CHAPTER XVIII.
PEACE AFTER STORM.

"You must go to him," said Katherine.

"To whom?" asked Mollie.

She was looking very white: she had gone through a night of intense anxiety and ceaseless work. The poor fellows around were dying fast. One man after another succumbed to his wounds and to the hardships of the last battle. Those who were still living were very ill indeed. Mollie felt as if all her world were hemmed in by the shadow of death. The mysteries of life and of death were close to her, and all the trivial things of daily existence seemed miles and miles away. She raised her big and beautiful eyes now, and fixed them on Katherine's face.

"Who wants me?" she repeated.

"Major Strause," was Katherine's reply.

"I had forgotten about him," said Mollie. She put up her hand to her forehead. "Must I see him?" she asked.

"He seems to be very ill. His temperature has gone up; he is in for a sharp attack of fever. Nothing will quiet him but your presence."

Mollie gave a sigh.

"I will go to him," she said. "Will you stay here until I return?"

Katherine nodded, and Mollie went slowly down the ward. One ward led into another. The dying men looked at her as she walked. She had a slow and dignified step; there was never any undue haste or hurry about her. It calmed the delirious men even to look at her. Her hand was always cool, too—her touch always firm. She entered the ward. Hudson was weak and very, very ill, but his face lit up when he saw the girl.

"Come here, you angel, come here," he said in a whisper, under his breath.

"Come here, come here," said Major Strause.

The face of the lad who was soon to see his Maker, and the face of the angry, worldly-minded major, were both visible to Mollie as she approached.

"Hush!" she said to Major Strause. She raised her finger warningly, and bent over Hudson.

"I am better," he said, with a smile.

"Yes, I think you are," she said. But as she spoke she swallowed something in her throat; for she had learned by this time to discern, and she saw on the white face, and on the worn brow which illness had made so prominent and thin, the unmistakable shadow. The great wings loomed above the dying man; soon he would be folded in their embrace, and all the sorrows of earth would pass away from him.

"I am sorry for the folks at home," he said in a whisper. "If I die they will grieve; but I shall not die—I am better."

"Yes," said Mollie. She spoke firmly, and he did not see in her face any of the knowledge which she dreaded.

"I don't want to die," he said; "I want to live. Last night I thought I'd like to die, for the pain did grind so; but now I want to live. There are my father and mother, and I have a young sister. Her name is Ethel. She is so pretty. You remind me of her. She is only sixteen, and she is very clever and very pretty; and she has a look of you—or, rather, you have a look of her. It will be all right. I'll get well, won't I, Nurse Mollie?"

"Drink this," said Mollie. She poured a restorative into a teaspoon.

He shook his head.

"I'll get well," he repeated. "But I cannot swallow; my throat is closed up. All the same, I am much better."

"Yes, dear," she said.

She knelt down by him and took his hand. She laid her finger on his pulse—it scarcely beat. There was a cold dew all over him.

"Oh, I am much, much better," he said, smiling, "and—where am I? Where's mother? Where are you, governor? I am back home. George, your son, has come back. We have had a grand victory—the Boers utterly routed. Hurrah for the British flag! Where am I? Oh, here in the sick ward at Ladysmith. Sister Mollie?"

"Yes, my dear lad."

"Sing to me."

"Oh, I can't," came to her lips. But she never uttered the words. "What shall I sing?" she asked.

"My mother's favourite hymn, 'Peace, perfect peace.' It is peace, you know—wonderful—all the pain gone—not a bit thirsty—sure to get well—going—home; invalided home, you know. Peace! Yes, sing it, won't you?"

Mollie sang the first verse,—

"Peace, perfect peace, in this dark world of sin."

"Sing it louder," said the poor lad; "I can't hear you. Wonderful! how quiet it is! And it is dark—night—yes, it is night."

"No, dear," she answered; "it is morning."

"Morning! then I am much better," he said "Peace—yes, the morning brings peace." The words died away. "Much better," he said again, after a pause. "Going to—get—well."

As he uttered the last words Mollie bent forward. She laid her fingers on his eyelids and closed them down. Then she motioned to a nurse who stood a little way off. She turned to Major Strause. His eyes were shining—there were tears in them.

"God bless you! God bless you!" he said

"What do you want with me?" she answered.

"Nothing now. You have quieted me; you have stilled my evil passions. Do you want to go on stilling them? Do you want still to be an angel in the ward?"

"You are very ill, Major Strause," said Mollie. "Let me take your temperature."

She did so. His temperature was high—104°. She laid her hand on his forehead.

"You have been exciting yourself," she said. "I don't believe you have got enteric; it is just a bad chill. I am going to give you a soothing draught and a compress. Now stay perfectly quiet."

"Won't you nurse me, instead of Miss Hunt?"

"I cannot; my place is in the surgical ward."

"Can't I be moved in there?"

"No, you must not; there is too much noise, and some of the sights are— You must stay here, Major Strause. Try to control yourself, won't you?"

"If you will come to see me twice or three times a day I will. What's that?" He looked around him in a frightened way.

A nurse had brought a screen, and was putting it round the bed where the lad Hudson had breathed his last.

