The night nurse sat quietly down to her charts after having gone the rounds of her ward. All was quiet. The convalescent soldiers were sleeping peacefully, dreaming of home, she hoped. Scott stirred restlessly now and then. He could not sleep but watched the busy little stained hand of the night nurse as it glided rapidly over the charts. She had no light but that of a guttering candle, carefully shaded from her patients’ eyes, but Scott could see her well-poised head and fine profile as she bent over her writing. How lovely she was! Would she ever listen to him? How she stood up for her sex,—and still she did not exactly repulse him. What a strange name for a girl like that to have! Grubb! It was preposterous. Indeed, he felt it his duty to make her change that name as soon as possible. Polly Nelson is a pretty name—dear little Godmother! Would she despise him, too, like this other girl? But did this other one despise him?
The night nurse made her rounds again and then left the ward for a moment. When she returned, she came to the American’s bedside.
“A letter has just come for you, Mr. Scott.”
“For me? Splendid! Will you read it to me?”
“Yes, if you cannot possibly see to do it yourself.”
“I might, but I’d rather not.”
“It is in the same rotten fist of those I read you to-night.”
“My Fairy Godmother! I—I—believe I can see to read that myself.”
She handed him the letter. Her hand was trembling a little and so was his. She brought the guttering candle and he opened his letter.
Somewhere in France.