Until she grew old enough to laugh at herself, Nona often sat with her delicate little nose pressed against the window pane in the drawing room of her old Charleston home. If questions were asked she could invent many reasons to explain her presence. She was actually waiting for a splendid coach and four to drive up to the door and bear her away. The coach was always decorated with a splendid coat of arms, and for some absurd childish reason the coachman and footmen were dressed in pumpkin-colored satin and wore tall black top hats. As a matter of fact, as Nona Davis grew older these ridiculous fancies faded; nevertheless, a few of her old dreams remained. For one thing, she retained the impression that her mother had probably been a[Pg 92] foreigner. Yet she never could understand why, even after her father's death, his few old friends continued to decline to give her any information. Surely one of them must know something of her mother. [Pg 92] It was all too mysterious and disheartening. On coming to Europe, Nona had made up her mind to put the trying mystery back of her and to forget it as completely as she could. In a measure she had succeeded, but since her confession to the Red Cross girls the old haunting desire had come back to her. She must find out whether her mother was dead or living and in either case why she had been told nothing of her. Then suddenly one day, without knowing why, she chose Dick Thornton for a confidant. More than this, she asked for his advice. Whatever the mystery, it was her right to be told the exact truth, she insisted, and Dick agreed with her. This was on one of the occasions when they were walking together out from Brussels in the direction of the sea. They were not allowed to travel very far, since the roads were all patrolled by German soldiers[Pg 93] in command of the fortifications along the way. [Pg 93] Mildred had chosen to rest for a few moments, so that Dick and Nona were alone. Not that Mildred's presence would have interfered; this was simply an accident. Dick listened with unusual gravity to Nona's history. Perhaps it struck him as even queerer than it did the girl herself. She had always been accustomed to the mystery. Really, the entire story sounded like a fabrication. Mysteries were out of fashion in these modern days in the United States. Although, of course, there was nothing too mad or too inconceivable that was
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