Were twenty-four hours ever as long as those that passed before the Monday morning papers arrived?
After her sleepless night again Brenda shrank from reading the reports. Agnes, going over the long list of killed and wounded, gave an exclamation of surprise,—or horror,—then checked it, with an anxious look at Brenda. The latter, watching her narrowly, sprang forward.
"What is it Agnes? You must tell me at once."
"Poor Tom Hearst!" cried Agnes, as her tears fell on the paper; "he was killed by a bursting shell during the early part of the attack on San Juan Hill."
But Brenda apparently did not hear.
"Is Arthur's name there?" she asked impatiently.
"Why, yes," said Agnes reluctantly, "it—"
But before she could utter another word Brenda had fallen heavily to the floor, and for a few minutes everything else was forgotten. Indeed, from the moment when Brenda was placed on the couch in her room upstairs Agnes did not leave her side, and for twenty-four hours, by the direction of the physician whom they had hastily summoned, they did not dare to refer to Santiago.
When she came to herself Brenda learned that the report about Arthur had simply been "slightly wounded;" that her father was expecting an answer soon to his telegram of enquiry, and that Philip Blair had started South.
A faint smile passed over Brenda's face.