Mollie took the major's hand.

"I will come to see you," she said; "and you will try to be good?"

"For such an angel I would do anything. Oh, I have been bad—yes, I have been very bad; you don't know half. Is there any chance for a worldly chap like me? Not young, either. When I heard you talk to that boy, I felt I would give all the world to be that boy myself."

"If there was a dear lad on this earth, it was George Hudson," she answered.

"I know—so different from what I am! I am not even young, you know, and I have led a—"

"I cannot stay now, Major Strause.—Sister Eugenia, will you look after Major Strause, please? he wants—"

Mollie gave quick directions. The young sister bowed her head. The major made a wry face. He could be good in Mollie's presence, but he did not think he could be good with Sister Eugenia, who was small, and plain, and awkward.

Mollie left the room. All that day the effect of Hudson's death remained with the major, and as Mollie did come into the ward two or three times in the course of the morning, he tried to believe himself satisfied. But when the dead man had been removed for burial, and when his place was occupied by another man, uninteresting, coarse, not particularly ill, Major Strause forgot his good resolutions. He grumbled, and gave the nurses who looked after him a bad time. When Mollie came in he was soothed and comforted, and he could express his feelings to Katherine Hunt. In a day or two the fever left him, and he was able to crawl about a little, and then, as his bed was wanted, to get back to his own hut. Still, the memory of what he had seen Mollie do when Hudson was dying remained with him, and, for the time at least, he gave up all idea of persecuting her, or forcing her, as he expressed it, to listen to his suit. He had no intention, however, of giving Mollie up.

"I will live for her sake, and try to lead a clean life for her sake, and in the end I must win her," he thought. "She is better than any money—she is worth her price in rubies. She is the finest woman God ever made."

The major might for a time have had strength to keep these resolves, had he not once again seen Mollie and Gavon Keith together. They were talking just at the door of one of the wards, and they did not touch hands this time. But the major saw the light in Mollie's eyes, and could not mistake its import. The moment he observed this there fell away from him, like a mantle, all the good resolves of the last few days. He would do something, and at once.

He passed the couple, who started aside when they saw him, and strode away to the hotel where Kitty lived. He asked boldly to see Miss Hepworth. The servants of the hotel were busy in those days, when every one had his or her special duty to perform. One of them said carelessly,—

"You will find Miss Hepworth in her sitting-room;" and he ran upstairs and knocked at the door.

A girlish voice said, "Come in." He turned the handle and entered.

Kitty was lying on a sofa, in just the position where she could get what little air there was. The heat was intense, and the red dust was more irritating than ever. It lay on the table, and made a pink shade over the cup and saucer out of which she had taken her last meal; it made a pink shade also on the girl's dark hair and on her white blouse; but it did not take any of the prettiness out of her big brown eyes, nor any of the refined delicacy from her beautifully-chiselled features. The strong likeness to her sister Mollie was very apparent at this moment, and Strause uttered an exclamation, which he suddenly checked.

"I never guessed it," he said to himself.

"How do you do, Major Strause?" said the girl. "Do you want anything? I am quite alone."

"I called to see you, Miss Hepworth, because I thought you would be alone," was his reply.

Already his anger against Mollie was more or less abated; but he lashed it up again, for he said to himself,—

"If I don't take extreme steps I shall lose her. I have a great deal to tell this little miss, and tell it I will."

"Why did you utter that exclamation when you came into the room?" said Kitty.

"Because you are so like your sister," he replied. "You know I have been in hospital for the last fortnight. I am better, but I am confoundedly weak. Would you think me very rude if I dropped into a chair?"

"Oh, please seat yourself," said the girl. She gave a dreary sigh and looked out of the window. "It will soon be dark," she said. "The only peaceful time in Ladysmith is when it is dark! Do you think the enemy will make an assault and try to take the town at night, Major Strause?"

"Oh, bless you, no," said the major. "The Boers like to fight under cover. They won't attack us; at least that is my belief."

"But I heard some of the officers saying to-day at dinner that the Boers did fight sometimes in the open, and that they might make an assault on the town. I heard them say so—I did really," said Kitty.

"Well, they talked nonsense; don't you believe a word of it," said the major.

He felt himself quite manly as he sat not far away from Kitty and looked avariciously at her face. Her likeness to Mollie made this quite an agreeable task. She shuffled uneasily under his stare, and turned once more to look out of the window.

"It is so dull in Ladysmith," she said then, with a sigh. "I never knew a siege meant this."

"What did you think it meant?" asked the major.

"Oh, nothing like this," she repeated. "I thought there was great excitement, and that everybody kept close together, and that—"

"There is plenty of excitement, if that is what you want," said Major Strause.

"Well, it doesn't come to me," answered the girl. "I spend all my days here. I am awfully frightened, too. I am terribly afraid of the shells. Do you think one of them will strike the hotel, Major Strause?"

"Can't tell you; hope not."

"Well, that is poor comfort," said Kitty, and she gave a dreary laugh.

The major was not getting any nearer the object of his visit. This would never do.

"If I were you," he said, "I would go into the hospital and make myself useful."

"I cannot; they have turned me out."

"Who have?"

