The doctor's prophecy was to fulfill itself. On her sick-bed Missy heard the reports of this one and that one who, in turn, were “taken down.”
For the others she was sorry, but when she learned Mr. Archibald Briggs had succumbed, she experienced poignant emotions. Her emotions were mingled: regret that she had so poorly repaid a deed of gallant service but, withal, a regret tempered by the thought they were now suffering together—he ill over there in Raymond Bonner's room, she over here in hers—enduring the same kind of pain, taking the same kind of medicine, eating the same uninteresting food. Yes, it was a bond. It even, at the time, seemed a romantic kind of bond.
Then, when days of convalescence arrived, she wrote a condoling note to the two patients at the Bonnets'—for Louise had duly “taken down,” also; and then, as her convalescence had a few days' priority over theirs, she was able to go over and visit them in person.
Friendships grow rapidly when people have just gone through the same sickness; people have so much in common to talk about, get to know one another so much more intimately—the real essence of one another. For instance Missy within a few days learned that Louise Briggs was an uncommonly nice, sweet, “cultured” girl. She enlarged on this point when she asked her mother to let her accept Louise's invitation to visit in Keokuk.
“She's the most refined girl I've ever met, mother—if you know what I mean.”
“Yes—?” said mother, as if inviting more.
“She's going to a boarding-school in Washington, D. C., this winter.”
“Yes—?” said mother again.
“And she's travelled a lot, but not a bit uppish. I think that kind of girl is a good influence to have, don't you?”
Mother, concentrated on an intricate place in her drawn-Yu-ork, didn't at once answer. Missy gazed at her eagerly. At last mother looked up.