The night before must have been a busy one, for as the car stopped behind the improvised hospital, soldiers in khaki could be seen staggering back and forth with the wounded, surgeons with their work showing all too realistically upon them. Then there were the sounds as well as the sights of suffering.
As Barbara Meade crawled out of the automobile she felt her knees give way under her and a darkness swallow her up. Then she realized that she must be fainting again.
“Steady,” a voice said in Barbara Meade’s ear, as a strong arm slipped across her shoulders, bracing her upright.
And so surprised was she by the voice and its intonation that she felt herself brought back to consciousness.
“Dick Thornton,” she began weakly, and then decided that in truth she must be taking leave of her senses, to have an image of Dick obtrude upon her at such a moment and in such a place.
Naturally curiosity forced her to turn around and so for the instant she forgot herself and her surroundings.
She saw a young man in a khaki uniform of a kind of olive green with a close-fitting cap and visor. But beneath the cap was a face which was like and yet unlike the face of the friend she remembered. This fellow’s expression was grave, almost sad, the dark-brown eyes were no longer indifferent and mocking, the upright figure no longer inactive. Indeed, there was action and courage and vigor in every line of the figure and face.
“Dick Thornton,” she demanded, “have I lost my mind or what has happened? Aren’t you several thousand miles away in New York City, or Newport, where ever the place was you intended spending the summer? I simply can’t believe my own eyes.”
Dick slipped his arm inside Barbara Meade’s. For the time no one was noticing them; the scene about them was absorbing every attention.
“Just a moment, please, Barbara, I want to explain the situation to you,” Dick asked, and drew the girl away behind the shelter of one of the hospital wagons.
“Sit down for a moment,” he urged. “Dear me, Barbara, what have they been doing to you in the few weeks since we said good-by in good old New York? You are as white and tiny as a little tired ghost.”
But Barbara shook her head persuasively. “Please don’t talk about me,” she pleaded. “I must know what has occurred. What could have induced you to come over here where this terrible war is taking place, and what are you doing now you are here? You aren’t a soldier, are you?” And there was little in Barbara’s expression to suggest that she wished her friend to answer “Yes.”