"Why, Mollie, my sister, and—and Gavon."

"Oh, indeed! And did they give you a reason?"

"They said that I was nervous and would not make a good nurse. And they are right," she added. "I am nervous. I quite screamed when I saw a poor man brought in one morning with his leg shattered. He was unconscious, and my scream awoke him, and he looked at me. Oh, I see his face still! He was dead in an hour, and I never saw anything like the reproach that was in his eyes! They haunt me. He thought I was afraid of him—and I was—and his eyes haunt me! No, I am not fit to be a nurse."

"I don't think you are," said Strause. "You are a delicate little thing, not a bit like your sister."

"Oh, Mollie is so strong—she is almost coarse," said Kitty.

"I don't think there is anything coarse about her. I wish you could have seen her the other morning. It was quite early, before daylight, and a poor chap was dying, and she sang to him."

"Oh, please don't tell me about dying people, it is so melancholy."

"May I ask, Miss Hepworth," said Strause, "why you came here at all?"

"Can't you guess?" she answered, and she flushed a very rosy red. "To be near Gavon."

"Do you see much of Captain Keith?"

"Yes, a good deal. He comes in most evenings. He has not been in yet to-night."

"You are desperately in love with him, aren't you?"

Kitty sighed, then she smiled, then she put up her hand to sweep away the curls from her forehead.

"Oh yes," she said then; "of course I am. We are going to be married."

"I wonder," said the major, "if you would thank me for a piece of information?"

"What? what?" she asked eagerly.

"Something to do with Captain Keith."

"What do you know about Gavon?"

"Something. Would you thank me if I told you?"

"I'd like to hear it very much. I don't believe you know anything bad of him."

"Nothing exactly bad, and yet something important—at least for you. I can tell you if you will make me a promise. I think you ought to know it, too, but I can only tell you if you make me a promise."

"And what is that?"

"That you will keep it dark that I told you. I must have your promise; then I have something of great interest to say."

"You quite frighten me," said the girl. "What can it be? Something about Gavon, and something, I see by your manner, not quite good. And I am to make you a promise."

"You can act in any way you like, but you are never to tell who told you. And if you give me your promise, I will take you a little bit into my confidence, and you and I can work together. You won't find it dull in Ladysmith when you and I have made our little plot to stick together and work together."

"But I don't at all know that I want to work with you, Major Strause."

"Oh, it isn't a love business—nothing of that sort."

Kitty flushed and looked annoyed.

"It simply means that you and I want to hold what we have got."

"To hold what we have got!" repeated the girl.

"Yes, that's about it. You and I want to hold our possessions tightly; and I think we can if we make a little league to work together."

"All right; let's make a league," said Kitty. "It really is exciting, and while you talk to me I forget Long Tom."

"Before we do anything you have got to make me your promise."

"Yes; what is it?"

"That you will never, under any circumstances, tell anybody that I have informed you of that thing which I know."

"Of course I won't."

"That kind of loose way of answering won't suit me. You must answer me solemnly; and remember, before you make the promise which I am going to make you give me, that if you break it you bring a great deal of bad luck not only upon yourself, but upon Keith."

"Oh, I would not do him harm, my darling, for all the world!"

"Well, see you don't. You will if you break your vow."

"Vow!" said Kitty; "must I make a vow?"

"You must, and pretty sharp, too, if you want me to tell you what I know."

"All right," said Kitty, who was now overcome with curiosity. "Of course I'll do what you require."

"Then say these words after me: 'I promise that whatever happens—'"

"'I promise that whatever happens,'" she repeated.

"'I will never tell that Major Strause was my informant with regard to Gavon Keith and Mollie Hepworth.'"

As Strause uttered the last words Kitty's face turned white as a sheet. She sprang from her reclining position, and stood before the major with both her hands tightly clasped.

"'Gavon Keith and Mollie Hepworth.' Oh yes, I will make a thousand promises if necessary. I will never, never tell. Thank you, Major Strause, thank you. And now, please tell me."

"You will do him an injury if you break your vow. You must say, 'So help me, God.'"

"'So help me, God,' I will never tell."

"Then this is my information: it will pain you, but not more than it has pained me. I have been in the hospital, and I know. You can find out for yourself. Your sister Mollie is in love with Captain Keith, and Captain Keith is in love with her."

CHAPTER XIX.
IN THE HOSPITAL.

Kitty was supposed to be weak; but when this information was quietly given her by Major Strause, she showed no weakness. Even the pallor left her face, giving place to a rosy red. Just for an instant she staggered; then she regained her self-control, and sat down on her sofa.

"Don't sit on that chair," she said; "come near me and tell me why—why you said such an awful thing as that to me."

Major Strause replied by giving Kitty a full account of the two occasions on which he had seen Mollie and Keith together. He described with vividness and power that hand-clasp and those few words, and then with greater power he got his excitable hearer to understand the look which filled Gavon's eyes and the look which filled Mollie's eyes on the next occasion when he had seen them together. And Kitty, who had been jealous of her sister from the first, gave a heavy, very heavy sigh.

"You need not tell me any more," she said. "I know you are right. I know you have just said what is the truth."

