THE RED CROSS GIRLS WITH
THE STARS AND STRIPES

BOOKS BY MARGARET VANDERCOOK

THE RANCH GIRLS SERIES

The Ranch Girls at Rainbow Lodge
The Ranch Girls’ Pot of Gold
The Ranch Girls at Boarding School
The Ranch Girls in Europe
The Ranch Girls at Home Again
The Ranch Girls and their Great Adventure

THE RED CROSS GIRLS SERIES

The Red Cross Girls in the British Trenches
The Red Cross Girls on the French Firing Line
The Red Cross Girls in Belgium
The Red Cross Girls with the Russian Army
The Red Cross Girls with the Italian Army
The Red Cross Girls Under the Stars and Stripes

STORIES ABOUT CAMP FIRE GIRLS

The Camp Fire Girls at Sunrise Hill
The Camp Fire Girls Amid the Snows
The Camp Fire Girls in the Outside World
The Camp Fire Girls Across the Sea
The Camp Fire Girls’ Careers
The Camp Fire Girls in After Years
The Camp Fire Girls in the Desert
The Camp Fire Girls at the End of The Trail

The Red Cross Girls
With the
Stars and Stripes

By
MARGARET VANDERCOOK
Author of “The Ranch Girls Series,” “Stories
about Camp Fire Girls Series,” etc.

Illustrated

The John C. Winston Company
Philadelphia

Copyright, 1917, by
The John C. Winston Co.

CONTENTS

THE RED CROSS GIRLS WITH
THE STARS AND STRIPES

CHAPTER I
The Call

BARBARA THORNTON stood at the window of her little drawing-room in New York City looking over toward Central Park.

It was a charming room and this afternoon was filled with flowers sent from her mother-in-law’s country place on Long Island. Perhaps as an expression of his patriotism, the gardener had cut only red, white and blue flowers, for among the white and red of the fragrant roses were tall stalks of deep, blue-starred delphiniums.

A table was arranged for tea, but because it was summer time, there were tall frosted glasses instead of cups and a big cut-glass bowl to be used later for ice.

Barbara herself was dressed in a thin, white china silk, as if she were expecting guests. She had now been married to Richard Thornton a good many months, and yet looked very little older than the Barbara who had appeared so unexpectedly at the Thornton home, nearly three years before, on her way to do Red Cross nursing in France.

Of course Barbara felt a good deal older. No girl can pass through the experience of war nursing and come out of it unchanged. Moreover, Barbara within three eventful years had also married and had a baby.

Yet this afternoon, amid her lovely surroundings, Bab, who was ordinarily the most cheerful of persons, did not appear to be happy. Her cheeks were more deeply flushed than usual, and every once in a while, in spite of the fact that she was alone, she would wipe the tears furtively away from her fine eyes with a tiny, white lace handkerchief.

For Barbara did not desire the visitors, whom she was expecting at any moment, to discover that she was troubled.

When the ring came at her front door bell, giving herself a hurried glance in the mirror and forcing a smile, Barbara reached the door just after her little Irish maid had opened it.

Standing outside were three persons, one of them an older woman in an exquisite costume of blue and silver, the colors of her eyes and hair, another a young girl of about sixteen and the third a young man.

“Oh, Sonya, I am so glad to see you. It has seemed such ages and so strange to think of you and Nona in Italy without the old group of Red Cross girls! But where is Nona? I thought she was to be with you.”

In the beginning of her speech, Barbara Thornton had taken her guest’s hand and kissed it with characteristic swiftness and sweetness. Now, before Sonya Valesky could reply to her, she had turned to her other visitors.

“Forgive me if I was rude. I am so glad to see you, although we have never met one another before, I am sure I know who you are. This is Bianca and this is Mr. Navara. You see, I have had letters about both of you from Italy.”

And then Barbara led the way into her drawing-room, while Sonya explained.

“Nona will be here presently. She had to attend to some important business. I believe she wishes to stay after we have gone and talk the matter over with you, Barbara. I don’t like to tell you what it is, but I hope you will try to dissuade her.”

“Something about which you have tried and failed?” Barbara inquired. “Then I am sure I shall not be successful. You see, Eugenia always said that Nona was the most difficult of us all to influence because she seemed to be the gentlest.”

Barbara had seated herself at her tea table and was now trying to serve her guests; the maid had immediately brought in the ice, and cold and hot tea as well. Barbara wished that she had not so much to occupy her as she would like to have been able to devote more attention to studying her guests.

Bianca, the little Italian girl whom Sonya had brought home with her to the United States as a protégée, Barbara found less interesting than Nona’s description of her had led one to expect. Bianca was very pretty, of a delicate, shell-like type that one would not expect in an Italian. At present she seemed either very shy and frightened, or else she was merely demure. Then Barbara remembered that this was exactly what Nona had written was especially characteristic of her. Bianca was not all Italian, her father having been an American, and one must not judge her wholly by appearances.

Moreover, if, as Nona had also said, Sonya had returned to the United States partly because she wished to see less of the young Italian singer whom she had cared for during his convalescence in Italy, apparently she had not been successful thus far.

Even as she looked after her tea party Barbara could see that Carlo Navara, if it were possible, never looked in any other direction than toward Sonya. He was, of course, a great deal younger than Sonya and it was immensely tragic that in fighting for Italy a wound had destroyed the beauty of his voice; nevertheless, Barbara could not but feel that his attitude was delightfully romantic.

Sonya treated him almost as she did Bianca, in a half maternal, half friendly fashion, and yet Barbara wondered if she felt in the same way toward them both. As Barbara had not seen the young Italian-American during the crossing to Italy, when he had seemed to be merely a crude, vain boy, she could not appreciate what Sonya’s influence had done for him. Barbara now saw a remarkably good looking young fellow of perhaps something over twenty, with dark eyes and hair, charming manners and an expression of quiet melancholy which his tragic loss rendered appealing. At present there was little in Carlo’s artistic face and manner to suggest his origin, or the little Italian fruit shop in the east end of New York City, where his parents worked and lived and where Carlo was also living at this time.

“I suppose Nona intends returning to France to nurse once again and you do not wish her to make the trip so soon?” Barbara Thornton remarked, as if she had been following but one train of thought, rather than making a careful and critical study of her guests at the same time.

Sonya Valesky was sitting in a tall carved chair drinking her tea from a clear glass in Russian fashion. She was always perfectly dressed, for she had the art of making whatever costume she wore appear the ideal one. But today she seemed even more so than usual. With her partly gray hair, her deep blue eyes with their dark brows and lashes, and the foreign look she never lost, she was an oddly arresting figure.

She smiled now at her hostess and then shook her head.

“Of course that is true, Barbara, and I am not much surprised at your guessing. But since this is what Nona herself wishes to talk to you about, we had best not discuss it, or she may feel I have tried to influence you. Of course I understand her great desire to help nurse her own countrymen, for Nona has so long hoped the United States would join the Allies. But I don’t think Nona has rested sufficiently long since our return from Italy. You may see a change in her, Barbara, and I can’t be cross with her just now. I have not yet found a school for Bianca and I cannot leave her alone in a strange county. When fall comes it will be different, as her mother especially wished her to enter an American school.”

This speech was made in a perfectly simple and matter-of-fact fashion with no suggestion of mystery or misfortune. Nevertheless, Barbara Thornton observed a slight change in the expression of the youngest of her three guests. One could scarcely assert that the young Italian girl flushed, or that she made any very perceptible movement. It was merely that her delicate eyelids drooped over her wide blue eyes and that her lips parted with the quick in-taking of her breath. She seemed not so much to mind what had been said as to fear a further discussion of the subject. This is ordinarily true of most of us when there is in our lives any fact which we hope to keep secret.

