urned its way
into her brain, "or else he hates me. Yes, that is it; he must hate
me. How could it be otherwise, when I insulted him in the Public Hall,
when I made him the laughing-stock of the whole town?"

"It's awfully fine of you," went on Bob, "to come out here like this.
I sometimes think that nurses need more courage than the soldiers. I
cannot understand how refined, sensitive women like you can bear to see
the horrible sights which are so common in places like this; it is just
splendid of you--just splendid. You say you have not seen Trevanion?"

Again her cheeks, which had become pale again, crimsoned.

"Oh, yes," she replied, "he has been in this hospital; I--I have helped
to nurse him."

"It seems strange that I never heard of it," said Bob; "but there,
after all, it's not so strange--there are thousands of men and scores
of nurses here; so it is no wonder that I never heard of either of you
being here."

"He went back to the front yesterday," said Nancy. "He's quite well
and strong again now. He told me that it was you who rescued him from
death. Oh, Bob, it was splendid of you! It's all so strange too.
Would you mind telling me why you altered your mind and came to the
war?"

"I learned that it was my duty," said Bob simply. "No, I haven't
altered my mind about war, or about soldiering at all; but I had to
come. You see, after I left you, I learned things to which I had been
blind before; it is difficult to explain, but I saw that war could only
be killed by war. I saw that the Gospel of Peace meant nothing to
Germany, and that if she were allowed to go on unmolested, the ghastly
creed of war, and the glory of war, would be established for ever; that
was why I became a soldier. I wanted to help to cut it out; destroy
it, root and branch--and we must never stop until that has been done.
But, I'm so glad Captain Trevanion is better, and has been able to go
back; he's a brave man; he's a great soldier. You're engaged to him,
aren't you?"

The question came out suddenly, and for a moment it staggered her. She
was not engaged to him, and yet, in a way, she was bound to him; she
had said that which made Trevanion hope. Her promise was as thin as a
gossamer thread, yet it seemed to bind, her like a steel chain.

"Forgive my impertinence in asking," said Bob quickly, noting the look
on her face. "Of course, I'd no right to ask."

Still she could not speak; she felt as though she would h