"And you are satisfied to sit down under it?" was the major's remark.

"No, I am not."

"Yet you must be. You are willing to give up your lover to your sister. Your sister is a very fine woman, a very noble woman, and you are willing, for your sister's sake, to submit to this act of extreme renunciation."

"Never!" said Kitty, "never!

"Ah, now you speak with spirit. And the renunciation is not necessary, believe me. You can, if you will take my advice, keep your lover for yourself."

"Yes!"

"I know a way in which you can not only keep him, but get him to love you just as passionately as he now loves Nurse Mollie."

"Do you indeed, Major Strause? If there is such a way, believe me I will take it."

"I think you will. You must listen attentively."

"I will listen," said Kitty.

"In the first place, you must completely change your mode of life. You must not shrink any longer from terrible sights, nor from unselfish actions; you must not spend all your time in this dull, wretched room—any one would get hipped who lived in a place of this sort; you must show your pluck and spirit; you must go back to the hospital; you must learn the duties of a nurse; and you must not leave your sister and Keith alone."

"I will not," said Kitty. Her cheeks were flaming and her eyes shining.

"That is right. You will be twice the girl you are now. You will cease to fear Long Tom when you have so many other things to fear."

"I don't really mind Long Tom," answered Kitty, and as she spoke she gave a shudder. "I think," she added, "that I would almost like a shell to come in and—end everything; for oh, your words have made me so very miserable!"

"I was obliged to speak; but, after all, the very pain you now suffer may be your means of deliverance. It is necessary, absolutely necessary for your sake, to take extreme steps. The thing is serious; it can only be combated by extreme measures."

"What way is that? oh, do tell me! I shall always look upon you as my greatest friend if you save me from the terrible fate which seems hanging over me."

"Remember you are never to breathe that I was your informant."

"I never will."

"Well, you must act with guile. In the first place, you must go back to the hospital. You will soon have proof that your sister loves Keith, and that Keith loves her. Tell your sister, or Miss Hunt, that you are very much better, and that you are going back to the hospital to do what little good you can. If you show tact and spirit, you will soon learn your duties, and your sister will be pleased with you; and what is far more important, Captain Keith will be pleased with you. You will be no longer the pretty nonentity who has come to Ladysmith to be a trouble and a worry. No woman ought to be a trouble and a worry who lives in Ladysmith now."

"Yes, but I don't care to be a heroine. You may think nothing of me, but I really don't. If I act as you suggest, how will it get me back Gavon's love?"

"In the first place, he will cease to despise you."

"Oh, he cannot despise me—my darling cannot despise me!" said Kitty, and her lips trembled.

"I am sorry to have to say it, but I greatly fear he does despise you. If you were to look into his heart, you would find that he does. He has his faults—no one has more reason to know that than myself—but he is not a nonentity. He is a brave soldier, and he would not like the girl he marries to be a coward. Now, while you stay in this room, you are acting a coward's part. Go back to the hospital, reinstate yourself, and see that what I tell you is the truth. You will not be very long before you know. Not that Captain Keith makes love to your sister in so many words—he would not do that sort of thing for worlds—but there is a love which fills the eyes when the lips never speak; and if you watch you will see it, and you will also see the same expression in your sister's eyes, although she also would not speak of her love for worlds. When you see that love in her eyes and in Keith's eyes, the time will have come for you to speak openly to your sister, and that is what I am coming to."

"Yes!" said Kitty.

"Now, Miss Hepworth, I am really going to confide in you. There is one way, and only one, to save the position."

"What is that, Major Strause?"

"Your sister Mollie must marry me."

"O Major Strause!"

"Yes; I love her madly. I love her with the most pure, self-sacrificing passion. I would do anything on earth for her. She must become my wife here, in Ladysmith, and thus you are saved. Captain Keith is not the man to love her after she is my wife."

"But if Mollie doesn't love you?" said Kitty, trembling very much, and fixing her eyes full on the major's flushed face.

"She shall love me; and you must bring it about. I am determined to win her. If she won't have me after you have spoken, I have another lever to bring to bear. It will be her mission to save you and to save Captain Keith; for if she doesn't, as there is a God in heaven, you go under, and he goes under. Now I have spoken; now I think you understand."

As the major spoke he rose to his feet.

"But I don't understand," said Kitty.

"That is all you are to understand to-night. Go to the hospital to-morrow. I have spoken the truth. The way to save the situation is to get your sister Mollie to marry me."

"If she doesn't love you, she will not marry you."

"Watch Miss Hepworth; be silent, be wary, watch! and when you see what I know you will see, then speak to her—tell her to her face that she loves him. She will deny it, perhaps, or perhaps she will confess it. If she does, you are to tell her there is only one way out—she must marry me! If she refuses, let me know. I shall have another lever to bring to bear. Now, good-night, Miss Hepworth."

The major strode from the room. Kitty looked wildly round her. She was alone, and night was over the scene. Even over the doomed city of Ladysmith the moon shone, and there was a white sort of fragrance in the air, and the dust no longer covered everything. The beleaguered town lay quiet under the wing of sleep—that is, all those slept who were not suffering from enteric, or from deadly wounds, or from the slow, the slow, cruel death of starvation; for already rations were short, and food was precious. The uneasy neighing of half-fed horses came to Kitty's ears as she went and stood by the open window. She did not heed, she did not care; she was selfishly absorbed in her own mad thoughts, her own wild grief.

