She glanced at the patient, essayed to release her hand. It was firmly held in the sleeper's grasp.
"Open the telegram, Thomson," she said in a whisper.
The orderly obeyed, handed her the drab piece of paper.
She took it, glanced at it, nodded a speechless dismissal to the orderly.
"The War Office reports that Ronald is missing believed killed Hershaw."
The words branded themselves into her brain as she sat there fixed, immobile. She could hear them in the wailing cry of the widowed mother who had written the telegram, but her own voice seemed to her for ever dumb, never to break this crushing silence. She stared—with dry eyes—straight before her. The obsequial lights of the departed sun, framed by the window opposite, were extinguished one after another. She did not stir, was unconscious that her hand was still in the grasp of the wounded man. "The War Office reports——" It was like staring at a high, closed door.
An immeasurable time passed before an orderly entered, switched on the electric light, drew the blinds. She roused herself, found the grip upon her hand relaxed. She rose—with tight lips and burning eyes, went about her duties.
That evening it was by an effort of will, sternly administered, that she sat at table in the Sisters' messroom. She scarcely ate, was deaf to the feminine chatter around her. One of the sisters, a notorious flirt, joked her upon her loverlike posture with Number Ten. The orderly had evidently talked. Sister Braithwaite did not reply. As soon as possible she fled to her little matchboarded cubicle.
By her bedside was a photograph of a clean-featured young man, with intellectual eyes, more than ordinarily vivid in their expression. She kissed it passionately—"Ronald! Ronald!"—the loved name came from the depths of her. The merciful tears fell fast, her bosom heaved.
She slept with a packet of letters pressed tight against her warm body.