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--"

"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