The Indianapolis journal. [volume] (Indianapolis [Ind.]) 1867-1904, 1900-09-02

imagined, as he dashed in that direction.
that he could distinguish before him. al
most within arms reach. slight female
figure in a long black cloak, her outline
blurred by the all-pervading fog.
Leonie, Leonie. turn back, 1t is L
Everard Sinclair.'
Whittier or how far he hurried In pursuit
he could not tell, but always he retained
the fixed idea that the woman he sought
was ahead of him, and that I'm few
strides he would overtake her. Once indeed
his fingers grasped what seemed like
cloak. but Immediately it was wrenched
from mis- hand, and, laundering an the dark
ness, his foot slipped over the curb at the
moment when hansom cab, driven by
muddled and gin-dazed driver, collided with
lamp post and dashed on to the pavement.
stunning blow, which felled him to the
ground. sensation of acute pain, which
was speedily merged in insensibility, were
his next impressions. but before total un-
consciousness supervened he could hear
confused shouts, the cabman swearing and
exculpating himself to a policeman, and
above all the sweet dominant note of
woman's voice, which was as music to his
ears.
Here is his address. Now. help to lift
him into the cab and 1 will take him
home"
Major General Sinclair, Everards father,
was slightly-built, gray mrstached vet
eran of sixty; a widower, who had closed
a brilliant army career, and whose entire
hopes were centered in his son.
AT little before II o'clock on this foggy
smoking jacket and slippers before the
library fire. AT length a ring at the bell
heralded Everard's return. The old officer
heard the opening of the front door, then
the shutting of feet in the hall, and an ex-
clamation Of dismay from the butler. Limp
ing little as he leaned on his stick, Evar-
ard'ssfather hurriedly threw open the study
door and passed into the hall, TO find him
self face to face. not with his son, but with
hospital nurse, wrapped in long, dark
cloak. her neat black bonnet with white
strings emphasizing the extreme pallor of
her face.
You are Major General Sinclair, are you
not?" she asked, addressing him in tones
of singular sweetness. Your son has met
with an accident. He was knocked down
by cab in the fog. Don't be too much
alarmed. The doctor will be here almost
Immediately, and I think he will be able to
reassure you. / myself do not believe there
is any immediate danger. but your son is
badly bruised and stunned, and 1 fear the
right arm is broken. / was close by when
he was knocked down, and finding his card
in his pocket. brought him home"
MY boy! my. poor boy!"' the old soldier
murmured little later. as he bent over
the inanimate form and white drawn face
of his only son. There is no danger, doc
tor? You are sure of that?'
There is good deal of fever. and he is
badly knocked about" the doctor said.
But now that his arm is set, rest and
quiet and good nursing are all he requires.
You can't do better than engage Nurse
Claire, who brought him home. She was
long time with us at st. Barnabass Hospi-
tai. and is one of the cleverest and most
careful nurses we have ever had"
''She seems an exceedingly nice woman,
and most gentle with my poor boy. Is it
Miss or Mrs. Clare?'
Really. 1 can't tell you. Mrs, 1 think;
i have an idea that she is a widow. But
Nurse Clare is what we always call her. 1
will call again the first thing tomorrow
morning Meantime, General, 1 should
strongly advise you TO go to bed. You can't
do your any good by sitting up. and
Nurse Clare will look after him.
But Everards father was far too anxious
on his sons account to take rest. In his
dressing gown and slippers he crept to the
door of his sons room more than once in
the night always to find installed near the
bod do ba 10Th of MFRS
Clare in a dark stuff gown and snowy
apron, and a cap which framed face no
longer young, but of a gentle, restful beau
ty.
The nurses plentiful hair. wavy and silky
as that of the young child, was already
gray, and under her lustrous dark eyes
were hollows that told of mental and phys
ical pain. In her voice and touch, and in
the steady sweetness of her regard. there
existed a wonderful charm of magnetism
and sympathy.
IT am suffering with you, for have suf-
fered too" was the look in her face, and
Everards father was even more charmed
than touched when, as he crept to the open
door of his sons room, he found Nurse
Clare gazing intently on Everard's uncon-
scious face, while big tears rolled Silently
down her cheeks.
"Why do you cry?" whispered the old
gentleman, almost fiercely. as he laid his
hand upon the woman's shoulder. rs it
because you think he will dep
Clearly his abrupt question startled her,
but she dried her eyes and answered him
in level tones of extreme sadness: ut is
not that. / am sure lie will get well. But
your son is very like some one whom j
knew years ago-whom 1 lost, and who was
very dear to me-"
"Ahi your husband?'
She looked at him in surprise a moment.
Then she bowed her head.
Eyes, my husband!'
Poor. poor. girl.'
He patted her shoulder kindly, and limped
out. considerably comforted.
She was probably woman of between
thirty and forty, he decided; but she must
have been wonderfully pretty in her youth.
She would certainly take care Of his son
all the more, since he resembled her dead
husband. Poor little woman,
CHAPTER Ill
"It'ss all thanks to you, Nurse Clare. that
have cot well so soon"