The door was opened, and Katherine Hunt came in.

"Well, Kitty," she said, "any better?"

"Yes, much better," said Kitty. She turned, and faced Katherine.

"Come over here and let me look at you," said Katherine suddenly.

She took Kitty's hand and drew her towards the lamp. She looked full into her face. Kitty's face was very white, her eyes were too big, and the black marks under them too dark for health. But just now the eyes were bright and the lips were firm, and there was a hectic flush on each thin cheek.

"I thought you looked well, but I doubt if you do," said Katherine. "You look strange. Is anything the matter?"

"No," said Kitty, "no; only, Kate—"

"Yes!"

"I am going to turn over a new leaf."

"I wish you would, with all my heart. Oh, I have brought you something nice for supper!"

"What?"

"A little, precious, precious pot of bovril. You must make it go as far as you can. I doubt if I can get you another."

"I was hungry at dinner-time—we had a very poor dinner—but I am not hungry now," said Kitty; "only I am thirsty," she added.

"Well, you shall have a drink, but you must eat too. A cup of bovril and some bread will make quite a nice supper for you. Don't throw away good food now."

"Is food really scarce in Ladysmith?" said the girl.

"Not yet; but we don't know how long the siege will last. I think Sir George White is anxious; he wants relief to come quickly. It is being strangely delayed. Oh, we are all right, of course, but our enemies are the sort who will sit down and wait for any length of time. They are not a foe to be despised. We are hemmed in, and the provisions cannot last for ever. Milk is the most pressing want just now. I was passing a house, when a mother came out and asked me if I could get her even a very little milk. She said her baby was dying for want of it. I went in and looked at the poor little thing. It had lived for a week on sugar and water. And the orders now are that all the milk is to be kept for the sick, I could not get her any. While I was with her the child had a slight convulsion, and died. That is the sixth baby that has died in Ladysmith to-day."

"How gloomy!" said Kitty.

"Why do you speak in that tone? Aren't you sorry?"

"No, I don't think I am. No; it is best for the little babies. Oh, oh, oh, I am so unhappy!"

She burst into tears. Katherine kissed her.

"Now, cheer up!" she said. "You stay so much alone! You would be much better if you did what I do. Just go about and fling yourself into the trouble, and do your very best for those who are in distress and suffering, and misery and fear—the deadly fear of death. And yet why should people be afraid?"

"I am not," said Kitty; "I was, but I am not. I was going to tell you that I am about to turn over a new leaf. I am going back to the hospital to-morrow."

"Are you really, Kitten?" said Kate, looking with interest at the girl. "And are you going to be a brave kitten—not to cry out if you are hurt, not to be troubled if everything is not quite your way? Are you going really to help? For if so, you can, and you will be all the better for it."

"Yes, I am going to help," answered the girl; "but I don't at all know that I am brave, and I don't at all know that I shan't cry out. Anything is better than sitting in this room and waiting for Long Tom's kisses."

"Mollie will be pleased."

Kitty gave a shudder.

"I never met a finer woman than your sister. Try to copy her, and you will be a blessing in Ladysmith."

Kitty's shudder this time was invisible. She knew that she must act with guile if she would follow out Major Strause's wishes.

Early next morning she put on a clean white dress, tied a big apron round her slim waist, and followed Katherine into the hospital. Katherine took her in with a certain air of triumph. She brought her straight up to Mollie, who was busily engaged dealing out the food necessary for the sick during the coming twenty-four hours. Nurse Eugenia was waiting for instructions; another nurse, who was called in the ward Nurse Helen, was not far off. The two nurses narrowed their eyes, and looked with anything but favour at Kitty as she came in.

"That little hysterical girl! we don't want her here," thought Nurse Eugenia.

"She's too pretty to be useful," thought Nurse Helen. "But, all the same, the men, poor fellows, like to look at her. I wouldn't trust her out of my sight for a moment. But she's pretty, and even that's something."

Kitty did look very pretty. There was a pink flush on her cheeks, and her eyes were very bright. She had scarcely slept all the night before. Long Tom was sending shells at intervals into Ladysmith, and the noise of a great explosion fell upon Kitty's ears now as Katherine took her up to her sister.

"This is the Kitten, and she's going to do more than a kitten's work to-day," said Katherine.

"Ah, Kitty!" said Mollie, "I am glad to see you. But are you strong enough, darling?"

"Of course I am," said Kitty—"quite strong enough. I want to do something. Give me some work please, Mollie. I mean to stay in the hospital."

"There's a poor young man who has been badly hurt in his leg. He is discontented and nervous. Sit down by him and talk to him," said Mollie. "Here, bed number five."

She took Kitty's hand, and they crossed the ward. The young man was a private in one of the infantry regiments. His ankle bone was badly shattered. He had gone through great agonies, but was feeling comparatively easy now.

