hook his head disconsolately and then
motioned her toward the same room she had formerly entered.

There was now a cot in the room and on this cot lay the Russian woman.

At once Nona forgot herself and her desire to ask questions. She
remembered only her profession, yes, and one other thing. She recalled
the words that the old French peasant, Francois, had once spoken to her
and to Barbara.

"Have you pity only for wounded soldiers? Do girls and women never care
to help one another? This war has made wounds deeper than any bullets
can create."

Immediately Nona had seen that Sonya Valesky was very ill. Now, no
matter who she was, or what she had done, she must be restored to
health. First and last Nona must put her own emotions aside, for the
sake of her mission as a Red Cross nurse.

Yet what was she to do? Her services belonged to the soldiers in the
Russian fortress.

As quietly and quickly as possible Nona gave her orders.

She could not be sure, but Sonya's appearance indicated that she was
suffering from the terrible scourge of typhus.

This disease had been one of the most terrible results of the war.
Because of a greater lack of sanitation and cleanliness the fever had
been more widespread in Servia and in Russia than in any other
countries.

Personally Nona had never nursed a case before, yet she had heard the
disease discussed and believed she recognized the symptoms.

First she made a thorough examination of the little house. It was
cleaner than most of the peasants' huts, so far Sonya must have
prevailed, but still its conditions left much to be desired.

Without being able to speak more than a few words of their language,
Nona yet managed to give her directions.

She was beginning to guess that the old peasant couple, who at first had
seemed mysterious companions for the beautiful Russian woman, were
probably old servants. If Sonya was a follower of Tolstoi as her mother
had been, she must have refused to recognize any difference between
them.

But this was not their feeling. The American girl could see that in
spirit old Katja and Nika were the devoted slaves of the younger woman.

Sonya was not at first conscious of the seriousness of her illness.

She wore a dressing gown of some rough homespun, a curious shade of
Russian blue, the color of her own eyes. Her hair, which had turned far
whiter in the past year, was partly concealed under a small lace cap
such as the Russian peasant woma