Without another word she went back to her grim and horrible work; her feet seemed like lead as she dragged them across the open space which lay between her and the great, gaunt building. "He will not see," she said to herself; "he doesn't want to see, and he hates me." As for Bob, he sat a long while alone, in silence. "It's jolly hard on her," he said presently, "and I can't understand it; but she didn't deny that she was engaged to him, and, after all, he's a better man than I." Day followed day, and he didn't see Nancy again; he was far removed from her in another part of the great hospital. Train load after train load of wounded men were brought there, and she had to be at her post almost night and day. He longed to seek her out and to speak to her amidst the loathsome work she had to do, but the discipline which obtained forbade him to do so; besides, as he reflected, he could do no good; it would only make the wound in his heart bleed more than ever. Presently he was pronounced fit for duty again, and orders came that he must make his way to the front. Fifty men besides himself who were also recovered from their wounds were to accompany him. The train was waiting at the little station close by, and at noon that day he was to leave the hospital. By this time he had become accustomed to the place, and knew several of the nurses whose duty lay at his end of the hospital; he also had become on good terms with many of the men. An hour before the time had come for him to go he had gone out in the open space where he had seen Nancy, in the hopes of finding her, but she was nowhere to be seen. All his arrangements were made, and nothing was left for him to do until the time came for his departure. He wandered aimlessly and heedlessly around; his heart ached for just another sight of the woman he loved, and whom he believed he had lost for ever. He looked at the watch on his wrist: "A quarter of an hour more," he reflected. He had longed to ask boldly to be allowed to see her, but he was afraid to do so; if she wanted to see him, she would have given him a hint, surely. Then, when all hope had gone from his heart, she came from that part of the hospital where a number of the most dangerously wounded men lay, and ran towards him: "I heard you were going this morning, Bob," she said, "and I have just crept away like a deserter; I felt I must; I didn't make things plain to you the other day. Bob, you have forgiven me, haven't you?" "There was nothing to forgive," said Bob, and his heart beat madly. "You aren't a coward," she said; "you're just--just the bravest man I ever knew. You believe I think that of you, don't you?" He laughed nervously; he wanted to say a great deal, but the words wouldn't come. "And--and, Bob, you know what you said to me, what that man Proctor and your mother told you?" He looked at her in a puzzled way; even yet, he did not dare to hope.