"De coachman jes' tend to yo' hoss like 's ef 't wor yo'se'f, Mister Chi. I 'll jes' call up de stable bo', 'n' he 'll rub him down wif sp'r'ts, an' shine him up till he look jes' lake new mahog'ny. Jes' yo' come–dere dey come now!"
Chi was at the curbstone to welcome them.
"Chi! O Chi!" Hazel rose up in the trap at sight of the well-known figure, and Chi, laying his hand firmly on Martin's shoulder, put him aside as he sprang to open the door and let down the steps, reached up both arms, and took Hazel out as tenderly as on the night of her first arrival at the farmhouse on the Mountain. And then and there Hazel gave him a kiss, and Mr. Clyde grasped his hands in both his, and the wide hall doors that Wilkins had thrown open to their fullest extent closed upon the reunited friends.
"'E 's a 'ansome 'oss," Martin remarked to the coachman, as he mounted Fleet to take him to the stable; "Hi 'ave n't seen a 'ansomer since Hi 've bean in the States."
A few days after the hall doors were again flung wide, but not to their fullest extent, and Wilkins' face grew strangely tremulous when he heard Hazel and Mr. Clyde, Jack and Chi coming down the broad hall stairs. Martin was proudly leading Fleet and Little Shaver up and down in front of the house.
"Jack! O Jack! I can't bear to have you go–but I will be brave." Hazel smiled through the raining tears. She clung to him and kissed him. He put her aside, ran out to Little Shaver, and flung himself on before Chi had said good-bye.
"Take care of Jack, Chi," she whispered, patting his hand.
"I will, Barbara Frietchie." He pointed to the flag that, in the east wind blowing in from the Sound, was waving over the entrance, gripped Mr. Clyde's hand, then Wilkins', and, apparently, stepped into the saddle.
"Quick, quick, Wilkins! lower the flag, and let me have it." Wilkins sprang to obey. Hazel seized it, and rushed up stairs to the drawing-room, the windows of which overlooked the Avenue. One of them was open; she leaned out; and as Fleet and Little Shaver turned the corner, their riders, looking up, saw the young girl's figure in the opening. She was waving the symbol of their Country's life and their manhood's loyalty.
They halted, baring their heads for a moment–then without once looking back, galloped down the Avenue.
XXV
SAN JUAN
Notwithstanding it was a hot day in the first week of July, Mrs. Spillkins had decided to have a "quilting-bee." Having made up her mind, after consulting with Miss Melissa and Miss Elvira, she lost no time in summoning Uncle Israel from the barn, and making known her plans. Uncle Israel mildly objected.
"Kinder hot fer er quiltin'-bee, ain't it, Hannah?"
"'Tis pretty hot," Mrs. Spillkins admitted, wiping the perspiration from her face with her apron, "but we 'll have it to-morrow 'long 'bout four. You get the frames and rollers out, Israel, from the back garret, an' then I want you to go up to Mis' Blossom's an' ask 'em to come, an' get word to the other folks on the Mountain."
"I 'll go, Hannah, but I dunno 'bout Mis' Blossom 'n' Rose comin' ter er quiltin'-bee jest 'bout this time. They 're feelin' pretty low 'bout Chi off thar in Cuby; news hez come thet ther 's ben fightin'–"
"I know that, Israel; I 've thought of that, too; but, mebbe, it 'll do 'em good, just to change the scene a little. Anyway, you ask 'em."
"Jest ez ye say, Hannah."
The sun was setting when Uncle Israel made his appearance on the porch where the whole family was assembled with Alan Ford. They had but one topic for conversation.
Uncle Israel gave his invitation, and added: "Hannah thought ye 'd better come 'n' change the scene a leetle–she knowed ye 'd be kinder low-spereted 'bout now."
Mrs. Blossom held out her hand. "Thank you, Uncle Israel. Tell Mrs. Spillkins we will both come."
"Hannah wants your folks ter come, tew, Alan."
