She was only one of many women who did full duty through the
darkest days the nation ever knew--saints in homespun, martyrs
uncanonised save in the hearts of the stricken.
There was a small wooden foot-bridge spanning the brook, with a
rough seat nailed against the rail.
"One of my convalescents made it for me," she said proudly. "He
could use only one arm, and he had such a hard time sawing and
hammering! and the foolish boy wouldn't let anybody help him."
She seated herself in the cool shade of a water oak, retaining his
hand in hers and making room for him beside her.
"I wonder," she said, "if you know how good you have been to me.
You changed all my life. Do you realise it?"
"You changed it yourself, Letty."
She sighed, leaned back, dreamy eyed, watching the sun spots glow
and wane on the weather-beaten footbridge.
"In war time--here in the wards--men seem gentler to
women--kinder--than in times of peace. I have stood beside many
thousands; not one has been unkind--lacking in deference. . . ." A
slight smile grew on her lips; she coloured a little, looked up at
Berkley, humorously.
"It would surprise you to know how many have asked me to marry
them.
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