The boy’s lips tightened stubbornly. “It wasn’t just one—it was all of them. Anyhow, I haven’t the nerve or the heart to find out.”
Again Sheila let the silence fall between them. When she spoke, her voice was very tender. “Tell me, boy, what made you love her?”
He smiled sheepishly. “Oh, I don’t know. She was always a good sport, never got grumpy over things that happened, never got cold feet, either. She had a way of teasing you to do what she wanted, would do anything to get her way; and then she’d turn about so quickly and give you your way, after all—just make you take it. And she’d be so awfully sweet about it, too. And she’d always play fair, and she had a way of making you feel the best ever. Oh, I don’t know—” The boy looked about him helplessly. “They sound awfully foolish reasons for loving a girl.”
Sheila’s face had become suddenly radiant; her eyes sparkled like rushlights in a wind. They actually startled the boy so that he straightened up in bed again and gripped her hand. “I say, Leerie, what is it? I never saw you look like this before. You’re—Are you in love?”
“With one of the finest men God ever made. He’s so fine that he trusted me through a terrible bungle—believed in the real woman in me when I would have denied it. That’s what a man’s love can do for a woman sometimes, keep her true to the best in her.”
That night, after many fluttering protests, the little mother wrote a letter to Clarisse. It was dictated by Sheila and posted by her, and it contained little information except what might have been extracted from a non-committal railroad guide. It did mention at the last, however, that Phil was slowly gaining.
With this off her mind, Sheila went to find Peter. She had characteristically neglected him since she had been on the case, and as characteristically he made no protest. Instead he met her with that quick understanding that she had claimed as one of love’s ingredients. He looked her over well and proudly, then tapped his head significantly.
“I see, there’s more to this soldier-boy case than just wounds. Want me to run you down the boulevard while you work it out?”
“Thank God for a man!” breathed Sheila, and then aloud: “No, it’s worked out. But you might run me down, just the same.”
“Feels almost like frost to-night,” said Peter as he put the car into first. “Do you think it will hold pleasant enough for—”