"Much obliged, Uncle Israel. I 'll tell mother and Ruth; I 'm sure they will enjoy it. Ruth said the other day she wished she might have a chance to see a quilting-bee while we are here. Shall I take your message over to Aunt Tryphosa?"
"Much obleeged, Alan. Thank ye, Rose,"–as Rose brought out the large arm-chair and placed it for him; "I 'll set a spell 'n' rest me."
It was a typical northern midsummer night. Across the valley the mountains loomed, softly luminous, against the pale green translucent stretch of open sky in the west. There were no clouds; but high above and around there swept a long trail of motionless mist, flame-colored over the mountain tops, but darkening, with the coming of the night, into gray towards the east. The stars were not yet out. The veeries were choiring antiphonally in the woodlands.
An hour afterwards Alan Ford rose to go, and Uncle Israel soon followed his example.
"I 'll go down the woods'-road a piece with you, Uncle Israel," said Rose.
As she came back up the Mountain a cool breath drew through the pines, and the spruces gave forth their resinous fragrance upon the dewless night. The stars were brilliant in the dark blue deeps.
A midsummer night among the mountains of New England! And far away in the sickening heat and wet, the fever-laden exhalations of the tropics rose into the nostrils of a man, who sat motionless in the rude field-hospital, hastily improvised on the slope of San Juan, watching, with his knees drawn up to his chin and his hands clasping them, for some faint tremor in the still face on the army blanket spread upon the ground.
The lantern cast its light full upon that still face. Suddenly the watcher bent forward; his keen eyes had detected a twitch of an eyelid–a flutter in the muscles of the throat. "Don't move him," the surgeon had said; "the least movement will cause the final hemorrhage."
There was a catch of the breath–the eyes opened, partly filmed.
"Jack!" The watcher spoke, bending lower; his ear over the other's lips.
"Chi–" it was a mere breath, but the man heard–"I'm–done for."
The watcher's hand, muscular, toil-hardened, sought the nerveless one that was lying on the other's breast, and closed upon it with a brooding pressure. There was silence for a few minutes. Then the horny hand felt a feeble stirring of the fingers beneath the hardened palm–they were fumbling weakly at a button.
The strong hand undid the button, gently–very gently, without apparent movement. There was a motion of the nerveless fingers towards the place. Another breath:–
"Give–love–"
A long silence fell.
Mrs. Spillkins heaved a sigh of satisfaction: "We 've done an awful sight of work," she said, surveying the five quilts "run" and "tacked" and "knotted" in even rows and mathematically true squares; "but it seems as if they did n't eat a mite of supper, an' that strawberry shortcake was enough to melt in your mouth."
"What'd I tell ye, Hannah? They're worretin' 'bout Chi," said Uncle Israel. "They've fit agin; Ben told me while he wuz waitin' with the team fer the womin-folks. He hed the mail, 'n' er telegram thet thet young feller, we see ridin' 'roun' here las' summer, wuz mortal wounded. He did n't want the womin-folks ter know it till he got 'em hum. They sot er sight by him."
Mrs. Spillkins threw up her hands: "Dear suz'y me!" she exclaimed in a distressed voice. "What 'll they do! I hope an' pray Malachi Graham ain't hurt none. I feel as if I ought to go right up there, an' see if there 's anything I can do."
"Better wait till the Cap'n comes hum, Hannah; he 'll hev the papers."
"I guess 't would be better," and Mrs. Spillkins proceeded to fold up her quilts and "clear up" the best room.
The hot July days warmed the breast of the Mountain. Over in the corn-patch the stalks had spindled and the swelling ears were ready to tassel. By word or look Rose had given no sign–and her mother wondered. The days wore on; the routine of daily work and life went on; but the younger children's voices were subdued when they spoke lovingly and longingly of Chi, and Rose sang no longer when she kneaded bread. They were days of suspense and heart misery for them all.
Two weeks had passed since that evening when Mr. Blossom had read to them the fatal despatch. No word had come from anyone save Hazel, who wrote that her father and Uncle John had started at once for Cuba, and that she hoped to be with the Blossoms the third week in July, for by that time they would know the whole truth.
