The Red Cross Girl. Richard Harding Davis

He was calculating hastily how far his salary would go toward supporting a wife. He was trying to remember which of the men in the office were married, and whether they were those whose salaries were smaller than his own. Collins, one of the copy editors, he knew, was very ill-paid; but Sam also knew that Collins was married, because his wife used to wait for him in the office to take her to the theatre, and often Sam had thought she was extremely well dressed. Of course Sister Anne was so beautiful that what she might wear would be a matter of indifference; but then women did not always look at it that way. Sam was so long considering offering Sister Anne a life position that his silence had become significant; and to cover his real thoughts he said hurriedly:

      “Take type-writing, for instance. That pays very well. The hours are not difficult.”

      “And manicuring?” suggested Sister Anne.

      Sam exclaimed in horror.

      “You!” he cried roughly. “For you! Quite impossible!”

      “Why for me?” said the girl.

      In the distress at the thought Sam was jabbing his stick into the gravel walk as though driving the manicuring idea into a deep grave. He did not see that the girl was smiling at him mockingly.

      “You?” protested Sam. “You in a barber's shop washing men's fingers who are not fit to wash the streets you walk on I Good Lord!” His vehemence was quite honest. The girl ceased smiling. Sam was still jabbing at the gravel walk, his profile toward her—and, unobserved, she could study his face. It was an attractive face strong, clever, almost illegally good-looking. It explained why, as, he had complained to the city editor, his chief trouble in New York was with the women. With his eyes full of concern, Sam turned to her abruptly. “How much do they give you a month?” “Forty dollars,” answered Sister Anne. “This is what hurts me about it,” said Sam.

      “It is that you should have to work and wait on other people when there are so many strong, hulking men who would count it God's blessing to work for you, to wait on you, and give their lives for you. However, probably you know that better than I do.”

      “No; I don't know that,” said Sister Anne.

      Sam recognized that it was quite absurd that it should be so, but this statement gave him a sense of great elation, a delightful thrill of relief. There was every reason why the girl should not confide in a complete stranger—even to deceive him was quite within her rights; but, though Sam appreciated this, he preferred to be deceived.

      “I think you are working too hard,” he said, smiling happily. “I think you ought to have a change. You ought to take a day off! Do they ever give you a day off?”

      “Next Saturday,” said Sister Anne. “Why?”

      “Because,” explained Sam, “if you won't think it too presumptuous, I was going to prescribe a day off for you—a day entirely away from iodoform and white enamelled cots. It is what you need, a day in the city and a lunch where they have music; and a matinee, where you can laugh—or cry, if you like that better—and then, maybe, some fresh air in the park in a taxi; and after that dinner and more theatre, and then I'll see you safe on the train for Greenwich. Before you answer,” he added hurriedly, “I want to explain that I contemplate taking a day off myself and doing all these things with you, and that if you want to bring any of the other forty nurses along as a chaperon, I hope you will. Only, honestly, I hope you won't!”

      The proposal apparently gave Sister Anne much pleasure. She did not say so, but her eyes shone and when she looked at Sam she was almost laughing with happiness.

      “I think that would be quite delightful,” said Sister Anne,”—quite delightful! Only it would be frightfully expensive; even if I don't bring another girl, which I certainly would not, it would cost a great deal of money. I think we might cut out the taxicab—and walk in the park and feed the squirrels.”

      “Oh!” exclaimed Sam in disappointment—“then you know Central Park?”

      Sister Anne's eyes grew quite expressionless.

      “I once lived near there,” she said.

      “In Harlem?”

      “Not exactly in Harlem, but near it. I was quite young,” said Sister Anne. “Since then I have always lived in the country or in—other places.”

      Sam's heart was singing with pleasure.

      “It's so kind of you to consent,” he cried. “Indeed, you are the kindest person in all the world. I thought so when I saw you bending over these sick people, and, now I know.”

      “It is you who are kind,” protested Sister Anne, “to take pity on me.”

      “Pity on you!” laughed Sam. “You can't pity a person who can do more with a smile than old man Flagg can do with all his millions. Now,” he demanded in happy anticipation, “where are we to meet?”

      “That's it,” said Sister Anne. “Where are we to meet?”

      “Let it be at the Grand Central Station. The day can't begin too soon,” said Sam; “and before then telephone me what theatre and restaurants you want and I'll reserve seats and tables. Oh,” exclaimed Sam joyfully, “it will be a wonderful day—a wonderful day!”

      Sister Anne looked at him curiously and, so, it seemed, a little wistfully. She held out her hand.

      “I must go back to my duties,” she said. “Good-by.”

      “Not good-by,” said Sam heartily, “only until Saturday—and my name's Sam Ward and my address is the city room of the REPUBLIC. What's your name?”

      “Sister Anne,” said the girl. “In the nursing order to which I belong we have no last names.”

      “So,” asked Sam, “I'll call you Sister Anne?”

      “No; just Sister,” said the girl.

      “Sister!” repeated Sam, “Sister!” He breathed the word rather than spoke it; and the way he said it and the way he looked when he said it made it carry almost the touch of a caress. It was as if he had said “Sweetheart!” or “Beloved!” “I'll not forget,” said Sam.

      Sister Anne gave an impatient, annoyed laugh.

      “Nor I,” she said.

      Sam returned to New York in the smoking-car, puffing feverishly at his cigar and glaring dreamily at the smoke. He was living the day over again and, in anticipation, the day off, still to come. He rehearsed their next meeting at the station; he considered whether or not he would meet her with a huge bunch of violets or would have it brought to her when they were at luncheon by the head waiter. He decided the latter way would be more of a pleasant surprise. He planned the luncheon. It was to be the most marvellous repast he could evolve; and, lest there should be the slightest error, he would have it prepared in advance—and it should cost half his week's salary.

      The place where they were to dine he would leave to her, because he had observed that women had strange ideas about clothes—some of them thinking that certain clothes must go with certain restaurants. Some of them seemed to believe that, instead of their conferring distinction upon the restaurant, the restaurant conferred distinction upon them. He was sure Sister Anne would not be so foolish, but it might be that she must always wear her nurse's uniform and that she would prefer not to be conspicuous; so he decided that the choice of where they would dine he would leave to her. He calculated that the whole day ought to cost about eighty dollars, which, as star reporter, was what he was then earning each week. That was little enough to give for a day that would be the birthday of his life! No, he contradicted—the day he had first met her must always be the birthday of his life; for never had he met one like her and he was sure there never would be one like her. She was so entirely superior to all the others, so fine, so difficult—in her manner there was something that rendered her unapproachable. Even her simple nurse's gown was worn with a difference. She might have been a princess in fancy dress. And yet,