She hesitated, seeing no answering sympathy in Ailsa's face, sighed, half turned with an unconscious glance at the closed door of the kitchen. "What were you saying about--him?" asked Ailsa listlessly. "Nothing--" said Letty timidly--"only, isn't it odd how matters are arranged in the army. My poor trooper--a gentleman born--is being fed in the kitchen; your handsome Captain--none the less gently born--is at supper in Dr. West's office. . . . They might easily have been friends in New York. . . . War is so strange, isn't it?" Ailsa forced a smile; but her eyes remained on the door, behind which was a man who had held her in his arms. . . . And who might this girl be who came now to her with tales of Berkley's goodness, kindness--shy stories of the excellence of the man who had killed in her the joy of living--had nigh killed more than that? What did this strange, dark-eyed, dark-haired girl know about his goodness?--a girl of whom she had never even heard until she saw her in Dr. Benton's office! And all the while she stood looking at the closed door, thinking, thinking. They were off duty that night, but Letty was going back to a New Hampshire boy who was not destined to live very long, and whose father was on the way from Plymouth to see his eldest son--his eldest son who had never fought a battle, had never seen one, had never even fired his musket, but who lay dying in the nineteenth year of his age, colour corporal, loved of his guard and regiment. "Baily asked for me," she said simply. "I can get some sleep sitting up, I think." She smiled. "I'm happier and--better for seeing my trooper. . . . I am--a--better--woman," she said serenely. Then, looking up with a gay, almost childish toss of her head, like a schoolgirl absolved of misdemeanours unnumbered, she smiled wisely at Ailsa, and went away to her dying boy from New Hampshire. The closed door fascinated Ailsa, distressed, harrowed her, till she stood there twisting her hands between desire and pallid indecision. Leaden her limbs, for she could not stir them to go forward or to retire; miserably she stood there, swayed by fear and courage alternately, now rigid in bitter self-contempt, now shivering lest he fling open the door and find her there, and she see the mockery darkening his eyes---- And, "Oh-h!" she breathed, "is there nothing on earth but this shame for me?" Suddenly she thought of Celia, and became frightened. Suppose Celia had gone to the kitchen! What would Celia think of her attitude toward the son of Constance Berkley? She had never told Celia that she had seen Berkley or that she even knew of his whereabouts. What would Celia think! In her sudden consternation she had walked straight to the closed door. She hesitated an instant; then she opened the door. And Berkley, seated as he had been seated that Christmas Eve, all alone by the burning candle, dropped his hands from his face and looked up. Then he rose and stood gazing at her.