They had been making ready Hazel's little bedroom, for she was expected in a few days. Rose was tacking up a white muslin curtain at the small window, when she heard her father call:
"Rose, come here a minute."
"Yes, father."
She went out on the porch with the hammer in her hand. "What is it, Popsey dear?–Why, father, what–oh what–!"
With shaking hand her father held out a letter to her. Rose looked once–it was from Chi!
"I wish mother were here, daughter–but she'll be back soon. Let me know how it is with them all–." Mr. Blossom could say no more, for Malachi Graham was as near to him as a brother, and he was agonizing for his child. He went off to the barn, leaving Rose standing on the porch, staring as if fascinated at the superscription of the letter:
To Miss Rose Blossom,
Mill Settlement,
Barton's River,
Vermont.
N.B.B.O.O.–To be opened by nobody but her.
Rose laid down the hammer mechanically, opened the envelope, and unfolded the piece of brown paper from out of which fluttered to the floor another and thicker slip, stained almost beyond recognition. With staring eyes and face as white as driven snow she read the few words scrawled in pencil on the brown slip:–
DEAR ROSE-POSE,–I ain't no wish to meddle with anybody's business–but I 'm just obeying orders. The last words I heard Jack Sherrill speak, was "Give–love," and he fumbled at his breast to get out this enclosed. I ain't read it–but it's his heart's blood that's on it. Give my love to all.
Yours forever,
CHI.
"His heart's blood!" For a moment the words conveyed no meaning. She picked up the iron-rusty brown slip from the floor; unfolded it; read–Barry Cornwall's love-song in her own handwriting!
"His heart's blood!" She pressed one hand hard upon her own heart, crushing with the other the dark-stained slip. Then, with one wild look around her as if searching for help, she ran down the steps, across the mowing, over into the pasture and up into the woodlands. Deep, deep into the heart of them she made her way, as her mother, Mary Blossom, had done before her; but now there was no kneeling, no prayer, no petition to take from her the intolerable pain.
She was young, and she loved as the young love. It was not God whom she wanted; it was "Jack! Jack! Jack!" She cast herself face down upon the ground, and moaned in her agony: "His heart's blood–his heart's blood." She pressed the stained paper to her lips, over and over again. Then she opened her blouse and baring her bosom, laid the love-song against it–"His heart's blood–his heart's blood!"
So her mother found her.
XXVI
MARIA-ANN'S CRUSADE
Of late Aunt Tryphosa had been growing suspicious of Maria-Ann, and the latter felt she was being watched; to use her own words, "it nettled her."
One afternoon, late in August, her grandmother, coming upon her rather suddenly in the pasture as she sat under the shade of a patriarchal butternut, ostensibly watching Dorcas, asked her sharply:
"What you doin', Maria-Ann?"
"'Tendin' to my own business," retorted Maria-Ann, with an unwonted snap in her voice, and hurriedly folded something out of sight beneath the Hearthstone Journal which lay upon her lap.
This was the signal of open revolt on the part of her granddaughter, and the like had occurred but once before in all the time of her up-bringing with Aunt Tryphosa. The old dame's lips drew to a thinner line than usual, as she fired the second shot into the hostile camp:
"You been cryin', Maria-Ann."
"What if I be?" demanded her granddaughter, with a flash of indignation from beneath her reddened eyelids. "S'pose I have a right to have feelin's same as other folks."
Suddenly Aunt Tryphosa swooped like a hen-hawk upon a small piece of bright scarlet flannel, that the breeze had caught away from the protecting folds of the Hearthstone Journal, and landed in the covert of sweet fern just at her feet.
"What's that?" She held up the glowing bit of color, dangling it before Maria-Ann's eyes.
Upon poor Maria-Ann's inflamed sense of injustice, it had much the same effect as a red rag waved before the eyes of an infuriated bull.
She sprang to her feet, snatched the bit of cloth from between her grandmother's thumb and fore-finger, and thrust it into her dress waist, crying out shrilly in her unwonted excitement:
"You let that be, Grandmarm Little! It's my cross and I 'm going on a crusade–so now!"