"This is my sister, Lawson," said Mollie. "She will sit with you for a little. She would like to read you your home letters, and she can write a letter at your dictation if you wish it. Anyhow, she will try to amuse you."

Kitty sat down very shyly. She had her mission full in view. She was not forgetting herself for a single instant, but, all the same, the cases in the surgical ward made her nervous. She hoped no fresh wounded men would be brought in while she was present, and that no operations would take place anywhere within earshot. She felt that her own courage was of the poorest quality, and that if Long Tom sent any kisses in her direction she might shrink.

"But I must not," she said, "for if I do they would turn me out; and it is my only chance to stay here, and—and use my eyes."

"Shall I read you anything?" she said, raising her pretty eyes, as the thought came to her, to Lawson's face.

"If you would, miss," he answered. "I'd like to hear all the home letters read over one by one. Here they are, miss."

He indicated a pile of letters which were pushed under his pillow. Kitty took them out. They were tied with a bit of red ribbon.

"They are from my mother, miss, and my—the young woman I keep company with."

"Oh!" answered Kitty. She looked with interest at Lawson. His mother was nothing to her; but his sweetheart! A fellow-feeling made her kind. "Is she very fond of you?" she asked suddenly.

"Is Annie fond of me, miss?" he replied. "I should think she is just; and I—oh, I adore her, miss! She wanted us to marry afore I come out; but I said best not—best wait till I get back with my V.C. I won't never get that now, miss; and they say I'll limp all the rest of my days."

"I don't suppose she will mind that," answered Kitty.

"Indeed and she won't, miss. Annie wouldn't mind nothing if only she had me with her. Bless her, she's as fine a girl as ever walked. I'm fair hungering to hear from her. It's such a long time since we had any letters. Sometimes I think that's about the worst of anything in the siege. I wouldn't mind having a bullet in my other ankle and starving half my time, if only I had a long, long letter from mother and my brother and Annie. But we don't get letters, nor news of any sort. That's the hardest part of the siege."

"I suppose it is," answered Kitty.

It was not the hardest to her, for those she cared for most were with her in Ladysmith. Nevertheless she appreciated some of the hunger she saw shining out of Lawson's keen grey eyes.

"You'd like me to show you Annie's picture, perhaps, miss?"

"I would like to see it very much," answered Kitty.

Lawson was too ill to move, but he directed Kitty where to slip her hand, and where to find, under his bolster, a photograph-case. She opened it under his orders, and saw a full-faced girl of a common type, with frowsy hair and a showily-made dress.

"Ain't she a beauty?" said the young man. "And she's mine, too—mine. I think a lot of her when I lie awake at night. She'll make me a right good wife. She'll take in washing—Annie's grand at the laundry."

Kitty drew him on to talk. He forgot his pain when he talked of his sweetheart. Kitty did not care to hear him speak of his mother, whom he also loved very much; she thought this kind of conversation dull. All the time, while she listened, her restless eyes darted here and there. She felt certain that she would get very white if Captain Keith came into the ward.

But Keith was not coming into the ward that day. He was fighting for dear life and country outside Ladysmith against the Boers. Had Kitty known this, even the small measure of tranquillity which was hers would have deserted her.

Long Tom continued to send in shells, and Puffing Billy helped him. But Lady Anne answered back, and managed, after a time, to silence Long Tom. With each explosion Kitty gave a start.

"Be you afeard of the firing, miss?" asked Lawson.

"Yes," she answered, with a shudder; "but please don't tell any one."

"I won't, miss; but you ain't no cause to be frightened while you are here. 'Tain't likely they'll send a shell right over the orspital. They know the orspital by the Red Cross flag. No one would be mean enough for that."

"I think they are mean enough for anything," replied Kitty.

"Not so mean as that," answered Lawson, and he shook his head as one who knew.

The firing went on, and presently Kitty, in her alarm, found herself clasping the hand of Private Lawson. He held her little hand tightly in his. He was fond of saying during the next day that the feel of that little warm hand had supported him during the extreme of his pain; for his ankle became dreadfully inflamed, and the agony was intense. After that interview he took a great interest in Kitty. She was the pretty little lady, who was no nurse, bless her, but who was so very human, so very like what he pictured his own girl in his dreams to be. Only his own girl would not have been afraid of the shells, and would have turned to, there and then, to do a lot of laundry work for the sick soldiers. There was no one in the world less like Kitty than this girl, who was brusque, and determined, and strong in character, and faithful and unselfish to her backbone. But Kitty had her uses that day in the hospital, all the same. She supported Jim Lawson through his darkest hour, and just because she was nervous and frightened, for her sake he must keep brave and calm; and God only knew what a hero the little girl made of him for the time being.

CHAPTER XX.
PRIVATE LAWSON.

Kitty was praised by Mollie that night for her endurance during the trying day. Kitty replied with what affection she could, and Mollie said she would come and see her that evening if possible; and tired, excited, but on the whole happier than she had been the day before, the little girl went back to her rooms at the hotel. She slept well, and early the next day returned to the hospital.

The first person she saw there was Gavon Keith. He smiled when he saw her. He was seated on a stool near one of the entrances; his leg was stretched out, and Mollie was bathing it with Condy and water.

