“For what?” Sheila’s tone sounded blank.
Peter chuckled. “For the gardens and the old ladies, of course. Have you by any chance forgotten that there’s going to be a wedding in four days?”
“Saturday, Sunday, Monday, Tuesday—” counted Sheila. “Why, so it is!” Then she echoed Peter’s chuckle, “Oh yes, there’s going to be a wedding, a beautiful wedding in four days.”
A strange little twinge took Peter’s heart there in the dark at the queer, impersonal note in what she had said. What did it mean?
Sheila gave the girl twenty-four hours to reach the San after receiving the letter; she came in eighteen, and the nurse rejoiced at this good omen. She had delegated Peter to meet all trains that day, take the girl to her room, send for her at once, and tell nobody. Peter obeyed, and early in the afternoon Sheila looked up from her reading to the boy to see Peter standing in the doorway, the message on his lips.
“Baggage delivered,” was Peter’s announcement.
“Thank you. I’ll come in a minute and see if my key fits.” She hunted up the little mother, left her in charge, and hurried over to the nurses’ home.
There in the big living-hall, perched in a wicker chair under the poster of Old King Cole, Sheila found the girl, who was young and oh, so pretty. She looked about as capable of taking a plunge into the grim depths of life and coming out safely as a toy Pom of weathering the waters of the Devil’s Hole. “How shall I ever push her in?” thought Sheila as she held out her hand in greeting.
Clarisse took it with all the hectic impulsiveness of youth. “You’re his nurse. Isn’t it great his coming back this way? All our set is engaged—or about to be—but I’m the only one that’s got her man back with battle scars all over him. Makes me feel like a story-book heroine.”
Sheila O’Leary didn’t know whether she wanted to laugh or cry. She ended by doing what probably surprised her more than it did the girl. She sat down in the wicker chair herself and gathered the girl into her lap. “Oh, you blessed, blessed baby!” she crooned softly.