Aunt Tryphosa sat down rather suddenly in the middle of the sweet-fern patch. Was Maria-Ann going crazy? Her breath came short and sharp; she drew her thin lips still more tightly, and, although really alarmed, braced herself for the combat.
"What 'd you say you was goin' on, Maria-Ann?"
"I never knew you was growin' deef before, grandmarm; I said a crusade." She had raised her voice to a still higher pitch, as she stooped to gather up the Hearthstone Journal, the bits of red cloth, her scissors, and thimble which had fallen from her lap as she sprang to her feet.
"Is that the thing you read me about last winter in the Journal, with the soldiers with crosses on their backs on hosses startin' out for Jerusalem?" demanded the old dame, but in a strangely agitated voice.
"Yes," responded Maria-Ann, promptly, but with less acerbity of manner.
"And is that red rag you hid away a cross, Maria-Ann Simmons?" No words can do justice to the old dame's tone and its implied impiety of her granddaughter's conduct.
Maria-Ann was silent.
"Be you a Christian girl, or an idolater, Maria-Ann?"
Her grandmother's voice shook pitiably. Maria-Ann's conscience gave a twinge, when she heard it; but she felt the time was ripe, and she must put in the sickle.
"I hope I 'm a Christian, grandmarm, but I 'm an idolater, too,–" Aunt Tryphosa drew in her breath, as if hurt. "But, anyway, I guess I was an American 'fore I was a Christian, an' I jest idolize my Country–" Maria-Ann's eyes filled with tears–"an' I can't do anything for her, nor make sacrifices same as other women do who can send their husbands–," a sob, "an' lovers–," another sob, "an' nuss 'em, an' help on their Country's cause livin' 'way up here in an old back paster with an old cow–an' an old wo–Oh, grandmarm!" Maria-Ann broke down utterly, laid her head upon her knees, and sobbed unrestrainedly.
It was an unusual sight, and Aunt Tryphosa was troubled. She felt it necessary to beat a retreat in the face of such genuine grief, but she was determined that it should be a dignified one.
"I ain't never seen you give way so, Maria-Ann, and you 're thirty-one year old come next January. I 've done my best to bring you up right, an' now you 're old enough to know your own mind, I hope; so, if you want to leave me, you can go jest as soon as you can get ready. I come up for Dorcas, an' now I 'm goin' home." In spite of her effort her old voice trembled, but her pride sustained her nobly, and Maria-Ann was all unaware that the tears were rolling down the wrinkled furrows in the old cheeks as her grandmother drove Dorcas before her down the fern-scented pasture slope.
Her granddaughter followed her half an hour later, and after a silent supper, except for Aunt Tryphosa's murmured "grace," and a faint "amen" from the other side of the table, Maria-Ann lighted a lamp and shut herself into her small bedroom.
She placed a chair against the door, lest she might be suddenly raided, and drew the other splint-bottomed one up to the head of the bed. Lifting the feather-bed she thrust her hand far under and drew out a square, white pasteboard box. It was tied with a narrow, white ribbon. She undid it carefully, and took out a layer of tissue paper. The lamp-light shone upon a large, gilt heart, some ten by eight inches, with a thickness of two inches.
Maria-Ann turned the box this way and that, watching the play of light on it, for the heart was skewered with a large, silver-gilt arrow, and the shaft, where it penetrated, held a small, white card with simulated blood-drops in carmine splashed on in one corner, and the sentiment, written in the same, straggling diagonally across the other corner:
"In thy sight
Is my delight."
Maria-Ann shut her eyes and leaned back in her chair. "Don't seems as if he 'd sent me that if he had n't meant somethin'," she murmured, and dreamed for a little while. Then she opened her eyes, prepared for new delights. Raising the gilt top with tender care, she took out a faded rose:
"Don't seem as if he 'd come back that nex' mornin' after Chris'mus an' give me that, 'thout he 'd had some notion." She laid the rose carefully upon the tissue paper, and began to lift the leaves of the heart-shaped book, until she had lifted every one of the three hundred and sixty-five! She smiled to herself.