"So you are wounded!" said Kitty, white as a sheet. "Is it dangerous?"

"Dangerous," said the young man, smiling, "when I can sit up! My dear Kit, what are you made of? It is a mere scratch,—isn't it, Nurse Mollie?"

"Nothing more," she answered; "but you ought to keep the leg up until to-morrow at any rate."

"I cannot do that; we are safe to have another skirmish with the Boers in the course of the day. They are getting desperate. I am glad they are moving. Anything is better than the terrible quiet of the last few weeks. If we can only induce them to come out of their shelter and fight us in the open, I believe we could force them to retreat. There is that in every mother's son of us which can't be beaten; that's my belief."

Keith smiled as he spoke, and his dark eyes looked away from Kitty across the long ward. Every mother's son of the men looked back at him. Were they not giving up their very lives? On every face was that indomitable look which the British soldier will wear in his time of need—the look which says to the foe, "Come on; I am waiting for you. I am ready; I am not going to cave in. Come on; do your worst." And Keith, whose spirit was boiling within him, forgot Kitty at that supreme moment. But though he forgot Kitty, he did not forget the soothing, very soothing touch of Mollie's light fingers as she bathed the ugly scratch on his leg. She bathed and bathed, and Keith lay back contented. He was very tired and very dusty; and it was delicious to have his wound attended to, and by her. As to Kitty, she was, of course, his betrothed wife; but—he could not help it—she was not in touch with him at that moment.

As to Kitty herself, the curious mingling of emotions which filled her little frame made her almost incapable of speech. Mollie certainly made the very sweetest nurse. She was never untidy; she never looked flushed, or hurried, or discomposed. Her face was as calm when she was breathing comfort to the last moments of a dying soldier as it was at this instant when she was making a brave young officer more comfortable. Nothing ever seemed to disturb Mollie's calm. Kitty sat and watched her. Just at that instant Major Strause strolled through the ward; he was going into the enteric ward. He had leisure, and meant to spend a good morning helping brave Mollie in her work. As he passed through, his eyes lighted on the little group. First at Keith he looked, then with a lingering gaze of awakening passion at Mollie, then with an expression of great meaning at Kitty. Kitty could not bear to feel that there was an understanding between herself and the major. She turned away, but nevertheless his glance had done its poisoned work.

"I wish," she said, trembling a little—"I wish, Mollie—"

"Yes?" said Mollie, looking up. She had just changed the Condy and water for a fresh supply, and the warm, comforting application was causing Keith delicious ease.

"I wish you would let me do that. I could, you know. It seems as if it was my—right."

She said the last words in a whisper. Mollie looked up, startled at her tone. Keith also glanced at her. He seemed to awake to the true position. He shook himself and sat up.

"I forgot things, Kitty," he said. "Yes, of course you shall bathe my leg if you like."

Mollie rose immediately.

"Here is a fresh jug of water," she said; "and you must throw that Condy and water away in a few minutes, and apply a little more.—Then you had better have a cold compress over the wound, Captain Keith; otherwise some of the red dust may get in, and it may get really inflamed."

"All right," said Keith. "I leave myself in your hands.—Now then, Kitty, bathe away."

Mollie looked at her sister in some wonder. Kitty had put a white linen apron over her dainty dress. She stooped down, looking at Mollie as if she wished her to go. Mollie read the expression on Kitty's face aright. She turned aside and went to attend to a young soldier who was lying in great discomfort in a bed opposite.

Kitty began to bathe. Her white fingers were loaded with rings; she had a gold chain bracelet on her wrist. The bracelet dipped into the lotion, the rings became wet, the little fingers were slightly stained. Keith watched her with a growing sense of amusement. What a baby she was! How pretty! how ignorant! How dared she play with matters of life and death? Nevertheless it interested him that she should do so.

"What has brought you back to the hospital again, Kit?" he said. "Are you better?"

"Oh, much better," she answered.

"And you seriously mean to help the nurses?"

"Yes, seriously. Isn't the lotion rather cold?"

"No; it does very nicely. Please don't dab the sponge quite so hard against my leg. Ah! that is better. You would make quite a good nurse if you practised, Kitty."

"I mean to try," answered Kitty, encouraged and cheered by his words of praise.

"But you ought not to wear rings or bracelets."

"Don't you like me to wear my rings?" she said, her lips quivering as she raised a perfectly childish face to his.

"Anything you fancy, little girl."

"I am sure this is too cold now," she said.

He did not reply. She threw the used-up lotion away, and made a fresh one. She was very ignorant, and he was as much so. Instead of two or three drops, she put in a liberal supply of Condy. The water also was hot—too hot for the inflamed leg. She filled the sponge, and put it on. Keith, in spite of himself, uttered a cry. Then he bit his lip and turned very white.

"I don't think, somehow, that is quite right," he said, and he had scarcely uttered the words before he fainted away. Kitty's lotion had burned his wound badly.

Mollie heard his cry, and rushed towards him. She applied restoratives quickly, and spoke to Kitty in a voice rendered sharp with annoyance.

"You did not make the lotion right," she said. "How much Condy did you put in?"

Kitty lifted the bottle.

