“He might see thee, Mrs. Owen,” answered Sally. “We are monstrously busy, but the case is exceptional. And that reminds me that ’tis time I was returning.” She rose as she spoke.
“Alone? Nay; wait until I get my cloak.”
“Tut, tut!” cried Sally. “An army nurse afraid? Why, I would not fear a whole Hessian regiment. Nay; I will not hear of taking thee out at night, Mrs. Owen.”
“Let us both go, mother,” suggested Peggy, running for their wraps.
“And I would like to see the doctor,” said Mrs. Owen as Sally began again to expostulate.
The walk to the hospital, which occupied the entire square between Spruce and Pine Streets and Eighth and Ninth Streets, was short. Peggy and Sally talked in low tones over Harriet’s absence and the cause thereof, while Mrs. Owen mused in silence. The lady was still thoughtful after her interview with Dr. Cochran.
“How did the doctor say he was, mother?” asked Peggy as they started for home.
“Badly hurt, my child. He was sorry for the lad’s sake that Harriet was not here. Clifford, it seems, looks to her coming with great eagerness. ’Tis his one hope of life, the doctor thinks.”
Peggy fell into silence. The night was beautiful. One of those soft balmy nights that come sometimes in the early spring, leading one to thoughts of summer joys. But its sweet influence was not felt by these two. One idea possessed the minds of both, and each waited for the other to give voice to it.
“Mother,” spoke Peggy abruptly as they reached the stoop of their own dwelling, “thee means that one of us must go to my Cousin Clifford, doesn’t thee?”