A few minutes later, apparently in a happier frame of mind, Barbara Meade was about to go upstairs when at the door she turned toward her companion.
“Please don’t think I fail to understand, Mr. Thornton, your not wishing Mildred to go through the discomforts and even the dangers of nursing the wounded soldiers. I suppose every nice brother naturally wishes to protect and look after his sister. I told you I had never had a brother, but you must not think for that reason I cannot appreciate what you must feel.”
Then with a quick movement characteristic of her smallness and grace, Barbara was gone.
Nevertheless Dick remained in the library alone until almost dinner time.
Barbara was right in believing that he hated the thought of his sister Mildred’s being away from the care and affection of her own family. Mildred might not be so handsome as he wished her and wasn’t much of a talker, still there was no doubt that she was a trump in lots of ways. Besides, after all, she was one’s own and only sister. Yet Dick was honest with himself. It was not Mildred alone whom he desired to protect from hardships. Absurd, of course, when the girl was almost a stranger to him, yet Barbara Meade appeared more unfitted for the task that she insisted upon undertaking than his sister. In the first place, Barbara was younger, and certainly a hundred times prettier. Then in spite of her ridiculous temper she was so tiny and looked so like a child that one could only laugh at her. Moreover—oh, well, the worst of it was, Dick felt convinced that she was just the kind of a girl he could have a delightful time with, if he had a proper chance. She had confessed to loving to dance in spite of her sarcasm. So she should have at least a few dances with him before fate swept her out of his way forever.
Ten days later, as early as nine o’clock in the morning, Mrs. Thornton’s limousine was to be seen threading its way in and out among the trucks and wagons along lower Broadway on its way to the American Line steamship pier, No. 62.
Inside the car were seated Mrs. Thornton and Mildred, Judge Thornton, Dick and Barbara Meade. Behind them a taxicab piled with luggage was following. The “Philadelphia” was sailing at eleven o’clock that morning and included among her passenger list four American Red Cross nurses on their way to a mission of relief and love.
In the Thornton automobile not alone was Barbara Meade arrayed for an ocean crossing, but Mildred Thornton also appeared to be wearing a traveling outfit. More extraordinary, the greater part of the luggage on the taxicab behind them bore the initials “M. F. T.” Besides, Mildred was sitting close to her father with her cheek pressed against his shoulder and holding tight to his hand, while the Judge looked entirely and completely miserable.
Should anything happen to Mildred, he, who loved her best, would be responsible. For he had finally yielded to her persuasions, upholding her in her desire, against the repeated objections of his wife and son. Just why he had come round to Mildred’s wish, for the life of him the Judge could not now decide. What was happening to this world anyhow when girls, even a gentle, sweet-tempered one like Mildred, insisted on “making something of their own lives,” “doing something useful,” “following their own consciences and not some one’s else?” Really the Judge could not at present recall with what arguments and pleadings his daughter had finally influenced him. But he did wonder why at present he should feel so utterly dejected at the thought of Mildred’s leaving, when her mother appeared positively triumphant.