Nurse Rosemary smiled, and put the telegram into her pocket. "No answer, thank you, Simpson."
"Not bad news, I hope?" asked Garth.
"No," replied Nurse Rosemary; "but it makes my departure on Thursday imperative. It is from an old aunt of mine, who is going to my 'young man's' home. I must be with him before she is, or there will be endless complications."
"I don't believe he will ever let you go again, when once he gets you back," remarked Garth, moodily.
"You think not?" said Nurse Rosemary, with a tender little smile, as she took up the paper, and resumed her reading.
The second telegram arrived after luncheon. Garth was at the piano, thundering Beethoven's Funeral March on the Death of a Hero. The room was being rent asunder by mighty chords; and Simpson's smug face and side-whiskers appearing noiselessly in the doorway, were an insupportable anticlimax. Nurse Rosemary laid her finger on her lips; advanced with her firm noiseless tread, and took the telegram. She returned to her seat and waited until the hero's obsequies were over, and the last roll of the drums had died away. Then she opened the orange envelope. And as she opened it, a strange thing happened. Garth began to play The Rosary. The string of pearls dropped in liquid sound from his fingers; and Nurse Rosemary read her telegram. It was from the doctor, and said: SPECIAL LICENSE EASILY OBTAINED. FLOWER AND I WILL COME WHENEVER YOU WISH. WIRE AGAIN.
The Rosary drew to a soft melancholy close.
"What shall I play next?" asked Garth, suddenly.
"Veni, Creator Spiritus," said Nurse Rosemary; and bowed her head in prayer.