After several weeks of the ambulance work, Barbara found herself growing more accustomed to it. Not that she had recovered from her horror and dread. But she had at least learned to control her nerves and to become more useful. She was able to make up her mind, as Dick had told her, that everybody felt much as she did, but simply showed greater stoicism.

Fortunately for Barbara, her first two weeks of work came after a lull in the fighting at Neuve Chapelle. There were but few desperately wounded soldiers to be brought to the hospital. Most of the men were either ill from natural causes or from some disease contracted in the trenches. Only now and then an occasional shot from across the line found the way to its victim.

Then frequently during this period Barbara and Dick enjoyed opportunities for short conversations. Several times Dick had received leaves of absence to come and see his sister and her friends.

He was immediately a great favorite with the hospital staff. He and Nona Davis seemed to understand each other particularly well. There was some bond of likeness between them. Both of them moved slowly, had an air of languor and easy grace, and yet when the necessity arose were capable of the swiftest and most definite action.

Several times the idea came to Barbara: would Dick and Nona some day learn to care seriously for each other? She used to feel lonely and cold at this thought, yet all the while recognizing that this might prove a beautiful relationship.

Nona seemed so brave. The other girl could not but marvel.

Whatever work she had to do she went through it and so far as one could see showed no qualms or misgivings. In the dreary ride from the field Nona used always to take charge of the patient who suffered most. And though sometimes her delicate face was like alabaster she never faltered either in her care or cheerfulness.

Dr. Milton, a young Englishman who had charge of one of the new ambulances, was open in his praise of Nona’s assistance. He could scarcely believe she had so little previous nursing experience. But then Daisy Redmond insisted that the young surgeon was half in love with the southern girl and so his opinion was prejudiced.

Moreover, Mildred Thornton also seemed greatly cheered by her brother’s appearance, although this was natural enough. At first she had been frightened for his safety, but as the days passed and no fresh fighting took place her fears abated.

By nature Mildred Thornton was extremely reticent. Never being congenial with her mother, she had never made a confidant of her. Then, while Dick always told her his secrets, she had but few of her own and not specially liking to talk, kept these to herself. So perhaps by accident and perhaps because of her nature she said little to her brother about her new acquaintances, Mrs. Curtis and Brooks Curtis. In a vague way Dick knew of them both, understood that Mildred now and then went to call on the mother and liked her. But he did not know that Mildred ever saw the young man or that she received frequent letters from him. Nor that these letters were brought to her in a mysterious fashion by Anton, the half-witted French boy, by an especial arrangement.

In the rear of the garden there chanced to be a loose stone in the old convent wall. The letters were thrust under this stone. So whenever Mildred was alone and had the chance she could collect her own mail.

There seemed nothing so specially remarkable to Mildred in this arrangement. The letters usually only contained a short note written to her. The rest of the enclosure were presumably the letters which Brooks Curtis was sending to his newspaper in the United States through Mildred’s aid. For she used to address them to the street and number he had given her and mail them at the same time she mailed her own home letters.

Probably Mildred did not talk more of her friendship with the young newspaper man because she did not wish to betray what she was doing for him. There could be no harm in it and yet there was a possibility that the hospital authorities might object, everything was being so strictly and so carefully managed.

Only two or three times since their walk together had Mildred seen the young man himself. But she always spent the hours she was off duty with his mother and apparently knew the history of the son from his youth up.

Mrs. Curtis said that she herself was a New Yorker, but that her husband had been a foreigner, of what nationality she did not mention. But Brooks had been taught several languages when he was a young boy, both French and German. These were most useful to him in his work. Then she spoke freely of the admiration her son felt for Mildred and that ordinarily he did not like the society of girls.

So Mildred was pleased and a little flattered. Brooks Curtis was unusually clever, there was no disputing that, and at times had agreeable manners, only he was moody and changeable. Possibly had Mildred met him under other circumstances she would have felt no interest in him. But she had a kind of fellow feeling for her own countryman in a strange land.

And though Mildred was not aware of it, Mrs. Curtis was an adept in the art of flattery. No one in her life had ever said such charming things to the girl, or made her feel of so great importance. Mrs. Curtis hung on everything Mildred said. She persuaded her she could not have endured her own loneliness except for the girl’s kindness.

Perhaps owing to the same streak of reticence and a little self-depreciation, Mildred had not yet become very intimate with the other three American Red Cross girls who were her companions. They were nice to her, but Barbara and Nona had developed a friendship which made her feel a little left out, and Eugenia was too cold and too occupied with her work for confidences. One so often wondered if she could be a real flesh-and-blood woman.

So the days passed. In spite of the tragedy surrounding them a kind of routine filled the lives of the Red Cross girls, as it did those of the soldiers at the front except during the hours of actual warfare.

Actually one afternoon Nona and Barbara drove back to the hospital in the ambulance with only one patient, who was fast asleep for most of the journey.

By and by Nona took a letter out of her pocket. “I have been meaning to tell you, Barbara, and have never had a real chance. Lady Dorian, the friend we met on the ship, has been acquitted of the charges against her in London. She says that they were not able to prove anything, though she does not feel sure that she is not still regarded with suspicion. The papers she carried with her were family papers and had nothing to do with political matters. She declares that she is not in the least a German sympathizer, but that she longs and prays for peace. She has been trying to establish some kind of peace party in London, I think. Some time ago, in the first letter I received from her, she told me to ask Eugenia if she still objected to our friendship, now that there were no clouds against her. Of course Eugenia said, ‘No.’ So Lady Dorian writes me that she is coming over to our hospital. Not to nurse; she does not know how to do that, but she has given the hospital a lot of money and is going to help with the office work. I am deeply interested to see her again. You know I had a feeling we would meet. I don’t often take fancies to people, but I have taken a strange one to her.”

Barbara nodded. “I like her too, but perhaps not just in the way you do. For I still feel there is some mystery about her that makes me uncomfortable. But she is beautiful and charming and I shall look forward to her coming.”

That same afternoon just at dusk Barbara and Nona arrived at the Sacred Heart Hospital. They were so tired that they went straight to their rooms and laid down.

Half an hour afterwards Eugenia Peabody knocked at the door and opened it. She had with her a tall woman dressed quietly in a plain dark-blue dress fitting the lines of her figure closely. Even in the dusk she gave one a sense of beauty and poise, and there was an odor about her like lilacs.

She kissed both girls as if they had been real friends.

“I have been hearing of what you have been doing and I’m very proud of you,” she murmured. “I hope I may be useful too.”

But Nona half saw and half felt that the woman for whom she had conceived such an intense fancy looked very weary and sad.