Receiving uncertain directions from a nurse, the visitors wandered down a scrupulously sanitary hall, to knock timidly upon a door, numbered 17.
It was Kara’s voice that answered: “Come in.”
When the door opened she moved toward them on two crutches, very timid and haltingly.
Before they could do more than exclaim, she seated herself in a chair, the old humorous expression about the corners of her lips and eyes reappearing.
“I am not a pedestrian yet. But this is better than sitting still forever. Come here and let me embrace you both at once. Dorothy, please see that Tory does not weep and spoil my red roses. I suppose they are mine.”
After a little the girls found cushions and placed themselves on the floor at Kara’s feet.
“Now tell me every single thing that has happened since I left,” she said. “Don’t think anything is too unimportant.”
“But, Kara, won’t you tell us first? It is so hard to wait,” Tory pleaded.
No need to inquire what she meant.
The thin face with the beautiful gray eyes and long dark lashes, the lips grown thinner and less colorful in these past months, slowly parted.