Barbara Thornton was aware that Bianca’s mother was an Italian peasant who was now a fugitive, having sold Italian secrets to a German agent in Florence. Since her disappearance no one knew whether Nannina was alive or dead, so it was small wonder that Bianca should appear unhappy at the mention of her mother’s name. However, she answered gently and submissively:

“I am sorry to have the Signora Valesky allow me to interfere with her plans. Beyond anything I too would like to be allowed to do something for the wounded solders. I cannot nurse, but I am stronger than I look and there are so many things to be done,——”

But no one answered or paid any attention to Bianca, for at this instant Nona Davis came into the room. Forgetting all her other visitors Barbara at once jumped up and ran forward to greet her.

This summer afternoon Nona had on a dark-blue silk dress which accentuated her slenderness and fairness. In truth, she did look too worn out to be planning to start off, almost immediately, to continue her Red Cross nursing. With only one real holiday, Nona Davis had been nursing almost continuously since the outbreak of the war. As a matter of fact she had the strength which so often seems a characteristic of delicate, ethereal persons.

After embracing Barbara and nodding to her other friends she dropped into a big leather chair, in which she appeared lost, except that it accentuated the shining quality of her pale, yellow hair and the blueness of her eyes, which looked darker, because of the rather strained, whiteness of her face.

“Please give me tea, and tea, and tea, Barbara, more than Eugenia ever allowed us to drink even in our most enthusiastic tea drinking days at the old château in southern France. I think I have been all over New York City this afternoon and seen a dozen people on business.”

At this Nona turned with an apologetic glance toward Sonya.

“Don’t be vexed, Sonya, please, but I’m sailing for France in a week or ten days. Of course we can’t tell just when, or any other details of our departure. But I find I am very much needed, in spite of all the other Red Cross nurses who have already gone. Why, every few days another Red Cross unit sails! Still, with more and more American soldiers going over every week, until we cannot guess what the number may come to be some day, it may yet be difficult to find enough nurses with experience to care for them.”

From its original pallor, Nona’s face had changed and was flushed deeply with excitement as she talked.

Both to Barbara and Sonya it occurred as they now watched her, however, that she was trying to show more self-control than she actually felt.

Always, Nona had been intensely interested in her Red Cross work and had thrown herself into it with all the ardor and devotion of her southern temperament. But since the entry of the United States into the great European conflict she had undoubtedly developed an added enthusiasm and sense of responsibility.

Just how much she was doing this to aid her in forgetting Eugino Zoli’s death and her experience with him in Italy, Sonya Valesky, who had been her companion in Florence, could not guess. Of her friend’s interest in the young Italian aviator, Barbara Thornton understood nothing beyond Nona’s occasional casual mention of his name in her Italian letters.

“But must you go so soon, Nona? Really I don’t think it wise,” Sonya remonstrated in response. However, she scarcely spoke as if she expected her advice to be heeded. For in regard to her nursing, Nona was strangely obstinate and unmindful of herself and of other people.

Nona nodded. “Yes.” Then she added immediately, “Please do not let us continue to talk of my plans. I am to have old friends, or almost old friends go with me. Molly Drew and Agatha Burton are home from Italy and are crossing with me to France.”

Nona turned toward her hostess.

“I think I wrote you, Barbara, about the three new Red Cross girls who made the voyage to Italy with us and later were at the American Hospital in Florence. I learned to like them very much, although we were never so intimate as our first group of Red Cross girls. The third girl was Dolores King from New Orleans. I don’t know where she is at present; perhaps she has remained in Italy.”

“I don’t like Miss Burton. I should prefer not to nurse with her,” an unexpected voice exclaimed at this instant.

But, as the voice was only Bianca’s and as Sonya had almost at the same instant risen to say farewell, no one paid any notice to her speech. Indeed, no one except Barbara Thornton really heard or remembered it. Moreover, Bianca had seen the girl she now mentioned, scarcely more than three or four times.

Sonya was anxious to leave the two old friends alone and therefore hurried Bianca and Carlo away with her, now that tea was over.

As soon as Barbara had said farewell to them and returned to her drawing-room, Nona went straight up to her and placed her hands on the smaller girl’s shoulder.

“What is the trouble, Barbara dear? You do not seem so radiant as when I went away. Don’t tell me unless you like, but haven’t you everything in the world to make you happy? Better be happy when you can, Barbara mia. You know Eugenia and Mildred and I used always to count on you as the gayest of the four of us and I want to give only a good report to them, when I see them in France.”

Barbara drew away slightly.

“So you have started in ahead of me, Nona, in asking questions! I do not see how I could have permitted it when I had such dozens to ask of you. But how can you expect me to be selfish enough to be happy when Poor Mildred and Eugenia are having such tragic times. You know, of course, that Eugenia’s husband, Captain Castaigne, has been reported missing. She does not know whether he is a prisoner or dead. Then, too, General Alexis has been arrested by the new Russian Government. He was a friend, you remember, of the Czar and is suspected of favoring the old régime. Sometimes I wonder if he and Mildred will ever marry. He is so much older and they are so many miles apart. Mr. and Mrs. Thornton, and even Dick, have written to urge Mildred to come home, but she will not leave Eugenia. I suppose they are a comfort to each other in their sorrow.”

Barbara walked a little apart from her friend.

Nona was now looking quietly about the charming room filled with books and flowers and soft, rose-colored hangings.

“I did not mean to be inquisitive, Bab, forgive me,” she said softly. “I think I must have been thinking of the old days in Europe when we used to share one another’s confidences. We were more intimate even than sisters when we were together out there.”

Then Nona laughed as if she were making the most inconceivable suggestion in the world:

“Anyhow I don’t suppose anything serious has happened. You are not leaving Dick and you would have told me if the baby was not well.”

At this speech Barbara Thornton’s entire expression and manner changed. Nona saw that her eyes were wide open and that there was a deeper look of pain in them than she had so far realized.

“No,” Barbara answered her quietly; “but then Dick is leaving me, so perhaps it amounts to the same thing. And I did not believe we could ever disagree on any subject after we were married.”

CHAPTER II
Another Volunteer

NEVERTHELESS, on that same evening, a little before midnight, seeing Barbara Thornton and her husband, Richard Thornton, together, one could not believe that the difference between them had been a serious one.

Barbara was sitting on the arm of her husband’s chair with her feet crossed and slowly swinging them back and forth. She was so small that this did not appear either unnatural or undignified. The brown hair, which a few years ago had been the trial of her life because it was so absurdly short and curling like a young boy’s, was now braided and tied with rose-colored ribbons, and Barbara wore a light silk dressing gown over her night dress.

Nevertheless her expression was no less serious, her eyes no further from tears than they were a few hours before when she had talked with Nona Davis.

“So you have decided, Dick, to do what you said, although you know it is against my judgment, and you promised to love, honor and protect me only a short time ago. It is a strange way to keep your word to leave the baby and me so soon. But I don’t suppose we count.”

If Barbara Thornton still looked almost as young as she had upon first meeting Dick Thornton in the front hall of his father’s home a little before dawn about three years before, Richard Thornton was very unlike the gay young society man who had first known and rescued her at that trying moment and whom she had afterwards married.

Richard Thornton was far more like his celebrated father than anyone at that time would have dreamed him capable of becoming. His brown eyes were steady, his lips firm, although tonight he appeared tired and overstrained.

