The Red Cross Girl. Richard Harding Davis

the cub reporter says: “That's most interesting, sir. I'll make a note of that.” And so warns the great man into silence. But the star reporter receives the indiscreet utterance as though it bored him; and the great man does not know he has blundered until he reads of it the next morning under screaming headlines.

      Other men, on being suddenly confronted by Sister Anne, which was the official title of the nursing sister, would have fallen backward, or swooned, or gazed at her with soulful, worshipping eyes; or, were they that sort of beast, would have ogled her with impertinent approval. Now Sam, because he was a star reporter, observed that the lady before him was the most beautiful young woman he had ever seen; but no one would have guessed that he observed that—least of all Sister Anne. He stood in her way and lifted his hat, and even looked into the eyes of blue as impersonally and as calmly as though she were his great-aunt—as though his heart was not beating so fast that it choked him.

      “I am from the REPUBLIC,” he said. “Everybody is so busy here to-day that I'm not able to get what I need about the Home. It seems a pity,” he added disappointedly, “because it's so well done that people ought to know about it.” He frowned at the big hospital buildings. It was apparent that the ignorance of the public concerning their excellence greatly annoyed him.

      When again he looked at Sister Anne she was regarding him in alarm—obviously she was upon the point of instant flight.

      “You are a reporter?” she said.

      Some people like to place themselves in the hands of a reporter because they hope he will print their names in black letters; a few others—only reporters know how few—would as soon place themselves in the hands of a dentist.

      “A reporter from the REPUBLIC,” repeated Sam.

      “But why ask ME?” demanded Sister Anne.

      Sam could see no reason for her question; in extenuation and explanation he glanced at her uniform.

      “I thought you were at work here,” he said simply. “I beg your pardon.”

      He stepped aside as though he meant to leave her. In giving that impression he was distinctly dishonest.

      “There was no other reason,” persisted Sister Anne. “I mean for speaking to me?”

      The reason for speaking to her was so obvious that Sam wondered whether this could be the height of innocence or the most banal coquetry. The hostile look in the eyes of the lady proved it could not be coquetry.

      “I am sorry,” said Sam. “I mistook you for one of the nurses here; and, as you didn't seem busy, I thought you might give me some statistics about the Home not really statistics, you know, but local color.”

      Sister Anne returned his look with one as steady as his own. Apparently she was weighing his statement. She seemed to disbelieve it. Inwardly he was asking himself what could be the dark secret in the past of this young woman that at the mere approach of a reporter—even of such a nice-looking reporter as himself—she should shake and shudder. “If that's what you really want to know,” said Sister Anne doubtfully, “I'll try and help you; but,” she added, looking at him as one who issues an ultimatum, “you must not say anything about me!”

      Sam knew that a woman of the self-advertising, club-organizing class will always say that to a reporter at the time she gives him her card so that he can spell her name correctly; but Sam recognized that this young woman meant it. Besides, what was there that he could write about her? Much as he might like to do so, he could not begin his story with: “The Flagg Home for Convalescents is also the home of the most beautiful of all living women.” No copy editor would let that get by him. So, as there was nothing to say that he would be allowed to say, he promised to say nothing. Sister Anne smiled; and it seemed to Sam that she smiled, not because his promise had set her mind at ease, but because the promise amused her. Sam wondered why.

      Sister Anne fell into step beside him and led him through the wards of the hospital. He found that it existed for and revolved entirely about one person. He found that a million dollars and some acres of buildings, containing sun-rooms and hundreds of rigid white beds, had been donated by Spencer Flagg only to provide a background for Sister Anne—only to exhibit the depth of her charity, the kindness of her heart, the unselfishness of her nature.

      “Do you really scrub the floors?” he demanded—“I mean you yourself—down on your knees, with a pail and water and scrubbing brush?”

      Sister Anne raised her beautiful eyebrows and laughed at him.

      “We do that when we first come here,” she said—“when we are probationers. Is there a newer way of scrubbing floors?”

      “And these awful patients,” demanded Sam—“do you wait on them? Do you have to submit to their complaints and whinings and ingratitude?” He glared at the unhappy convalescents as though by that glance he would annihilate them. “It's not fair!” exclaimed Sam. “It's ridiculous. I'd like to choke them!”

      “That's not exactly the object of a home for convalescents,” said Sister Anne.

      “You know perfectly well what I mean,” said Sam. “Here are you—if you'll allow me to say so—a magnificent, splendid, healthy young person, wearing out your young life over a lot of lame ducks, failures, and cripples.”

      “Nor is that quite the way we look at,” said Sister Anne.

      “We?” demanded Sam.

      Sister Anne nodded toward a group of nurse

      “I'm not the only nurse here,” she said “There are over forty.”

      “You are the only one here,” said Sam, “who is not! That's Just what I mean—I appreciate the work of a trained nurse; I understand the ministering angel part of it; but you—I'm not talking about anybody else; I'm talking about you—you are too young! Somehow you are different; you are not meant to wear yourself out fighting disease and sickness, measuring beef broth and making beds.”

      Sister Anne laughed with delight.

      “I beg your pardon,” said Sam stiffly.

      “No—pardon me,” said Sister Anne; “but your ideas of the duties of a nurse are so quaint.”

      “No matter what the duties are,” declared Sam; “You should not be here!”

      Sister Anne shrugged her shoulders; they were charming shoulders—as delicate as the pinions of a bird.

      “One must live,” said Sister Anne.

      They had passed through the last cold corridor, between the last rows of rigid white cots, and had come out into the sunshine. Below them stretched Connecticut, painted in autumn colors. Sister Anne seated herself upon the marble railing of the terrace and looked down upon the flashing waters of the Sound.

      “Yes; that's it,” she repeated softly—“one must live.”

      Sam looked at her—but, finding that to do so made speech difficult, looked hurriedly away. He admitted to himself that it was one of those occasions, only too frequent with him, when his indignant sympathy was heightened by the fact that “the woman was very fair.” He conceded that. He was not going to pretend to himself that he was not prejudiced by the outrageous beauty of Sister Anne, by the assault upon his feelings made by her uniform—made by the appeal of her profession, the gentlest and most gracious of all professions. He was honestly disturbed that this young girl should devote her life to the service of selfish sick people.

      “If you do it because you must live, then it can easily be arranged; for there are other ways of earning a living.”

      The girl looked at him quickly, but he was quite sincere—and again she smiled.

      “Now what would you suggest?” she asked. “You see,” she said, “I have no one to advise me—no man of my own age. I have no brothers to go to. I have a father, but it was his idea that I should come here; and so