"'T ain't likely he 'd 'a' sent me jest such a cook-book, 'thout he 'd been tryin' to give me a hint." She began to read the recipes–it was absorbing: puddings, cakes, preserves. She was lost to time as she read; "An' he took that pair of socks I knit him last Chris'mus 'long with him, Rose said–" There was a fumbling at her door. Maria-Arm blew out the light.
"That you, grandmarm?" she called pleasantly.
There was no answer, and Maria-Ann laughed softly to herself as she undressed in the dark, and lay down to sweet dreams.
"I 'm goin' over to Mis' Blossom's, grandmarm," she announced the next afternoon, "to see if they 've had any news. I ain't heard for two days."
Her grandmother made no reply, but when her grand-daughter was well on her way to the Blossoms', Mrs. Tryphosa Little's conscience deemed it prudent to issue a private search-warrant and investigate Maria-Ann's premises–even to the under side of the feather-bed. The results perfectly justified the search, and upon Maria-Ann's return just before tea, she was amazed to have her grandmother offer her a wrinkled cheek to kiss.
"Why, grandmarm!" exclaimed Maria-Ann, in joyful surprise, "I 'm so glad you ain't laid it up against me–
"I can see through a barn-door when 't is wide open, even at my time of life, Maria-Ann Simmons," said the old dame, interrupting her.
"What did you hear over to Ben's?"
"Hazel's just had a letter from her father, and he says they 've got Mr. Sherrill home to New York, an' if nothin' new sets in, he 'll get over it, but his lungs 'll be weak, mebbe, for two years. He was shot clean through the lungs."
"What do they hear from Chi?"
Maria-Ann's face grew suddenly radiant. "Oh, he 's been awful sick with the fever, an' ain't left Cuby yet, but he'll come North jest as soon as he can be transported. I 've been talking over my plans with Mis' Blossom an' Rose an' Hazel, an' they 're goin' to do everything they can for me."
"So you 're a-goin' to Cuby, Maria-Ann?"
"Yes, grandmarm, I 've got a call to go an' nuss our sick an' wounded; I 've been readin' a lot 'bout the Red Cross misses in the Hearthstone Journal, an' I 'm goin' to wear a cross, an' Hazel's goin' to pay my fare, an' I 'm goin' to stop to Mr. Clyde's when I get to New York, an' he 'll start me all right for Cuby–"
"Them beets are burnin' on, Maria-Ann; guess you 'd better stop for jest one more meal on the Mountin, had n't you?" said her grandmother, dryly.
Maria-Ann laughed merrily. "I know, grandmarm, it seems kinder queer and foolish to you, but I feel as if I could go now with nothin' on my mind, for you know Mandy's girl is comin' to stay all September an' October, an' she 's grand help. You won't begin to miss me 'fore I 'll be back–an' I 'll own up, grandmarm, ever since Rose Blossom went to New York last winter, I 've hankered after seein' more of the world 'sides Mount Hunger."
"When you goin' to start?"
"I calc'late 'bout the last of next week, that 'll be into September–here, let me pare them beets, grandmarm;" and forthwith she seized the pan, and began peeling the steaming, deep-red balls, singing heartily the while:
"'Must I be carried to the skies
On flowery beds of ease,
While others fought to win the prize,
And sailed through bloody seas?'"
"Now be careful, and change at White River Junction," were Mr. Blossom's parting words at the station. "After that you go right through to New York."
"I 'll take good care, don't you any of you worry 'bout me!" She waved her handkerchief from the back platform of the car to the little group she was leaving,–Mr. and Mrs. Blossom, Rose, March and Hazel, Captain Spillkins and Susan Wood, with Elvira and Melissa. She was inflated with heroic resolve, and felt ennobled to be going forth to do battle, as she termed it to herself, for her Country's cause. Moreover she was seeing the world, and even at the start she found it most interesting, for she had been but ten miles at most by train, and here she was speeding towards White River Junction, distant forty miles from Barton's River.