“That is not fair, Bab, and not like you,” he returned slowly. “In most cases I suppose I should think a man had no right to do what I intend doing without his wife’s consent. But I have been fighting this matter out with my conscience for weeks, even for months, and I can see no other way. Besides, I did not really believe you would oppose me, Bab, when the hour actually came. It is so unlike you! Who was it who woke me up and said, goodness only knows what dreadful things to me for not doing my part in the war not three years ago? I can’t understand you! Why, when Nona was here at dinner with us a short time ago, you spoke as if you had changed your opinion, or if not that, at least you had decided to forgive me. You must, you know, Bab, before I go and I do not know how soon that may be.”

However, Barbara continued to frown for another moment and to swing her feet more and more slowly back and forth. In her lap her hands were clenched tight over the same small lace handkerchief.

“Of course I had to pretend to feel differently before Nona Davis, Dick; you surely understood that,” she murmured finally. “Why, Nona was so entirely on your side, so completely in sympathy with you, that she would never have forgiven me if she had realized how I really felt in this matter. You see, you and Nona always did sympathize with each other and you were almost in love with her, Dick Thornton, instead of with me. You need not deny it, for you know you were! There is no use arguing about it now. So I suppose if you were Nona’s husband at present, instead of mine, she would be buckling on your armor and urging you to France, instead of being selfish and just loving you and wanting to keep you here with me, in spite of your duty and country and all the other things which may be more important.”

Bab’s funny mixed speech ended with a catch in her breath and by dropping her face down upon her husband’s shoulder.

“But I won’t discuss the subject with you any more, Dick, because, of course, I know you are right to do your duty even when I pretend to disagree with you. After all, you could not act any differently. So I suppose your mother and father and baby will have to get on without us. I realized all along that you would never allow the fact that the old trouble with your eyes would make you exempt from military service, to keep you at home when you know there is so much work to be done in beautiful wounded France that you are able to do. Your mother has been braver over your volunteering for ambulance work again than I have this time, dear. It is funny how being happy so often makes one selfish. I realized the difference between Nona Davis and me just this afternoon, and yet I was just as devoted to the Red Cross nursing as Nona, before I married you.”

Richard Thornton had placed his arm about his wife’s shoulders and was smiling at her with the expression Bab frequently invoke. One could never be perfectly sure whether she were wholly or only half-way in earnest, whether her big, wide-open eyes would be filled with laughter or tears. For whatever one might be with Bab, angry, hurt or pleased one could not be bored with her.

“I always knew what you expected of me in your heart, Bab, that is why I went on with my plans when you seemed to be objecting,” Dick answered. “Now it has been arranged that, because of my previous experience, I am to do the first line ambulance work in France. I am sorry I am not fit enough to be a real soldier, fighting in the first line as I should like. But my eyes do not seem to have recovered from that old accident as I hoped they would by this time. Of course I could stay here at home and after a while, perhaps, be able to help train the other men for actual service. I have been offered a commission in the second officer’s reserve corps. However, I do not want to work at home, but in France, and that as soon as possible.”

Dick Thornton paused a moment, and then asked, frowning: “What did you mean by saying ‘us’ a little while ago, Bab? That mother and father and baby would have to get along without us? Surely you did not mean that you intend to go to France with me, did you, dear? You cannot mean to leave the baby! Besides, much as I would love to have you near me, if you were in a perfectly safe place, far enough away from the fighting, still, the State Department has declared no passports will be issued to soldiers’ wives, and I should come under the same head as a soldier in that regard. The government does not wish to have to look after their women as well as their soldiers in a foreign county. They already have enough upon their hands. The department is very positive on this matter.”

During her husband’s lengthy speech Barbara had listened quietly, but she now made an odd little sound, which one would hardly like to describe as a sniff at the authority of the United States Government, nor yet at her husband.

“Oh you need not think I will interfere with you or your work, Dick, nor yet that the United States Government will consider my presence in France a burden. If I was useful to them once, when I knew much less about the Red Cross nursing than I do at present, I believe I can be useful to them again.”

Then Barbara paused, waiting for an exclamation of surprise, perhaps for one of disapproval.

However, partly through mystification, partly because Richard Thornton did not consider that his wife actually meant what she said, even if she had suggested it he continued silent.

Then with the suddenness which surprised no one who knew her intimately, Barbara Thornton’s manner all at once became very grave and sweet.

“I wonder if you understood me, dear?” she asked, turning so that her eyes now met her husband’s directly.

“If you did, I presume you think I spoke on the spur of the moment and without being in earnest. I know I often do talk in that way. But I have been thinking, oh, for a long time, even before you began to say it was your duty to go back into the ambulance work in France and not claim exemption because of your eyes, that I had no real right to give up my Red Cross work and be married and take things easily, before this terrible war was ended. You and I, who have lived and worked in France since this war began know only too well how weary, how almost utterly exhausted by their long strain, the French now are. Why, sometimes I believe if our country had not entered the war just when she did—but then I must not speak of failure. For after all, nothing can stop the progress of evolution, no weariness, no mistakes, and evolution is what this war for democracy means. Still, that does not give any one of us the right to be a slacker, and that is the way I have been feeling lately.”

After this speech Richard Thornton gazed at his wife, not only with amazement, but with actual disfavor.

“Barbara,” he demanded, “isn’t being married and having a baby and doing what you can to help with the Red Cross work here and giving all the money we can possible afford sufficient to content you? I did not suppose you would allow even the war to change you into one of the sentimental women who neglect their own duties to take up with outside ones because they are more interesting, more exciting, perhaps, than their own responsibilities.”

Barbara was silent an instant. Then she answered slowly, as if she were thinking quietly concerning her husband’s statement:

“Yes, Dick, but you also are married and also have a baby and also are doing what you can to help with the Red Cross work and giving all and more than you can afford to the war work! Yet you are not content to let the other fellows do the fighting. Why, you have been trying to enlist ever since the United States entered the war and have been terribly discouraged because you were found to be not up to the physical standard.”

Barbara now slipped down from the arm of her husband’s chair and took a low one of her own. In her dressing gown, with her braids hanging over her shoulders and her chin resting thoughtfully in her hand, she sat apparently deep in thought.

“You know it is a funny thing to me, Dick, why in this world there are in so many cases two rules of conduct, one for a woman and another for a man. I know, of course, that war has always been considered a man’s work, but it is not really, at least not this war. When democracy comes, when it is real democracy, and women have their share in it as well as men, I expect it will mean even more to women. You know when things are hard and unfair and there is much poverty and oppression women have always suffered more. You believe that, don’t you, Dick? I have heard you say so,” Barbara added, with an appealing note, as if she wished to find her husband in sympathy with her on this general subject, if not on the personal one.

“But, Dick, I know, of course, that most women should stay in their own homes and look after their families,” she went on with unusual humility. “I am not a real suffragette. Now when I speak or even think about leaving baby I do feel like a criminal and as if I could not bear it. And yet, oh, Dick, I can be more useful with the Red Cross nursing. How much do I do for baby at present, when your mother insists on his having a trained nurse and keeps him with her at the Long Island place most of the time, because she says New York City is too hot for him in the summer time? And I am so afraid something may happen to him. I allow him to remain away from me because I feel you need me more here in town and because, oh, because I want to be with you even more than with baby, Dick. Do you think I am a very unnatural mother?”

Barbara asked this question so seriously that in spite of his unhappiness and disapproval of her point of view, Dick Thornton laughed aloud.

“You probably are, Bab, but I must say I am glad you still like me as much as you do our son. It is not usual.”

