“You can breathe better this way, can’t you?” she asked solicitously.  “Have you had them before?  Will it go away?  Shall I call some one?”

Katie rolled her head about as she had seen people do who were dying on the stage.  “Often—­before.  Go away—­soon.  But don’t leave me!” she implored, clutching at the girl wildly.

“I will not leave you,” the stranger assured her.  “I have plenty of time.”

Miss Jones made what the doctors would call a splendid recovery.  Her breath began coming more naturally; her spine seemed to regain control of her head; her eyes rolled less wildly.  “It’s going,” she panted; “but you’ll have to help me to the house.”

“Why of course,” replied the girl who was being delayed.  “Do you think I’d leave a sick girl sitting out here all alone?”

Kate felt like apologizing.  It seemed rather small—­that interrupting a death to save a life.

“Where do you live?” her companion was asking.  She pointed to the quarters.  “In one of those?”

“The second one,” Katie told her.  “And thank Heaven,” she told herself, “the first one is closed!”

“Lean on me,” directed the girl in pink, with a touch of the gentle authority of strong to weak.  “Don’t be afraid to lean on me.”

Kate felt the quick warm tears against her eyelids.  “You’re very kind,” she said, and the quiver in her voice was real.

They walked slowly on, silently.  Katie was trembling now, and in earnest.  “My name is Katherine Jones,” she said at last, looking timidly at the girl who was helping her.

It wrought a change.  The girl’s mouth closed in a hard line.  A hard, defending glitter seemed to seal her eyes.  She did not respond.

“May I ask to whom I am indebted for this kindness?” It was asked with gentleness.

But for the moment it brought no response.  “My name is Verna Woods,” came at last with an unsteady defiance.

They had reached the steps of the big, hospitable porch.  With deep relief Katie saw that there was no one about.  Nora had gone out with one of her adorers from the barracks.

They turned, and were looking back to the river.  It was May at May’s loveliest:  the grass and trees so tender a green, the river so gently buoyant, and a softly sympathetic sky over all.  A soldier had appeared and was picking twigs from the putting green in front of them; another soldier was coming down the road with some eggs which he was evidently taking to Captain Prescott’s quarters.  He was whistling.  Everything seemed to be going very smoothly.  And a launch was coming down the river; a girl’s laugh came musically across the water and the green; it inspired the joyful throat of a nearby robin.  And into this had been shot—!

Katie turned to the intruder.  “It’s lovely, isn’t it?” she asked in a queer, hushed way.

The girl looked at her, and at the fierce rush of things Kate took a frightened step backward.  But quickly the other had turned away her face.  Only her clenched hand and slightly moving shoulder told anything.