"Oh, how it discolours my hand!" she said. "It is horrid stuff; why do you use it?"

"It is the right thing to use. Go away, please Kitty; I will see to this."

"No, I won't go away," answered Kitty.

She stood sullenly by. Keith opened his eyes. He could not suppress a groan of pain. Mollie had made a fresh lotion; she applied it, cool and tender and refreshing, to the inflamed leg.

"After all, Kitty's measures were a little stringent," she said; "but perhaps they will do you good in the long run, only you must bear an hour or so of pain. Now, I will get an orderly to help me, and we will put you on one of the empty beds, and by the afternoon your leg ought to be much better."

"I can help, can't I?" said Kitty.

"I think not; you are not strong enough,"

"O don't, Kit," remarked Keith, with a laugh; "your ministrations are just a trifle too violent."

She frowned with annoyance. Her jealous heart was becoming very sore. Keith was considerably hurt by the powerful lotion, and he lay for some time indifferent to Kitty's presence. Once she went up to him and asked if she might do something.

"You do something!" he replied. "No, thank you; send your sister to me."

"It is true," thought Kitty to herself. "He hates me, and he loves her. Why should he turn me away just because I made a tiny mistake?"

She choked down a sob in her throat, and went to fetch Mollie. Mollie returned instantly. Keith smiled when he saw her.

"Your very presence gives me strength," he said; and Kitty, silly, foolish Kitty, heard the words.

Her mind was made up now; surely she had seen for herself.

"But I won't give him up," she thought. "Mollie shall not have him. She aims at being so high, and yet she does the very lowest, meanest things. She tries to take my Gavon from me, but she shan't have him."

Kitty went across the ward. Lawson called out to her.

"Have you anything special to do, miss?"

"Yes, I have a great deal to do," said Kitty, in a cross voice. "But do you want anything?" she added.

"I thought maybe, miss, I might dictate a letter to my young woman, so be as you'd write it for me. I don't mind saying out my mind afore you, miss."

Kitty hesitated.

"I will write it for you after dinner," she said.

"I may not be so well then, miss. I ain't been the thing to-day, My mind keeps wandering, and I shouldn't be surprised if I had a touch of enteric. I feel like it, somehow."

"Oh, you are getting on very well," said Kitty. "You are just nervous.—Isn't Lawson just nervous, Sister Eugenia?"

Sister Eugenia came up to Lawson's bed and looked at him.

"You don't seem quite comfortable," she said. "What do you complain of? Ankle very painful?"

"Yes, rather," said the poor fellow.

"I am afraid, Lawson, you must submit to amputation," said Sister Eugenia. "It is sharp and short, and puts things right."

"Couldn't stand it; it would kill me. I couldn't go back home with only a stump instead of a leg. I couldn't do it, and I won't."

"Well, we'll see what the doctor says," replied Sister Eugenia.

"If I were you," she said in a low voice to Kitty, "I would do what he asks. I don't at all like his look. He has been suffering a lot of pain, poor fellow, and he is very bad now."

Kitty hesitated; her heart was on fire with her own imaginary wrongs. Why should she worry about a man like Lawson? True, he was a nice fellow—very nice—and she sympathized with him about his girl. But that girl was happier than she, for Lawson loved her well, and saw no blemish in her. For him she was surrounded by a halo; he looked at her through blue glasses, and her coarse and common nature was refined and rendered beautiful. She was his dream, and he had no room in his heart for any other woman. If only Keith might be as true, thought the girl.

"May I dictate a bit of a letter to you, miss?" said Lawson again.

"After dinner. I'll come back after dinner," replied Kitty.

She went away, and returned to her own room. She dined with some of the officers and nurses at the hotel. All during dinner the talk was of the short rations which must in future be the portion of the beleaguered city. The strongest pity was expressed for the horses, which were not half fed. There was to be a consultation that very day as to whether the cavalry horses were to be destroyed or not. Kitty was too full of herself really to sympathize with the woes of Ladysmith; but she heard the conversation, and it depressed her more than ever. After dinner she yawned feebly, went slowly up to her own room, and stood looking out of the window.

"Oh, it is all so miserable," she thought. "I suppose I must do what Major Strause wants," and just as the thought came to her she saw his broad figure crossing the street.

He entered the hotel, and the next instant was tapping at her door. Kitty said, "Come in," and he entered.

"Well?" he said, the moment he saw her face. "I haven't a minute to stay. Was I right, or was I wrong?"

"You were right," said Kitty. "And I," she added, "am nearly mad."

"No wonder, poor little girl. You will adopt my suggestion?"

"I certainly will. I mean to talk to Mollie to-night."

"By-the-way, I believe you are wanted at the hospital; your sister told me to ask you to go back as soon as possible. A private of the name of Lawson is very bad. The doctors are with him. He wants you to do something. Sister Mollie offered to do it, but he seems to have taken a fancy to you."

"Oh, I will go presently," said Kitty. "It is nothing much."

"Nothing much! but the poor chap is in danger."

"It really isn't much," said Kitty. "He only wants me to write a letter to the girl he is engaged to. But I will go; any time to-day will do, I suppose."