“Then you will let me go to France to take up my Red Cross nursing again, Dick dear, won’t you, so I may be near you if anything happens to you as it did before? I can go to Mildred and Eugenia and so you need not worry about me; perhaps I can cross with Nona. I did not tell her my plan this afternoon because I wanted your consent first. Now don’t you think you ought to permit me to use my conscience since you have decided you must use yours, regardless of my wish? Perhaps my country also needs me, Dick. I am not very important, but do you know I have been thinking recently that what Christ said about, ‘leaving father and mother and giving up everything to follow Him,’ is what most of the countries of the world are also asking of us these days.”

Dick nodded quietly, deciding not to argue with Barbara any more for the present.

Tonight she was in a mood in which few people ever saw her. However, her husband had known her in just such moods before their marriage, in the days when they were both doing Red Cross work in Europe, soon after the outbreak of the war. So, although he could not accept his wife’s suggestion, could not make up his mind that Barbara should again endure the dangers and discomforts of the Red Cross nursing, now that she was his wife and so much nearer and dearer to him, yet he realized that he must discuss the matter with her fairly and squarely. Barbara would not go unless he gave his consent, but she must not feel that he had been arbitrary or selfish in his decision.

“Let us not talk about this any more tonight, Bab. Listen, the clock is striking midnight and we are both tired. However, even if I do give my consent, you know mother and father——”

Barbara laughed. “Oh, for once your mother approves of what I wish to do, husband of mine,” she interrupted “First of all, I spoke to her about baby and she is glad to have the chance to look after him without any foolish interference from me. Then do you know I believe she has another reason, Dick. I don’t suppose you can guess what it is! Yet she seems to feel that she and father would both be a little happier about you, if I were only near enough to take care of you, should anything happen. You know I saved your life once, Richard Thornton, although you apparently have forgotten all about it. Of all the ungrateful people——”

However, Barbara did not finish her accusation, for at this instant Dick picked her up and carried her from the room.

CHAPTER III
Somewhere in France

THROUGH a countryside “somewhere in France” a long train was moving slowly. The journey was from a small seaport town where, not long before, two American ships had landed their passengers.

Yet, somehow, the news must have preceded the train, for its way was a triumphal procession. Near the road groups of women and children and old men and partially convalescent soldiers were waving little American flags in response to others which, mingled with the Tricolor, flew from the car windows.

“Long leef to the Uniteed States,” the voices outside the train were shouting, while inside more voices called back, “Vive La France.”

For the long line of French cars was filled with a thousand of the new American troops on the way to their permanent war base.

When the train had passed away from the villages, through the car windows also reverberated an odd combination of sounds made up of southern drawl, of Yankee twang and the down east and out west dialects, for Pershing’s regulars were drawn from every part of the United States.

Some of them were singing “Dixie,” others “There’ll be a Hot Time in the Old Town Tonight,” or a third group, “We Don’t Know Where We are Going, but We’re on Our Way.”

But finally the train, entering one of the French towns, began slowing down. The soldiers were to be given refreshments from a Red Cross unit. This was one of the little towns which had been partly destroyed, though since cleared of the enemy. The depot had been struck by a shell and very badly damaged, the little French Cathedral across the central square had lost its cross and “Our Lady” now stood with empty arms, the figure of the Christ-child having been broken away.

At present across this square a pathetic little company was marching, carrying tiny American flags.

They wore costumes of all colors and kinds, all degrees of vicissitude, yet somehow each one of the group of children had her own little bit of tricolor as well, so that the French and the America symbols of democracy were intimately mingled.

When the train finally stopped, the children, as if from an unseen signal, kneeled reverently down in the dust of the old square. There were about twenty of them, all children save one.

“What does that mean?” one of the soldiers in a car nearly opposite the square inquired of his companion.

“It means that those children are the war orphans of France and that they think we American soldiers have come to deliver them. If we needed anything more to make us want to fight like——” He stopped abruptly, ashamed perhaps of the huskiness in his voice.

The two young Americans, who were sitting beside each other, were both officers. The young man who had answered was the older and had dark hair, gray eyes and a grave, rather severe face. He wore the uniform of a first lieutenant. The other man had light hair, blue eyes, and delicate features, and although at present his expression was also serious, it was a gay, boyish face, without a look of responsibility. However, Hugh Kelley had lately graduated at West Point and received his commission as second lieutenant.

Both soldiers remained quiet, however, while the other men were crowding out the windows and doors to receive their gifts of food from French and American Red Cross nurses and to talk to the French children, who were now coming up close to the cars.

The attention of them both had been attracted by the appearance of a little French girl, the leader of the procession, who had come up near their window. She was not alone, but leading a French soldier by the hand. The man was slight and dark, although one could see only the lower part of his face, as the upper part was bandaged.

The little girl, who must have been about ten or eleven, made an expressive gesture with her hand, touching her head and suggesting a wound. She wished her new acquaintances to understand that whatever might be said her companion would comprehend nothing.

“He has been hurt, my officer,” she said, almost with a slight expression of pride.

Although not trusting themselves to speak, almost simultaneously the two Americans put their hands into their pockets, drawing out all the small money they possessed at the moment.

But the French girl shook her head. “We are not beggars, my Captain and I. We have come to say bon jour to the American troops.” She spoke in French. Then seeing that the young officers continued to thrust their money toward her, she accepted it finally with a little graceful gesture, and nodding a friendly farewell went on along the line of cars gazing into each window in equally interested fashion, and still leading her officer by the hand. He went without resisting while now and then she spoke to him gently as one would to a beloved child.

Lieutenant Hugh Kelley drew in his breath in a faint-hearted whistle. “Some poor French chap who has lost his mind or his memory or both and is living in one of the nearby hospitals. I suppose the little French girl is an orphan and they are somehow trying make things up to each other. Well, I might as well confess, Lieutenant, I’ll not forget that child or that poor fellow soon. Maybe our own men——”

“Oh, cut it out, Hugh,” Lieutenant Martin answered, “it is one of the fortunes of war. But that was an interesting little French girl. There is something about her one will remember. See they have stopped now and are talking to Miss Davis and her friends.”

For it was true that in a small compartment, separated from the rest of the long train, was a small group of American Red Cross nurses, which included Nona Davis, Barbara Thornton, and the two nurses with whom Nona had worked in Italy, Mollie Drew and Agatha Burton.

Their presence on the soldiers’ train was due to an accident. Their Red Cross ship, which had arrived at a French port at nearly the same time the American soldiers’ transport, had failed to make proper arrangements with the French authorities. As a matter of fact, the Red Cross ship got in several days before she was expected and there were no transportation facilities to take the nurses and doctors to the various hospital stations at which they expected to work. Therefore a few of them were obliged to travel whenever any opportunity presented.

Lieutenant John Martin had been right. It was Nona Davis who had first discovered the little French girl and her companion just outside their window, looking in at them with the same expression of friendly interest she had shown the American officers.

After the first sensation of shocked surprise which the young Frenchman occasioned, Nona smiled and began talking to the little girl.

“Would you mind telling me your name? Mine is Nona Davis, and I am a Red Cross nurse on my way to one of the new hospitals.”

The child nodded, showing that she understood Nona’s French, which was fairly good after her past experience in France.

“Jeanne Barbier, and this is Monsieur, Le Capitan. My friend has no other name now, for he has forgotten his old one,” the little French girl returned gravely, yet cheerfully, for in a way she had grown too accustomed to tragedies to be overwhelmed by them. Besides, Jeanne had the gallantry of her race. Whatever she might suffer, one smiled before strangers.

“You see, he remembers nothing about himself, neither his family nor where he has come from, and I, I too was alone, until we found each other.”

Jeanne still held the French officer’s hand and he clung to her without speaking, as if she only gave him a hold on earth. Otherwise his mind wandered into what dim fancies, what tragic memories no one could guess.

