Yet even then, it was sometime before her heart beat normally, and
always after that when she thought of Hilda, it was against the chill
and gloom of the empty house, with that look upon her face of dark
resentment.
CHAPTER XXIV
THE SINGING WOMAN
Somewhere in France, Drusilla had found the Captain. Or, rather, he
had found her. He had come upon her one rainy afternoon, and had not
recognized her in her muddy uniform, with a strap under her chin. Then
all at once he had heard her voice, crooning a song to a badly wounded
boy whose head lay in her lap.
The Captain had stopped in his tracks. "Drusilla--"
The light in her eyes gave him his welcome, but she waved him away.
The boy died in her arms. When she joined her lover, she was much
moved. "It is not my work to look after the wounded; I carry blankets
and things to refugees. But now and then--it happens. A shell burst
in the street, and that poor lad--! He asked me to sing for him--you
see, I have been singing for them as they go through, and he
remembered--"
He was holding both of her hands in his. "Dear woman, dear woman--"
There were people all about them, but there were no conventions in war
times, and nobody cared if he held her hands.
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