I sometimes think that nurses need more courage than the soldiers. I cannot understand how refined, sensitive women like you can bear to see the horrible sights which are so common in places like this; it is just splendid of you--just splendid. You say you have not seen Trevanion?"

Again her cheeks, which had become pale again, crimsoned.

"Oh, yes," she replied, "he has been in this hospital; I--I have helped to nurse him."

"It seems strange that I never heard of it," said Bob; "but there, after all, it's not so strange--there are thousands of men and scores of nurses here; so it is no wonder that I never heard of either of you being here."

"He went back to the front yesterday," said Nancy. "He's quite well and strong again now. He told me that it was you who rescued him from death. Oh, Bob, it was splendid of you! It's all so strange too.

Would you mind telling me why you altered your mind and came to the war?"

"I learned that it was my duty," said Bob simply. "No, I haven't altered my mind about war, or about soldiering at all; but I had to come. You see, after I left you, I learned things to which I had been blind before; it is difficult to explain, but I saw that war could only be killed by war. I saw that the Gospel of Peace meant nothing to Germany, and that if she were allowed to go on unmolested, the ghastly creed of war, and the glory of war, would be established for ever; that was why I became a soldier. I wanted to help to cut it out; destroy it, root and branch--and we must never stop until that has been done.

But, I'm so glad Captain Trevanion is better, and has been able to go back; he's a brave man; he's a great soldier. You're engaged to him, aren't you?"

The question came out suddenly, and for a moment it staggered her. She was not engaged to him, and yet, in a way, she was bound to him; she had said that which made Trevanion hope. Her promise was as thin as a gossamer thread, yet it seemed to bind, her like a steel chain.

"Forgive my impertinence in asking," said Bob quickly, noting the look on her face. "Of course, I'd no right to ask."

Still she could not speak; she felt as though she would have given worlds to deny all thought of an engagement to Trevanion, but she couldn't--neither could she bring herself to tell him the story; the words she wanted to speak seemed to seal her lips. A long and awkward silence fell between them--a silence that was painful; both had so much to say, and yet neither could say anything.

"Has any one told you I'm engaged to Captain Trevanion?" and her voice was indistinct and hoa.r.s.e.

"Yes," he replied, "Proctor told me. He was at Clifton with me, you know, and Trevanion told him."

"Did Mr. Proctor say that?"

"I think so--yes; and then, as soon as mother heard I was here, she wrote to me and told me about it. I suppose your father is very pleased?"

"How he must hate me!" she thought. "It is only a few weeks ago since I promised to be his wife, and then only a week or two later I insulted him, and now he thinks I am engaged to Captain Trevanion. How mean, how contemptible he must think me! He must look upon me as a common flirt; he must believe that my promises to him were just a mockery; it is no wonder he speaks to me like that, and I--oh, I wish I could tell him!"

A French soldier hobbled across the open s.p.a.ce. "If you please, mademoiselle, you're wanted," he said; "another train load of wounded men has just arrived, and all the nurses are needed." He saluted Bob, who wore his lieutenant's uniform, and then he hobbled away again.

"This war is a terrible business, isn't it?" he queried, and there was a plaintive smile on his lips.

"It has upset everything, just everything; I hate it!" she cried--"I hate it! Oh, Bob, don't you feel how I hate it?"

She wanted him to understand more than her words conveyed; wanted him to feel that it was not the horrors of the war that moved her so greatly, but the fact that it had separated them.

"Yes, I know what you feel," said Bob; "but you must go through with it, Nancy. I'm sure you will be brave. When it is over, your reward will come. There--go back, and don't mind me."

"I won't go back!" she cried. "Bob, you can't forgive me, because I was so mean, so contemptible; I called you a coward; I insulted you; I--I . . . and now you can't forgive me--and I don't wonder."

"That was nothing," said Bob. "Of course, I did seem like a coward, I suppose, and I don't wonder at your doing what you did; but that's nothing. You'll be happy when it's all over; and really, he's a fine soldier, Nancy; and a fine fellow too; all his men just worship him."

"Oh, Bob, can't you understand?" her voice was almost inaudible.

"Yes, yes, I understand, but don't trouble about me one little bit; I shall be all right. There--go now, they want you."

"Do you really wish me to go, Bob?"

"Of course I do; it's your duty, and duty is everything in these days; it's hard and stern now, but by and by it'll become joyful."

"And when the war is over?" she stammered--"I--I . . ."

"It won't be over yet for a long time; still, we must keep a brave heart. You remember those lines of William Blake, Nancy? I used to laugh at them because he mixed his metaphors, but I see their meaning now:

"I will not cease from mental strife, Nor shall the sword sleep in my hand, Till I have built Jerusalem, In England's good and pleasant land."

There, get back Nancy; perhaps we shall see each other again, before I go?"

Without another word she went back to her grim and horrible work; her feet seemed like lead as she dragged them across the open s.p.a.ce which lay between her and the great, gaunt building.

"He will not see," she said to herself; "he doesn't want to see, and he hates me."

As for Bob, he sat a long while alone, in silence. "It's jolly hard on her," he said presently, "and I can't understand it; but she didn't deny that she was engaged to him, and, after all, he's a better man than I."

Day followed day, and he didn't see Nancy again; he was far removed from her in another part of the great hospital. Train load after train load of wounded men were brought there, and she had to be at her post almost night and day. He longed to seek her out and to speak to her amidst the loathsome work she had to do, but the discipline which obtained forbade him to do so; besides, as he reflected, he could do no good; it would only make the wound in his heart bleed more than ever.

Presently he was p.r.o.nounced fit for duty again, and orders came that he must make his way to the front. Fifty men besides himself who were also recovered from their wounds were to accompany him.

The train was waiting at the little station close by, and at noon that day he was to leave the hospital. By this time he had become accustomed to the place, and knew several of the nurses whose duty lay at his end of the hospital; he also had become on good terms with many of the men.

An hour before the time had come for him to go he had gone out in the open s.p.a.ce where he had seen Nancy, in the hopes of finding her, but she was nowhere to be seen.

All his arrangements were made, and nothing was left for him to do until the time came for his departure.

He wandered aimlessly and heedlessly around; his heart ached for just another sight of the woman he loved, and whom he believed he had lost for ever.

He looked at the watch on his wrist: "A quarter of an hour more," he reflected. He had longed to ask boldly to be allowed to see her, but he was afraid to do so; if she wanted to see him, she would have given him a hint, surely.

Then, when all hope had gone from his heart, she came from that part of the hospital where a number of the most dangerously wounded men lay, and ran towards him:

"I heard you were going this morning, Bob," she said, "and I have just crept away like a deserter; I felt I must; I didn't make things plain to you the other day. Bob, you have forgiven me, haven't you?"

"There was nothing to forgive," said Bob, and his heart beat madly.

"You aren't a coward," she said; "you're just--just the bravest man I ever knew. You believe I think that of you, don't you?"

He laughed nervously; he wanted to say a great deal, but the words wouldn't come.

"And--and, Bob, you know what you said to me, what that man Proctor and your mother told you?"

He looked at her in a puzzled way; even yet, he did not dare to hope.

"And--and, Bob"--with the words came a sob--"there's no one in the world but you."

"Nancy," he cried, "You don't mean . . . ?"

At that moment he was summoned to his duty. Still she stood before him--half sobbing, the same light in her eyes which he remembered seeing down by the Cornish sea.