But while this conversation was taking place, Barbara Thornton had crowded up beside Nona and was gazing at the little French girl through dimmed eyes. Mollie Drew was also looking out her window.

Jeanne was a typical little French girl, with wide-open dark eyes and heavy lashes, a sallow, colorless skin, bright red lips and a slender, pointed chin.

She now glanced from Nona to Barbara and her expression became puzzled and sympathetic. She did not appreciate that she and her companion were the cause of the American mademoiselle’s tears, but wondered what was making her unhappy. Jeanne believed Barbara a young girl at this first sight of her.

The truth was that Barbara had been fighting alternate stages of regret at having left home and of being glad she was coming to France, every half hour or so since her departure. But she had been more often miserable than happy, and Barbara resented unhappiness. Moreover, she had no one to confide in, since Nona, who was her only intimate friend in their Red Cross unit, had intensely disapprove of her returning to France. As nearby as she had been able to have a confidant, Barbara had made one of Mollie Drew, as the two girls were sufficiently alike in temperament to feel drawn to each other.

But as Barbara had just suffered a particularly deep wave of homesickness in the past ten minutes, the French girl with her thin, half-starved look and her smiling eyes, and the utter pathos of the man accompanying her, had unnerved her.

“Is Mademoiselle ill, is there anything I can do?” Jeanne asked with entire seriousness. In the past months she had grown accustomed to being useful to a great many people. She ran errands at a convalescent hospital, where they were keeping certain of the soldiers who had no homes and no families to whom they could be returned. These soldiers had become the permanent wards of France. It was in this hospital Jeanne had found her Captain.

In response Barbara could only shake her head helplessly. She was glad to have Nona and Mollie distracting the little girl’s attention by the gift of a box of candy, which had been a farewell present. While they did this she was studying the French officer.

It was strange how one was able to see he had been a gallant gentleman and soldier of France in spite of his misfortune. There was something in his appearance which fairly haunted Barbara. He hung his head now and every movement of his body was uncertain, yet in the once slender, graceful figure, the small, well-shaped head, the hands and feet, one could see that Jeanne’s officer had been a man of breeding and distinction.

“Why don’t his own people look for him? Surely something should be done,” Barbara murmured, almost indignantly. “Jeanne, you must do your best to help your Captain find his friends. There must have been some mark upon him, his number, the uniform of his regiment.”

But before Jeanne could reply, the train upon which the American soldiers and the four Red Cross nurses were traveling, began pulling away from the station, and Jeanne stood waving farewell.

During the entire experience Agatha Burton had remained quiet and uninterested. She was a surprisingly calm and self-possessed person.

Several times since her own introduction to Agatha, Barbara had recalled Bianca’s unexpected speech in her drawing-room. Barbara occasionally felt she agreed with Bianca. However, she did not intend to be prejudiced against anyone, and Agatha certainly had tried to be kind and considerate of her, more so than Nona, who was her old friend. Agatha had a fashion of doing one small, unexpected favors; it was almost as if she deliberately intended to make you like and trust her.

“Would you mind telling me something of Madame Castaigne?” Mollie Drew asked, after the slight pause which usually follows a train’s leaving a station. “As she is to have charge of the new American hospital where we are to work, I am interested. Is she difficult to work under? I feel a little afraid of her, she seems to be so wonderful herself.”

Nona smiled and shook her head. “Oh, don’t feel afraid of Madame Castaigne, although I confess that Mildred Thornton, Mrs. Thornton’s sister-in-law, and Barbara and I were very much so in the days when we’d just met Eugenia on our first trip to Europe for the Red Cross nursing. She had not married then. But Madame Castaigne has been through a great deal since. About a year or more after our work in Europe she married a French officer, Captain Henri Castaigne. He was a member of the old nobility, but too democratic in his ideas to use his title. He has since disappeared and is either dead or a prisoner in Germany. I don’t think Madame Castaigne knows. But she has kept on just the same with her hospital work and has been helping to organize the new hospitals for our American soldiers in France. Eugenia has a great deal of money, and, except what she uses for her husband’s mother, she is devoting everything she has to the Red Cross. I only hope we may not find her too much changed.”

But Nona stopped talking because of an interruption. Someone had just come to the door of their compartment and knocked, and Barbara was opening it.

Outside stood two figures, Lieutenant John Martin and his companion, Lieutenant Hugh Kelley.

The first officer’s manner betrayed the impression that although intending to be polite, he was greatly bored. As a matter of fact, he believed that women and girls had no part in a soldier’s life and except that men were necessary for other work, even Red Cross nurses were superfluous.

But by chance Lieutenant Martin and Nona Davis had a slight previous acquaintance. Lieutenant Martin was a native of Georgia, but had been educated at the Charleston Military Academy before going to West Point. In Charleston he had known some friends of Nona’s and had been introduced to her, meeting her, perhaps, only a few times afterward. For even as a boy, Jack Martin had been supposed to be either very shy or very disdainful of girls. He did not seem to have the least natural interest in them. Yet he really knew almost nothing of women, having been brought up by a bachelor uncle, who was himself a soldier, and this may have accounted for his ungraciousness.

Both he and Nona were surprised, upon seeing each other, into acknowledging their former acquaintance. Neither really intended it. Afterward, Lieutenant Martin had really regretted the accidental meeting, since it had drawn him into situations a little like the present one.

Hugh Kelley and he were on the railroad platform, when the sight of four American Red Cross nurses, standing together and apparently waiting to take the same train, had attracted their attention.

Yet introducing Hugh had been the real complication. He could scarcely be accused of disliking girls.

However, he continued to stand at the door of the compartment waiting for Lieutenant Martin as his superior officer to open the conversation and explain their presence.

“I, we,” Lieutenant Martin began stiffly, and then stopped, as if he never were to go on.

Then he turned to the younger man.

“Do, Kelley, speak for us both, won’t you? Give an excuse for our appearance. For if you are not an Irishman, with that name of yours, your ancestors surely were.”

Hugh Kelley laughed.

“Oh, the situation isn’t so serious; please don’t be alarmed. It is only that Lieutenant Martin is so in the habit of issuing commands lately that he does not know how to ask a favor. And it’s a favor I be after askin’,” Hugh continued, breaking into a fairly poor imitation of the Irish brogue, somewhat to Mollie Drew’s amusement.

“You see, I have been feeling rather homesick for the past few hours, so I mustered up courage to ask our Colonel if Lieutenant Martin and I could come in here to talk to you. I told him, Miss Davis—hope you do not mind—that you and Lieutenant Martin were old childhood friends; kind of boy and girl business, you know the kind. So the Colonel said we might come if I brought Martin along, and if we did not mention the fact to any of the other fellows in our car for fear of starting a riot in your direction. So I dragged Martin with me.” Hugh ended with a perfectly deliberate intention of confusing his superior officer, perhaps in revenge for past severities.

Then he dropped down into a seat between Barbara Thornton and Mollie Drew.

“I say, isn’t this good luck? Anyhow, it is more than I deserve,” he concluded boyishly.

Lieutenant Martin took a place beside Nona. He appeared really more uncomfortable than necessary.

“I should like to court-martial Kelley for that speech, Miss Davis. How can I possibly talk to you with such a beginning?”

CHAPTER IV
With the American Army in France

“BUT, Gene, the hospital is so perfect in every detail! I don’t see how you have managed and it is so fine to be working here in France with you again. But best of all, you don’t seem to have changed and I was afraid——”

Nona ended her speech abruptly, not having intended making this final remark.

Three or four hours before she and Barbara Thornton and the two other Red Cross nurses had arrived at the new hospital, set aside for the care of the American soldiers of which Eugenia, Madame Henri Castaigne was in charge.

