"Truth is stranger than fiction, dear child. That is a trite saying, but there is none truer. You did not recognize this young man, Nita, darling?"
"Why, no. How could I when I could see only the tip of his nose and his mouth and part of his chin? Why, mother, mother," a wild hope rushed to her brain. "No, it isn't, it could be——" she gasped.
"Couldn't be what, dear?"
Anita was trembling and her hands were icy cold. "Mother, mother," she whispered, "don't keep me in suspense. Tell me."
"Darling, I will tell you. I did not know till to-day that Terrence Wirt had joined the British forces, was wounded and is now at The Beeches."
Anita dropped her head upon her mother's hands and began to sob convulsively. "Oh, mother, oh, mother," was all she could say.
Her mother stroked her curly head but said nothing till she grew calmer.
"How long has he been here?" Anita asked after a while.
"Only a couple of days. I did not learn till to-day that he was other than an Englishman nor did I know his name. I was busy with more serious cases upstairs, and left him to the others."
"To think I have seen him, spoken to him, touched his hand, and that neither of us knew. Oh, but I did feel instinctively drawn to him that first moment. Oh, I did. I could not get him off my mind. I have been thinking about him ever since. He must not know. Oh, no, he must not yet."