She flitted out of the ward as quickly as she had come, leaving two long
rows of smiling faces in her wake. She had brought no pity, nor
tenderness, nor understanding, but she had brought her fresh young
beauty, and her little gift of gayety, and made men forget, at least for
a moment, their pain-racked bodies and their weary brains.

Miss Mink reached her cottage that night weary and depressed. She had
had nothing to eat since breakfast, and yet was too tired to prepare
supper. She made her a cup of tea which she drank standing, and then
crept into bed only to lie staring into the darkness tortured by the
thought of those heavy weights on Bowinski's injured leg.

The result of her weariness and exposure was a sharp attack of
tonsilitis that kept her in bed several weeks. The first time she was
able to be up, she began to count the hours until the next visiting day
at the Camp. Her basket was packed the evening before, and placed beside
the box of carnations in which she had extravagantly indulged. It is
doubtful whether Miss Mink was ever so happy in her life as during that
hour of pleased expectancy.

As she moved feebly about putting the house in order, so that she could
make an early start in the morning, she discovered a letter that the
Postman had thrust under the side door earlier in the day. Across the
left hand corner was pictured an American flag, and across the right was
a red triangle in a circle. She hastily tore off the envelop and read:

Dear Miss Mink:

I am out the Hospital, getting along fine. Hope you are in the same