For the first two hours Eugenia had been too occupied to do more than greet her old friends and make the acquaintance of the new girls. But since dinner she had been showing the four of them over the hospital.

So far there were not a great many patients, only a few of the soldiers with not very serious illnesses, so they were receiving the most devoted attention.

Then, after their survey of the hospital, Eugenia and Mildred Thornton with the four newcomers had gone up to their own rooms.

The nurses’ rooms were on the top floor of the building, which had once been a private country place, converted, largely under Eugenia’s direction, into a modern hospital.

Instead of occupying one long room like a hospital ward, it was one of Eugenia’s ideas that the Red Cross nurses required privacy and quiet after the long strain of their work. So the space had been divided into small apartments, two girls in each room. Nona and Eugenia were to have one, Barbara Thornton and Mildred Thornton, her sister-in-law, the one adjoining, while Mollie Drew and Agatha Burton were across the hall. The half dozen other nurses had the same arrangements.

At Nona’s last words, Eugenia Castaigne’s face had changed in expression slightly, but she made no reference to what the words had implied. However, Nona remembered that Mildred Thornton had already written and had also told them, that Eugenia never discussed Captain Castaigne’s disappearance and no one knew what her real feeling was, or even if she believed her husband dead.

Just now and then in this world of ours and but very rarely, one may be a witness to what may well be called the miracle of love.

Eugenia’s marriage to Captain Castaigne was one of these miracles. The surprise of his caring for her when she considered herself so unworthy, the charm of his companionship, although they had seen each other seldom, whatever it was, the fulfillment of the best in her, which comes to some women only through marriage had come to Eugenia. This she could never lose. So the somewhat narrow-minded, even if intelligent and conscientious, old maid had disappeared forever and Eugenia, or Madame Eugenie, as the French people called her, was one of the most gracious and sympathetic of women.

Moreover, she had a genius for hospital work. Whatever demands she might make upon her assistants under the pressure of necessity, she was never unjust and never spared herself, two great traits in the fine executive nature.

“Oh, I am all right and never more interested than in our American hospital, Nona. I thought I could never care for any soldiers as I have for the gallant French poilus, always gay and full of courage even to the end. But now when I think of our American boys coming on this long journey to fight for the triumph of Christ’s idea of human equality—for that is what, in its largest sense, this war against Germany means—well, perhaps I am too much of an enthusiast.

“But there I am on my present hobby and I did wish to talk just of personal matters this first night.”

Eugenia had raised her arms and was taking down her long, heavy brown hair.

It was only about eight o’clock in the evening, but the four friends had planned to undress and have the hours before bedtime for a long talk.

In the next room Barbara was re-reading a letter which she had found waiting for her at the hospital, written by her husband. She and her sister-in-law were discussing this and other family matters.

Nona had already undressed and put on her dressing gown, a lovely blue silk negligée which Sonya had given her, since Sonya now insisted on Nona’s having pretty clothes. She was now half sitting, half lying on the bed with her pale yellow hair rippling over the pillow.

Eugenia turned to put on her own lavender dressing gown and then stood looking down on the other girl.

“Tell me, Nona—of course I understand you don’t have to confess unless you wish—but you know I have often wondered; are you especially interested in anyone? So far, you alone of our group of four Red Cross girls seems to have escaped, and I certainty never dreamed in those early days that both Barbara and I would be married, Mildred engaged and you remain free. Is it because you are too much of a Fra Angelico angel (who was it who used to insist you looked like one?) to feel ordinary emotions?”

Nona laughed, glad that Eugenia could discuss this particular subject in so cheerful and natural a fashion, yet changing color slightly.

“Do you wish me to confess, Gene, that I am so much less attractive? Because, after all, that must be the truth.”

Nona tried to keep her voice perfectly steady and her eyes directly regarding Gene’s. Nevertheless, to her own annoyance she found that Eugenia’s question had brought back the memory of Eugino Zoli and the last night in the old Italian garden. Again she wondered if he had ever really cared for her.

Something in her expression may have betrayed her, for Eugenia changed the subject.

“Don’t you think Mildred is keeping up wonderfully well when she hears so little news of General Alexis? He is still a prisoner and must remain one until the new government discovers that in spite of his personal friendship for the former Czar, he believes in democracy. It seems rather a pity at present that they must lose the services of so fine an officer. But, by the way, Nona, I meant to tell you, I had a letter from a friend of yours, a Dr. Latham. He wrote me he had not seen you in the United States, but that Sonya had told him you were coming to me. He seems to feel he would like to help us here at our American hospitals, not his one alone, but wherever he may be most useful. Of course I know him by reputation.”

Nona frowned slightly.

“Oh, I was not sure Dr. Latham had returned from Italy, although he did not intend to stay after he had been able to teach his new treatments of wounds to the Italian surgeons. He is a wonderful surgeon, but a great bear of a man, and in a way I am sorry if he is to come here. He took up such a lot of my time in Florence.”

But at this instant Barbara Thornton made a pretense of knocking on the door, although she entered without waiting for a reply.

“Don’t you and Nona think it would be wiser for all four of us to be in the same room when we talk, Gene, instead of having to repeat everything we say? I have just had a most cheerful and agreeable letter from Dick. But do you suppose that husband of mine deigns to tell me where he is? This ‘somewhere in France’ address must get on a good many people’s nerves. But he need not be afraid I shall try to look him up or interrupt him. I expect to be as busy as he is.”

Barbara took hold of Eugenia by one hand and drew her to a seat beside her on the bed.

“Hope I shall be a more satisfactory Red Cross nurse this time than I was at the beginning, Gene. Remember, you wished to send me home then? But you always were wonderful. Do you know, I think you were intended to be a Mother Superior or a Lady Abbess, if you had lived in other days, Gene? As it is, I would rather work under you as a Red Cross nurse than any other woman in Europe.”

“Don’t be a goose, Bab,” Madame Castaigne returned with just a sufficient reminder of her one-time severity to make the three other nurses, including Barbara, smile.

“But there, I can’t remember you are a married woman with a baby child. It was fine of you to come over to us to help, under the circumstances.”

Barbara hesitated and flushed. “I don’t wish to sail under false colors, Gene, with you or Mildred or Nona. I think I came to Europe half because Dick is here and the other half because I wish to help. Do you think I can ever manage to see him? I couldn’t have endured his being so far away.”

Barbara looked so absurdly childish and forlorn that both Nona and Mildred were amused. It was Gene these days who understood.

“Of course you will, Bab. Dick may even be helping with the ambulance work not far from here some time. In any case I expect we can manage a meeting. But if you children are not too tired tomorrow I want to take you over to our American camp. I have special permission for us to be shown as much as we have time to see. Later the officers may not wish us and also we may be too busy. It is all so wonderful and inspiring.”

Eugenia ceased talking and for an instant no one spoke. This was because they all heard a curious noise just outside the closed door, one that puzzled Nona and Barbara. However, the next instant the door swung slowly open and a great silver-gray figure entered the little room and padded softly up to Eugenia and there stood gravely regarding the two newcomers.

“This is our American hospital mascot. You remember Monsieur Le Duc, or Duke as we used to call him, don’t you, Nona, you and Bab? After Henri disappeared, in the most curious fashion, without anyone being able to explain how he could have known, Duke grew so utterly wretched my mother-in-law wrote me she thought the poor fellow would die. So I went back to the château to see him. He grew better then, but I had to bring him away with me. He never leaves me when it is possible to be near. I think he has an idea he must take care of me. At first I was afraid he was going to be a nuisance, but wherever I have been the soldiers have adored him. Come, Duke, won’t you speak to your old friends?”

