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I knew that I ought to at least inquire of the big surgeon or his wife about the number of nurses he was taking with him, but there seemed no fitting opportunity, and I did not make one. I did not try to explain to myself the curious disinclination I felt to lift a hand toward the sending of Miss Sonnot to the French hospitals.
Then Miss Sonnot spoke slowly, and there was a note almost of reverence in her voice. "That is just what he would do," and then, impetuously, "how I envy him!" "Envy him?" I repeated incredulously. "Yes, indeed." Her voice was militant, her eyes shining, her face aglow. "How I wish I were a man ever since this war started!
My first thought was of the sick woman over whom I was watching. Both Dr. Pettit and the nurse, Miss Sonnot, had warned us that excitement might be fatal to their patient. And the one thing in the world that might be counted on to excite my mother-in-law was the presence of the woman whose voice I heard in conversation with my husband.
Dicky's jealousy of my brother-cousin, Jack Bickett; my unhappiness over Lillian Underwood those tempestuous days surely were years ago instead of months. Now Jack was "somewhere in France," and I had a queer little premonition that somewhere, somehow, his path would cross that of Miss Sonnot, the little nurse, who had gone with Dr.
I paid a mental tribute to my sister-in-law's energy as I in my turn took down the telephone receiver. I realized how much wear and tear she must save her big husband. "Miss Sonnot!" I could not help being a bit dramatic in my news. "Can you sail for France tomorrow? One of Dr. Braithwaite's nurses is ill, and you may have her place, if you wish."
"Mrs. Braithwaite" to my disgust I found my voice trembling "I think I ought to tell you that Miss Sonnot, the nurse your mother had, wishes very much to enter the hospital service. She could go tomorrow, I am sure. And I remember your husband spoke approvingly of her." My sister-in-law rushed past me to the telephone. "The very thing!"
"But, doctor," Dicky said anxiously when we followed him into the living room, "where are we to find a nurse?" "Fortunately," Dr. Pettit rejoined, "I have just learned that absolutely the best nurse I know is free. Her name is Miss Katherine Sonnot, and her skill and common sense are only equalled by her exquisite tact.
But I had no time to pay any attention to him, for Katherine Sonnot was uttering words that bewildered and terrified me. "Oh! how terrible!" she said. "Jack will be so grieved. He had so hoped to find you happy together when he came home." Was the girl's brain turned, I wondered, because of grief for my brother-cousin's death?
"'I know you now, I said. 'You are Mark Earle's little sister, Katherine." So they had met at last, Jack Bickett, my brother-cousin, and Katherine Sonnot, the little nurse who had taken care of my mother-in-law, and whom I had learned to love as a dear friend.
Dicky wandered in and out like a restless ghost until I wanted to shriek from very nervousness. But the first glimpse of the slender girl who came quietly into the room and announced herself as Miss Sonnot steadied me. She was a "slip of a thing," as my mother would have dubbed her, with great, wistful brown eyes that illumined her delicate face.
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