A red-headed young Irishman in khaki stood at the gateway, or tramped up and down with his rifle on his shoulder. He could not look at the girl without grinning, and Ruth smiled in return.
"'Tis a broth of a mornin', Miss," he whispered, as she drew near. "Be you the new lady Charlie Bra-a-agg brought over last night?"
"Yes. I am to take the place of the girl who—who——"
She faltered and could not go on. The Irish lad nodded and blinked rapidly.
"Bedad!" he muttered. "We'll make the Boches pay for that when we go over the top. Never fear."
He halted abruptly, became preternaturally grave, and presented arms. The young surgeon, Dr. Monteith, who had met Ruth the night before, tramped in from a morning walk.
"Good morning, Miss Fielding. Did you sleep?"
She confessed that she did. He smiled, but there was a deep crease between his eyes.
"I am glad you are up betimes. We need some of your supplies. Can I send the orderlies with the schedule soon?"
"Oh, yes! I will try to be ready in half an hour," she cried, turning quickly toward the hut, of which she carried the key.