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“No; I don’t know that,” said Sister Anne.

Sam recognized that it was quite absurd that it should be so, but this statement gave him a sense of great elation, a delightful thrill of relief. There was every reason why the girl should not confide in a complete stranger–even to deceive him was quite within her rights; but, though Sam appreciated this, he preferred to be deceived.

“I think you are working too hard,” he said, smiling happily. “I think you ought to have a change. You ought to take a day off! Do they ever give you a day off?”

“Next Saturday,” said Sister Anne. “Why?”

“Because,” explained Sam, “if you won’t think it too presumptuous, I was going to prescribe a day off for you–a day entirely away from iodoform and white enamelled cots. It is what you need, a day in the city and a lunch where they have music; and a matinee, where you can laugh–or cry, if you like that better–and then, maybe, some fresh air in the park in a taxi; and after that dinner and more theatre, and then I’ll see you safe on the train for Greenwich. Before you answer,” he added hurriedly, “I want to explain that I contemplate taking a day off myself and doing all these things with you, and that if you want to bring any of the other forty nurses along as a chaperon, I hope you will. Only, honestly, I hope you won’t!”

The proposal apparently gave Sister Anne much pleasure. She did not say so, but her eyes shone and when she looked at Sam she was almost laughing with happiness.

“I think that would be quite delightful,” said Sister Anne,”–quite delightful! Only it would be frightfully expensive; even if I don’t bring another girl, which I certainly would not, it would cost a great deal of money. I think we might cut out the taxicab–and walk in the park and feed the squirrels.”

“Oh!” exclaimed Sam in disappointment,–“then you know Central Park?”

Sister Anne’s eyes grew quite expressionless.

“I once lived near there,” she said.

“In Harlem?”

“Not exactly in Harlem, but near it. I was quite young,” said Sister Anne. “Since then I have always lived in the country or in–other places.”

Sam’s heart was singing with pleasure.

“It’s so kind of you to consent,” he cried. “Indeed, you are the kindest person in all the world. I thought so when I saw you bending over these sick people, and, now I know.”

“It is you who are kind,” protested Sister Anne, “to take pity on me.”

“Pity on you!” laughed Sam. “You can’t pity a person who can do more with a smile than old man Flagg can do with all his millions. Now,” he demanded in happy anticipation, “where are we to meet?”

“That’s it,” said Sister Anne. “Where are we to meet?”

“Let it be at the Grand Central Station. The day can’t begin too soon,” said Sam; “and before then telephone me what theatre and restaurants you want and I’ll reserve seats and tables. Oh,” exclaimed Sam joyfully, “it will be a wonderful day–a wonderful day!”

Sister Anne looked at him curiously and, so, it seemed, a little wistfully. She held out her hand.

“I must go back to my duties,” she said. “Good-by.”

“Not good-by,” said Sam heartily, “only until Saturday–and my name’s Sam Ward and my address is the city room of the REPUBLIC. What’s your name?”

“Sister Anne,” said the girl. “In the nursing order to which I belong we have no last names.”

“So,” asked Sam, “I’ll call you Sister Anne?”

“No; just Sister,” said the girl.

“Sister!” repeated Sam, “Sister!” He breathed the word rather than spoke it; and the way he said it and the way he looked when he said it made it carry almost the touch of a caress. It was as if he had said “Sweetheart!” or “Beloved!” “I’ll not forget,” said Sam.

Sister Anne gave an impatient, annoyed laugh.

“Nor I,” she said.

Sam returned to New York in the smoking-car, puffing feverishly at his cigar and glaring dreamily at the smoke. He was living the day over again and, in anticipation, the day off, still to come. He rehearsed their next meeting at the station; he considered whether or not he would meet her with a huge bunch of violets or would have it brought to her when they were at luncheon by the head waiter. He decided the latter way would be more of a pleasant surprise. He planned the luncheon. It was to be the most marvellous repast he could evolve; and, lest there should be the slightest error, he would have it prepared in advance–and it should cost half his week’s salary.