Mrs. Gordon could hardly speak, but her eyes told her that Bob was safe and the touch of his cool, strong fingers swept her last fears away. Near by, on a cot half hidden by a screen, lay a young man tossing about and muttering to himself. His face was flushed and a wide bandage was wrapped about his head, from which the brown hair had been cut away. Mrs. Gordon turned back to Bob with unspeakable thankfulness in her heart.
“I knew you’d be worried,” he said, with a frown of anger at sight of his mother’s pale face. “I was in such a hurry to get off the telegram, for fear you would hear the news some other way, that I bungled things. The obstinate old sergeant here copied the message right off the card they pinned on me at the dressing-station, before they examined my wound. I told him to say ‘slightly wounded,’ but nothing could make him change it.”
“Never mind, Bob dear. I know now that you are all right,” smiled Mrs. Gordon, sinking down on the little chair beside the cot with a sigh of peaceful weariness. Her face and hands were grimy with dust, but she did not think yet of her discomfort. “Tell me all about it, Bob—how it happened,” she begged. “They let you talk, don’t they?”
“Yes, indeed. They let me do anything but shrug my shoulders, and I don’t particularly want to do that.” Happy in his mother’s presence and in the knowledge that she was freed from anxiety about him, Bob began telling the story of the fight in which he was wounded. A quarter of an hour passed quickly while Mrs. Gordon listened with fascinated interest, too proud of Bob’s skill and daring to wish him more prudent, but sadly fearful for the future in the midst of her satisfaction. His account was cut short by the sound of a footstep at the door of the ward. Bob paused to look up, then forgot his story as he called out with a welcoming smile, “Come on in, Harding! Here she is at last.”
While he spoke a young Infantry Captain with a bandaged hand crossed the room, holding out his sound left hand to Mrs. Gordon. A frank, merry smile, that no hardships had yet robbed him of, lighted up his face at the pleasure of the meeting.
“Mrs. Gordon!” he exclaimed, “I am glad to see you.”
“Dick! You here too?” cried Mrs. Gordon, starting to her feet.
He took her hand and, looking earnestly into her tired face, the smile faded from his lips and he said remorsefully, “If I’d only known in time I’d have gone to you myself with the news of Bob’s wound, and saved you all this worry. I’m convalescent and could have got off.”
Mrs. Gordon patted the young officer’s shoulder, looking at him with friendly affection. “I know you would have, Dick. Thank you for thinking of it. But tell me what you’re doing here. You’ve been wounded again?” Her eyes shrank a little from the sight of his bandaged hand, for Dick Harding’s first wound had been a serious affair, and well remembered by the Gordons, for it was coincident with Bob’s capture and imprisonment.
He held up his hand to show her, saying reassuringly, “It’s nothing this time—just a bullet wound. Fingers are all right. Sit down and tell me about yourself.” A shadow stole over his face and his eyes saddened as he added, “Don’t talk about Lucy if you don’t feel like it, but I’ve thought of her so much. I can’t think of anything else.”