And, as if he had only been waiting for Eugenia’s suggestion, the great dog walked softly over first to Nona and then to Bab, gravely extending his paw to each of them in turn.

“You look older, don’t you, poor old Duke,” Bab whispered, putting her brown head down on the dog’s silver-gray one. “Here is hoping for happier days!”

But she said this so that Eugenia did not hear her. Aloud she announced:

“I should think I would like to see the American camp. I never imagined such a privilege. You know, Gene, there was the dearest young officer whom we met on the train, a Kentucky boy. He said he was awfully anxious to introduce some of his brother officers to me, only he did not see how he was ever to manage, the regulations were so severe.”

Nona raised herself up on one elbow.

“Barbara Thornton, kindly remember you are married and Eugenia merely said she wished to show us the American camp, not to entertain us by having us meet the soldiers. Really, you know I never approved of your coming over to nurse again, but I did not anticipate this particular form of frivolity, considering that Mildred is your sister-in-law.”

Barbara looked so extremely comfortable at this accusation that both Eugenia and Mildred laughed, and this was what Nona had hoped for, since Duke’s unexpected appearance had brought back memories difficult to take lightly.

The American hospital, where the four American Red Cross girls and their new companions were to work, was at the edge of one of the villages in which the great permanent war camp for the United States soldiers had been located.

Yet one could scarcely say the camp had been located in the village, since it not only included the French village, but also covered the surrounding country on all sides. In the little French houses of frame and plaster the officers and as many of the soldiers as possible were quartered. But wherever it was necessary, with the number of men increasing each day, barracks were being built by the soldiers themselves and their French comrades, while a few tents dotted the fields like a sudden up-springing of giant mushrooms.

Not long after daylight next morning Eugenia, Mildred Thornton and the four new nurses started for the village.

They wished to be in time for the morning drill. A moment or so before their arrival, a little way off they heard the clear, sharp call of the bugle and then the tramping of many thousands of feet.

After a sentry had investigated her permit, Eugenia led the way to the roof of one of the little French houses. She seemed to know its occupants and to have received permission beforehand. The roof was not flat, few roofs of the houses in French villages are, though one finds them almost always with the broad straight roofs in the larger apartment dwellings in Paris. But this small house had a little balcony at the top, and steep steps, almost like a ladder, leading from the inside.

From the balcony one could see the great drill ground, where the United States troops were now forming in lines.

Over the fields of France floated the Stars and Stripes.

But the American girls, who had lately arrived, could not see plainly, for the mist in their eyes.

CHAPTER V
Introductions

BUT when the drill was over the American girls did not come down from their place of observation. There was still so much of absorbing interest. The soldiers, having completed this work, had still more important training to be gone through with during the morning.

The girls were able to watch a number of them learning to throw hand grenades, small bombs not much larger than oranges. The practice bombs were not explosive, nevertheless Barbara and Nona and Mollie Drew found themselves intensely interested. They had almost the sensations of enthusiastic baseball fans, for the American boys showed such skill with the grenades, that their boyhood playing of the national game must have been of value.

Other soldiers were working at trench digging and farther along on the artillery practice range big guns were being moved, trained on their target and made ready for firing with amazing swiftness. Beyond was also an aviation camp, scarcely discernible because of the distance. Here other American boys were completing their final lessons in air fighting, preparing themselves to rival the gallant Lafayette corps of American airmen in the service of France, who had become world famous for their amazing feats of valor and skill.

But most extraordinary of all the spectacles to the Red Cross nurses was the encampment of “tanks.” These giant monsters were rolling about on their parade ground, looking like prehistoric monsters. The soldiers were like midgets beside them. They lumbered along like huge turtles carrying houses on their backs and climbing great objects, set in their paths, as if they did not exist.

However, there are scenes to which one is now and then a witness which may be too overwhelming. Actually one sees and feels so much that the eyes and mind and even the emotions become exhausted.

Mollie Drew was the first of the six girls to feel she could endure no more. She had seen such tremendous things and, moreover, had gone through with such a conflict of sensations, joy that the American soldiers were now to play a great part in the world struggle and sorrow over the inevitable tragedies which must befall them, and a strong urge that they learn these final lessons in making war soon as possible, that they might get into the fight and have it all over with, perhaps, before another year.

So that by and by, Mollie began to feel not only tired but almost exhausted. Yet she did not wish to interrupt the others nor to ask any one of them to return to the hospital with her.

She could overhear Eugenia talking to Agatha Burton and had seldom seen Agatha so animated or in earnest.

“No, I cannot tell you how many American troops have arrived in France. No one outside the government is informed. But in any case it would be impossible, as new contingents of soldiers are reaching France almost every day.”

Mollie caught the sense of this speech, but realized that each word was becoming more and more indistinct. She had a stupid habit of occasionally growing faint, but not for a great deal would she have Madame Castaigne discover her weakness so soon after her journeying to France for the Red Cross nursing.

If she could only get down the narrow staircase and away from the others before she was observed! Mollie could not of course realize how completely her usual bright color had faded. She took a few steps and at the top of the stairs caught hold of the narrow railing.

But, fortunately for Mollie, although she was not aware of it, Barbara Thornton had been watching her for the past few moments.

She had noticed Mollie becoming steadily paler until the little freckles, which were ordinarily inconspicuous, showed plain, had seen the peculiar strained look in Mollie’s deep gray eyes. Also, she understood that Mollie would not wish to create a scene and above all wished to avoid Eugenia’s attention.

So, when Mollie moved away, Barbara moved quietly after her, placing her arm firmly about the other girl’s waist.

“Miss Drew and I are tired and are going down; we will wait for you, don’t hurry,” she called back.

As a matter of fact, as soon as she reached the landing, Mollie did feel almost herself again. She wished to go outdoors at once, but Barbara insisted that they find a place to sit down and rest.

The stairs from the tower ended in a tiny hall and opposite was a room with the door open.

Barbara was under the impression that this room was the usual sacred drawing-room of some French family. But as soon as they crossed the threshold she appreciated that, whatever the room had been, it was now being used by American soldiers. There was a variety of boots and army leggings in one corner, a khaki coat swung over a chair and a disordered table covered with American books and papers. Dust and mud were on the floor.

“I don’t think we ought to intrude in there,” Mollie objected, hesitating and speaking a little nervously.

But Barbara, who was very difficult to awe, walking calmly in, seated herself in one of the empty chairs.

“Certainly we must stay here until you are rested and feeling a little stronger. You can scarcely stand up and I don’t wonder, after being on your feet for hours, the first day after our trip. I am awfully tired myself. No one is coming back to this room for the present; the soldiers and officers are too busy. If anyone does appear we must simply explain. I am curious anyhow to know how Eugenia managed to bring us here without introducing us to anyone. Perhaps the French people in this neighborhood are becoming accustomed to Americans taking possession of their homes.”

Barbara talked quietly and without any suggestion of possible embarrassment, really because she had no idea that anyone would discover them before Eugenia came down.

She was therefore more surprised and embarrassed than Mollie at an unexpected noise just outside the open door.

However, both girls jumped to their feet looking conscience stricken.

The young solder at the door uttered a low whistle, took off his wide-brimmed hat and then made a low bow.

“Do you know,” he began, “I was as mad, well, we will say mad as a March hare, although that was not my original speech over being sent here to clean up my superior officers’ quarters. I came over to France, you know, to fight Germans, not to act as a housemaid. But, of course, if I had any idea that Lieutenant Martin was giving a reception, why before his guests arrived——”

The young private was over six feet tall, had fine white teeth and broad shoulders and at this moment his eyes were so full of surprise and amusement that no one would have thought of their color.

