An hour or two later the good news came, brought by Mrs. Rooke in person. Captain Langrishe could hardly yet be considered out of danger, but he lived; he had been sent down in a litter to the nearest station, where there were appliances and comforts and white people all about him, outside the sights and sounds of war, beyond the danger of recapture by the enemy.
Nelly bore the better news well: she had been prepared for it, she said. Seeing her so quiet, Mrs. Rooke brought out a scrap of blue ribbon cut through and blood-stained. It was in a little case which had been hacked through by knives. It had been sent home to her at the first when there was no hope, when, practically, Godfrey Langrishe was a dead man.
"It is not mine, my dear," she said to Nelly, "and I think it must be yours. I did not dare show it to you before."
Nelly went pale and red. Yes, it was her ribbon, which had fallen from her hair that morning more than a year ago when Captain Langrishe had ridden by with the regiment and the wind had carried off her ribbon.
She received it with a trembling eagerness.
"Yes, it is mine," she said. "I knew he had it. He showed it to me before he went away."
"How furious Godfrey will be when he misses it!" Mrs. Rooke said. "Somebody will be having a bad quarter of an hour. And now, Nelly, when are you going to be well enough to come to see my mother? She longs to know you. She is the dearest old soul. She wanted me to bring you to her while yet we were in suspense. But I waited for news, one way or another."
"I should love to go," Nelly said.
"She has a room in a gable fitted up for you; the windows open on roses. The place is full of sweet sounds and sights. All through this trouble her thoughts have been with you. Will you come?"
"If papa can spare me."