More Than Conqueror (Musaicum Romance Classics). Grace Livingston Hill

his love. It made her seem all the dearer than he had dreamed; it gave a glimpse of what it might be to have her thought, her love to carry with him on his dangerous mission. It was enough that he could sit back in that bus and close his eyes and remember the thrill of holding her close in his arms, his face against hers.

      With such thoughts as these for company, the ride seemed all too brief, till the bustle and noise of the city brought him back to the present moment and its necessities. Tenth Street, yes, here was the corner where he must get off and pick up those packages he had ordered yesterday over the telephone, to be ready this morning. And over on Chestnut Street was the place where he had promised to stop and pick up a book some kindly stranger had offered him. He didn't think he would be likely to want the book, but he did not like to hurt the man's feelings, for the man had a few days ago gone out of his way to get an address for him that he wanted. Well, it wouldn't take but a minute. He glanced at his watch. There was time. He could give the book away, or conveniently lose it if it proved a bore. He didn't at all know what the book was. The kindly friend had not told him. Just said it was a book he might like to have with him, and it was small, wouldn't take up much room. So, well, he would stop in case the first packages were ready on time.

      And then to his surprise the packages were not only ready but waiting near the door for him, and a smiling proprietor handed them out with a few cheery words, and it suddenly came to Charlie to realize how exceedingly kind everybody was to men of the service now. The world had really taken on an air of kindliness. Was it only for the soldiers and sailors, or was it everybody?

      He hurried over to his other stopping place and was handed a small, neat package with a letter strapped on with a rubber band. The man himself was out, but the salesman handed it out smiling. More kindliness!

      He put the little book in his pocket, thankful it was not large, and went on his way. A glance at the clock told him he had plenty of time to telephone. Should he, dared he, telephone Blythe? He hadn't dared think of that before, but now the longing to hear her voice once more was too much for him. Passing a place where there was a telephone booth, he went in and looked up her number, even now hindered by a shyness that had kept him for days deciding whether to go and see her before he left. Perhaps someone else would answer the phone—that dour servant woman, or even possibly her mother. What should he say? Was this perhaps the wrong thing to do? Was there a possibility that it might spoil his happiness? But no, if such a thing could be possible, it would be better to find it out now than to go on dreaming in a fool's paradise. So he frowned at the number and dialed it quickly before he could change his mind, for now the longing to hear her speak was uncontrollable. It was going to be simply unspeakable if she was gone anywhere and he couldn't get her in time.

      It was the dour Susan who answered.

      No, Miss Bonniwell was not in. She had just gone out to her Red Cross class.

      He felt as if the woman had slapped him in the face, but of course that was foolish. There was an instant's silence, and then Susan asked, "Who shall I tell her called?"

      Charlie came to himself crisply. "Montgomery is the name. Is there any way that I can reach her at that Red Cross class?"

      "I suppose you might," said Susan disapprovingly. "She's always pretty busy though. Still—if she chooses, of course—the number is Merrivale 1616."

      "I thank you," he said with relief in his voice. "It's rather important. I'm leaving in a few minutes. I wouldn't be able to call her later."

      He began to dial Merrivale 1616 as if it were some sacred number.

      Of course, he did not know how reluctant Blythe had been to go to that class. How eagerly she had flown to the telephone a few minutes before, hoping, praying, that it might be him calling, although he had not said he would—and of course he wouldn't have time, she knew.

      "Who is it, Susan?" she had asked eagerly, as she passed the servant in the hall, dusting.

      "It's one of them Red Cross women," answered Susan sourly. "They act as if they owned you, body and soul. They said they had to speak to you right away that minute."

      "Oh," said Blythe in a crestfallen tone. "I suppose I ought to have gone to that class, but they had so many, I thought they could get along without me for once."

      "And so they could!" encouraged Susan indignantly.

      "I suppose I could send a message by you that I have something else important to do this morning."

      Blythe lingered on the stairs looking hopefully at Susan, for the woman had often helped her out of unwanted engagements, but this time Susan shook her head.

      "No, Miss Blythe, you couldn't. I asked them did they want me to give you a message, but they said no, they must speak with you. They seemed in some awful hurry."

      Blythe gave an impatient little sigh and hurried down to the telephone in the library.

      CHAPTER III

       Table of Contents

      Mrs. Felton and Mrs. Bruce had arrived early at the Red Cross room, had hung their wraps in a convenient place and settled down in the pleasantest situation they could find.

      They arranged their working paraphernalia comfortably and looked around with satisfaction.

      "I wonder where Blythe Bonniwell is," said Mrs. Felton as she took out her thimble and scissors and settled her glasses over her handsome nose. "She's always so early, and she seems so interested in the work. It's unusual, don't you think, for one so young and pretty to seem so really in earnest."

      "Well, of course, that's the fashion now, to be interested in anything that has to do with war work. They tell me she's always at the canteens evenings. She's very popular with the young soldiers," said Mrs. Bruce, with pursed lips. "She won't last, you'll see. I'm not surprised she isn't here."

      "Well, somehow, I can't help feeling that Blythe is somewhat different from the common run of young girls. I don't believe she'll lose interest," said Mrs. Felton, giving a troubled glance out the window that opened on the street.

      "Well, she isn't here, is she? You mark my words, she'll begin to drop out pretty soon. They all do, unless they have really joined up with the army or navy and have to keep at it. This is probably the beginning already for Blythe."

      "I hope not," signed Mrs. Felton. "I'm sure I don't know what we'll do if she doesn't come to-day."

      "Why is she so important?" demanded Anne Houghton, who had just come in and was taking off her hat and powdering her nose. "I'm sure she doesn't do so much more work than the rest of us." There was haughtiness and almost a shade of contempt in Anne's tone.

      Mrs. Felton gave her a quick inspecting glance.

      "Why, she put away the materials last night, and I don't see what she has done with the new needles. I can't find them anywhere, and we can't sew without needles. The one I have has a blunt point."

      "Oh, I see!" said Anne. "Well, I should think she was rather presumptuous, taking charge of all the needles. She sat down in the third best chair in the room. "Who does she think she is, anyway? Just because she's Judge Bonniwell's daughter and has plenty of money and has Dan Seavers dancing attendance on her at all hours. I can't think what he sees in her, anyway, little colorless thing, so stuck on her looks that she won't even use the decent cosmetics that everybody else uses. She'd be a great deal more attractive if she would at least use a little lipstick."

      Mrs. Felton gave Anne another withering glance and went to the sewing machine to oil it and put it in running order for the day, not even attempting an answer.

      "Well, what do you suppose she can have done with those needles?" asked Mrs. Bruce, rising to the occasion. "My needle has a blunt point, too. I don't see how so many of them got that way. They can't be very good needles."

      "Well, if you ask me," said Mrs. Noyes, who had just come in, "I think it was that child Mrs. Harper brought with her yesterday. He picked