The surgeon was silent for a little while. “I cannot give you much encouragement,” he said, at last.
She did not speak again till the wagon stopped in front of the farm-house, which at that time constituted, with the usual out-buildings, Taylor’s Springs. It has since been added to, and the name changed to Massanetta. Then, as now, the waters of the beautiful, bubbling spring below the house, at the foot of the hill, enjoyed a high repute as a potent specific in cases of malarial trouble; and a military sanitarium had been established there, the tents of which dotted the little valley.
“The house, as you see,” said the surgeon, as they descended the slope from the road to the front door, “is too small for a hospital; so the men are under canvas. Your friend, however,—I mean your friends’ friend,—is in the house. It is right to warn you that you will find him much changed. Or did I understand you to say that you had never met him?”
“I knew him once,—years ago.”
“Walk in,” said he, opening the door; but she had already dropped into a chair that stood upon the porch. “Ah, you are tired,” said he. “Let me bring you a glass of water. No? Is there anything that I can do for you?”
She shook her head, lifting her eyes, for a moment, to his. That moment was enough,—he read them; “I will leave you here for a little while,—till you get rested.”
She bowed her head in silent acquiescence.
Three or four convalescent solders who sat on the porch looked at her pale face, and then at each other; and they stole away, one by one, making as little noise as they could with their heavy brogans.
If a man be a man, he is not far from being a gentleman.
And Mary was alone with her anguish.