. The Superintendent says she likes you very much and all that, but really does not feel it wise for you to stay on at the hospital. There is so much nursing required and so little room that the girls who cannot give the best kind of service are really in the way. I am sorry to hurt your feelings, but it is better for me to tell you this than any one else,” Eugenia concluded, again made sympathetic by the hurt in the younger girl’s face. Barbara looked so broken and humiliated, so intensely ashamed of her own failure. Nevertheless, Eugenia could not help seeing that even at this minute Barbara suggested a little girl who has been caught in wrongdoing at school. She simply did not seem able to appear like a grown-up person into whose hands life and death could be intrusted.

For ten minutes afterwards Barbara made no reply. But she got up and put on her nurse’s uniform again, hiding her short brown curls beneath her stiff white cap and covering her blue frock with her white apron bearing its cross of red.

Then for a moment when Eugenia seemed to be asleep Barbara dropped on her knees before the open window, gazing out in the direction where she knew the zone of danger and terror lay. Swiftly the girl uttered a prayer for strength and courage. The next moment she crossed over to Eugenia.

“I am going to undertake the ambulance service. I may flunk that too, but at least I can try, and as the book says, ‘angels can do no more.’ And I’m distinctly not an angel.”