She longed to communicate her enthusiasm to the occupants of the car, but found only one opportunity. She offered to hold a baby, one of a family of five, while the mother fed and watered the other four. She continued to dandle it recklessly till the woman protested:
"Guess you ain't had a fam'ly," she remarked sternly, rescuing her child; "a woman of your age ought to know better 'n to shake a baby up so when he 's teethin'–'t ain't good for their brains–like enough bring on chol'ry morbis." She pulled down the small clothes, turned the atom over on its stomach, and patted its back with a broad hand and a dove-like settling motion that bespoke the mater-familias.
Maria-Ann looked out of the window. True, she had n't any family–only Grandmarm Little and Aunt Mandy's one daughter who had just come to visit them. What was Aunt Tryphosa doing now? She was dreaming again, and before she could realize it, the brakeman called, "White River Junction! Change cars for all points south via Windsor, Springfield, New York."
Hearing that, Maria-Ann felt as if she had already travelled a thousand miles, so far away seemed Mount Hunger and its uneventful life.
She found herself on the platform. She had been so confident of taking care of herself–and now! She looked helplessly about. Trains to the right of her, trains to the left of her, trains in front of her and behind her switched, and shifted, and thundered. Engine-bells, dinner-bells, train-bells; stentorian voices of baggage-men, brakemen, call-men; frantic women, screaming babies, hurrying porters, indifferent travellers, fashionable women and city men; farmers, children, baskets, shawl-straps, dress-suit cases, golf bags, boys; dogs, yelping and crying, in arms or in leash; canaries in their wooden cages shrilling over all; and hither and thither and yon a bustling, and rustling, and rattling, and roaring, and clanking, and hissing, and shrieking, and hurrying, and scurrying, and pushing, and hauling, and prodding, and rushing! For a minute Maria-Ann was dazed and almost stunned. Then her courage rose to the occasion. This was the famous Junction of which she had heard so much. This was the great world. This was Life!
"I 'll stand stock-still an' wait till it clears up a little. I 've got an hour here, an' mebbe I 'll see somebody from Barton's," she said to herself, and had just put down her valise when a hoarse voice cried in her ear,–"Hi, there! get out of the way!"
She dodged a baggage truck piled high with toppling trunks, only to be caught in the surging, living stream, and carried with it up a step into the restaurant of the station.
To Maria-Ann it was a marvellous sight. She set down her valise by a window and, standing guard in front of it, gazed about her with intense satisfaction. In truth this was seeing the great world, of which she had read so much in the Journal and for which she had longed, at first hand. Around the counter–a long oval–were perched on the high, wooden, spring stools "all sorts and conditions of men," with a sprinkling of women and children. There was perpetual motion of knives, forks, teaspoons, arms, hands, mouths,–and a noisy conglomerate beyond description, accented by the shriek and toot of the switch-engines.
Suddenly the clangor of a gong-like bell and a stentorian voice rose above the chaos of sound;–there was a momentary lull in the confusion of masticating utensils, followed by a general slipping, sliding, and jumping off the round wooden perches,–and to Maria-Ann's amazement, the room was nearly vacant.
"Now 's my time," said Maria-Ann, with considerable complacency, and forthwith proceeded to hoist herself, by means of the foot-rail, upon one of the seats, at the same time placing her valise on another at her right. She looked at the varied assortment of delectables–an embarrassment of riches: jelly-roll cakes, pickles, squash pie, baked beans, frosted tea-cakes, sage cheese, ham sandwiches, lemon pie, cold, spice-speckled custards, doughnuts, great as to their circumference, startling as to their cubical contents.
"I 've heard tell of them," said Maria-Ann to herself, as her eye, ranging the oval marble slab, encountered a pyramidal pile of New England's doughty cruller. "I 'll have two of them, I guess," she said to the indifferent attendant, "an' a cup of coffee; that 'll last me for a spell, and I can keep my lunch for supper." She expected some response to her explanation, but there was none forthcoming, save that a cup of coffee, half-pint size, was shoved over the counter towards her, and the huge glass dome that protected the doughnuts was removed with a jerk, and the towering pile set down in front of her.