“But we are not guests and we are going right away,” Barbara stammered. “For goodness sake don’t let anyone else find us here!”

Barbara was older and married and, of course, should have been the more self-possessed of the two intruders. But somehow Mollie experienced an immediate understanding and sympathetic appreciation of the situation existing between her and the newcomer.

“We have been watching the morning drill and afterwards came in here to rest, not dreaming anyone would discover us at such a time. Did you say it was a part of your duty to help keep your officers’ quarters in order. If it is, do you know I don’t think you have been very successful,” and Mollie’s color returned and her lips parted in a rather pretty Irish fashion of suddenly turning up at the corners to express amusement, as she looked around the disordered apartment.

The young man nodded.

“I don’t suppose I could hold my job for a week in your house, would I, unless you happened to take a fancy to me and wished to show me how housecleaning is accomplished? You see, before I undertook to be a soldier, why I’m afraid I belonged to the ‘idle rich’. I did not even know this business of keeping one’s own possessions in order was a part of every regular private’s job. I have had some training in the last months, but I can still shoot straighter and ride better than I can do other things.”

And the young fellow looked in such utter disgust and consternation at the task ahead of him that Mollie laughed a second time.

“There is to be an inspection of quarters this afternoon and, as the Lieutenant is busy, I’ve been detailed to have this room shipshape.”

Mollie glanced toward Barbara.

“Suppose we help?” she suggested, “at least until Madame Castaigne and the others come down. No one will ever know. You see, ‘Monsieur Sammee,’ (that is what French people are calling you, isn’t it?) if you were a Red Cross nurse as Mrs. Thornton and I both are, you would know everything worth knowing of domestic tasks.”

Then, without waiting for Barbara’s agreement, Mollie began straightening the dusty, disordered table in a quiet, skilful fashion.

The next instant Barbara had joined her at another task and soon the three of them were hard at work, the young soldier obeying orders.

When Eugenia and Mildred, Nona and Agatha finally looked into the room to see if Barbara and Mollie could possibly be found in there, they were for an instant overcome with amazement.

Eugenia was far from pleased. However, the scene was too absurd to take seriously or to speak reprovingly about.

This time Mollie became embarrassed and past being able to explain the situation. Moreover, she was conscious that the soldier, whose name she did not even know and therefore was unable to introduce to Madame Castaigne, was now laughing at her, although he kept every part of his face grave except his eyes.

However, Barbara spoke at once.

“Hope we have not done anything very wrong, Eugenia. But you see, after all, our Red Cross rules are that we succor anyone in distress. We do not know whom we have helped this time, but he was undoubtedly in distress.”

At this Barbara turned to the young man, who came forward to speak to Madame Castaigne. He had recognized her as having charge of one of the nearby American hospitals.

He gave his name, Guy Ellis, to Eugenia, but of course the others heard him.

“I don’t know exactly what I am to say to any of you,” Eugenia protested in answer to Barbara and shaking hands with their new acquaintance, “because I never dreamed of any such situation. However, I am glad I discovered you instead of an officer. But please come with me and meet Madame Bonnèt. She has given up this house of hers to our soldiers, but she and her daughter, Berthe, are living in a tiny place in the garden. She is a great friend of mine and managed to get us permission to use her tower upstairs this morning for watching the drill. She told me no one would be here, so we would not be a nuisance.”

Eugenia turned to Nona.

“Madame Bonnèt is raising carrier pigeons for the use of the French army. The ones she has now are to be our American messengers when we need them.”

Eugenia made no suggestion that the young soldier accompany them, but he walked on quietly beside Mollie and Barbara. After all, Madame Bonnèt was his friend as well.

CHAPTER VI
Carrier Pigeons

BEHIND the officers’ house was a carefully tended little home garden. There were no flowers, except a few perennials, blooming on unconscious of the war which for the past three years had been destroying the land that nourished them.

But between the rows of feathery carrots and the stiff spikes of onions, a girl was kneeling.

She looked up in surprise at the approach of so large a number of people, then smiled in response to Eugenia’s greeting, although she did not rise immediately.

She wore a smock of a coarse blue material, covering her from her throat to her ankles. Her head was bare and she seemed to have the very blackest hair one could imagine and her eyes were equally so. Her face, however, was tanned, and was a little worn and sad. But seated on her head and shoulders and hovering everywhere about her, were a flock of pigeons, fluttering and talking apparently to themselves and to her.

Close behind the garden was the pigeon house, set high up and painted gray, with bright blue lines about the small windows. From the inside came the cooing and mourning, the sounds of the most delicate and romantic of love murmurings, as well as the noises necessary to the smoothing of small, new famines. But the sounds were unmistakable; there are no others like those of a dove cote.

A little farther to one slide stood a small house, which could hardly contain more than two rooms.

Coming out of the front door, attracted by the footsteps of so many visitors, was Madame Bonnèt. She was not young or graceful like her daughter, Berthe, yet the greater number of the girls found their eyes turning admiringly toward the older woman. Without immediately knowing why, they recognized her attraction. But this was because Madame Bonnèt typified so much that is finest and strongest in the French national life.

She was large, with a deep bosom and broad shoulders, but with narrow hips. She had dark hair, black almost as Berthe’s and as free from gray; her skin was as smooth and clear one might say as satin, but there was a softness and a fragrance to Madame’s skin that no satin ever had.

She wore a mourning dress, but with a wide white apron over it and a white collar about her full throat.

Smiling a welcome to her unknown guests, Madame Bonnèt opened her arms to Eugenia Castaigne and Eugenia kissed her as no one had ever seen her do to anyone else.

Their display of affection was perfectly simple and natural and of course over in a moment. However, Mildred and Barbara and Nona, Eugenia’s old friends, who had been with her at the time of her marriage, understood that there was some close bond between the two women, the one who had lost her husband, the other whose position was perhaps worse, since she did not know what fate had come to hers.

“I nursed Madame Bonnèt’s son. Her husband, who was an officer, and one son have been killed since the war began; the other is at Verdun,” Eugenia whispered quietly to Nona, while Madame Bonnèt was shaking hands with Mildred Thornton and while Barbara and Mollie and Agatha were waiting to speak to her. Eugenia spoke as if she were making a perfectly ordinary statement.

“She and her husband were raising carrier pigeons more as an amusement than for any other reason when the present war broke out,” Eugenia continued. “They immediately sent all they had to the French government and the government has been using them for their messengers, when all their wonderful telephone and telegraph systems break down, as they do now and then. But I am going to ask Madame Bonnèt to talk to you. It is fascinating to learn what part carrier pigeons can play in war.”

Madame Bonnèt was now walking toward the dove cote with her visitors.

A few moments before she had picked up a large platter of corn, which the American soldier had afterwards taken from her. At present he was walking in front of the little procession and evidently he and Madame Bonnèt were great friends, since he was looking back over his shoulder and telling her of his recent domestic rescue.

And Madame Bonnèt was laughing and shaking her head.

“It is all right so long as Lieutenant Martin does not find you out.”

“Oh, Martin is a martinet,” Guy Ellis returned. “Yet even Martin should feel honored by Mrs. Thornton and Miss Drew’s attention. However, the favor was done for me, wasn’t it, Miss Drew?”

At this moment the young man’s expression changed rather oddly from its gay look to one that was almost sullen. Yet his hand went up to his forehead in a military salute. He had just seen the officer, whom they had been discussing, walking along the same path in their direction with Lieutenant Hugh Kelley.

But no one else had observed them. For at this instant Madame Bonnèt had come close up to her dove cote and having taken the bowl of corn into her own hands, held it up for a moment, as if before feeding her flock she were invoking a blessing from the sun.