Other men, on being suddenly confronted by Sister Anne, which was the official title of the nursing sister, would have fallen backward, or swooned, or gazed at her with soulful, worshipping eyes; or, were they that sort of beast, would have ogled her with impertinent approval. Now Sam, because he was a star reporter, observed that the lady before him was the most beautiful young woman he had ever seen; but no one would have guessed that he observed that--least of all Sister Anne. He stood in her way and lifted his hat, and even looked into the eyes of blue as impersonally and as calmly as though she were his great-aunt--as though his heart was not beating so fast that it choked him. “I am from the REPUBLIC,” he said. “Everybody is so busy here to-day that I'm not able to get what I need about the Home. It seems a pity,” he added disappointedly, “because it's so well done that people ought to know about it.” He frowned at the big hospital buildings. It was apparent that the ignorance of the public concerning their excellence greatly annoyed him. When again he looked at Sister Anne she was regarding him in alarm--obviously she was upon the point of instant flight. “You are a reporter?” she said. Some people like to place themselves in the hands of a reporter because they hope he will print their names in black letters; a few others--only reporters know how few--would as soon place themselves in the hands of a dentist. “A reporter from the REPUBLIC,” repeated Sam. “But why ask ME?” demanded Sister Anne. Sam could see no reason for her question; in extenuation and explanation he glanced at her uniform. “I thought you were at work here,” he said simply. “I beg your pardon.” He stepped aside as though he meant to leave her. In giving that impression he was distinctly dishonest. “There was no other reason,” persisted Sister Anne. “I mean for speaking to me?” The reason for speaking to her was so obvious that Sam wondered whether this could be the height of innocence or the most banal coquetry. The hostile look in the eyes of the lady proved it could not be coquetry. “I am sorry,” said Sam. “I mistook you for one of the nurses here; and, as you didn't seem busy, I thought you might give me some statistics about the Home not really statistics, you know, but local color.” Sister Anne returned his look with one as steady as his own. Apparently she was weighing his statement. She seemed to disbelieve it. Inwardly he was asking himself what could be the dark secret in the past of this young woman that at the mere approach of a reporter--even of such a nice-looking reporter as himself--she should shake and shudder. “If that's what you really want to know,” said Sister Anne doubtfully, “I'll try and help you; but,” she added, looking at him as one who issues an ultimatum, “you must not say anything about me!”