Maria-Ann helped herself. It seemed rather tame, after so much excitement, to be eating a doughnut the size of a small feather-bed, without company. She looked around. There were but three or four at the entire counter. Farther down to the left, his tall, gaunt figure silhouetted against the blank of the large window, a man was seated, bestriding the perch as if it were a horse. He wore the undress uniform of the volunteer cavalry. When Maria-Ann discovered this, she felt for a moment, to use her own expression, "flustered." The mere presence of the uniform brought to her a realizing sense of the importance of her mission; it seemed to bring her at once into touch with far-away Cuba, and the feminine knights of the Red Cross; with–her heart gave a joyful thump–with Chi! She felt in a way ennobled to be eating her doughnut within speaking distance of a hero (they were all that in Maria-Ann's idealizing imagination).
She had bitten only halfway into the periphery of the doughnut, when the man stepped from his seat. She watched him as he moved slowly towards the door; his back was turned to her. How feebly he moved! Almost seeming to drag one foot after the other.
A great flood of patriotic pity engulfed Maria-Ann's whole being. She forgot the doughnuts; she left the coffee; she forgot even her valise; her one thought was as she slid from the stool: "I ain't no call to wait till I get to Cuby; I 'm just as much a Red Cross nuss right here in White River Junction, Vermont, as if I was a thousand miles away." The girl at the counter looked after her in amazement–she hadn't even paid! But there was her valise.
She saw Maria-Ann whisk something out of her dress-waist and stop halfway down the room to pin it on her sleeve, and lo and behold!–it was a cross of bright red flannel. She saw her hurry after the man, who had dragged himself to the doorway, and stood there leaning heavily against the jamb.
"If you 're goin' to take a train, just you let me help you aboard," she said, speaking just at his elbow. The man's head half turned with a jerk. "You ain't fit to stan' more 'n an eight months baby, an' I 'm a Red Cross nuss on my way to Cuby–"
A gaunt, yellow face with haggard eyes was turned slowly full upon her, and a hand, shaking, as that of a man in drink, was laid on her arm:
"Don't you know me, Marier-Ann?"
Maria-Ann sat down suddenly on the doorstep at the man's feet. There was no strength left in her. Then she put her head into her hands, and began to cry softly; there were few to see her, and had the whole world been there, she would not have cared.
"Just help me into the waitin'-room, Marier-Ann, where we can talk."
She bounced to her feet, with streaming, tear-blinded eyes, and Chi, linking his arm in hers, led her into the "Ladies' Room."
A porter followed them in; he addressed Chi. "She ain't paid for what she ordered, and she ain't eat it neither, and she 's left her valise."
Chi pulled out a ten-cent piece and put it into his hand. "Bring 'em all in," he said, "grub 'n' all, 'n' I 'll pay for 'em. We 'll sit here a spell till train time." Maria-Ann sobbed afresh.
The porter brought in the plate with the doughnuts, the cup of coffee, and the valise, and set them down on the wooden settee. He pointed to the ten-cent piece that lay within the inner ring of a doughnut:
"I don't take nothin' of that kind from you fellers." He touched the bit of braid on the cuff of Chi's coat; Chi smiled, and pocketed the money.
"Guess you was n't expectin' to meet an old friend so soon, was you?" said Chi, gently, setting the plate in her lap.
Maria-Ann shook her head vigorously, but she could not control the sobs. Chi crossed one leg over the other, and waited.
The flies buzzed on the smoke-thickened panes, and an empty truck rattled down the platform. There were no other sounds.
"When does your train go, Marier-Ann?"
There was another sob, but no answer.
"Did n't I hear you say you was on your way to Cuby?"
Maria-Ann nodded.
"Bad place for women–'n' men, too. What you goin' for?"
Maria-Ann's answer was only half audible: "To nuss."
"To nuss? Ain't there enough nussin' you can do nearer home?"
Maria-Ann looked up with tear-reddened eyes. "I did n't think so–" a sob–"till I saw you, Chi. I did n't know you–I thought I 'd begin right now, before I got there–" her hands covered her eyes again.