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Project Gutenberg's Everyman's Land, by C

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Title: Everyman's Land

Author: C. N. Williamson and A. M.

Williamson

Release Date: November 14, 2006 [EBook

#19806]

Language: English

*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK



EVERYMAN'S LAND ***

Produced by V. L. Simpson, Suzanne Shell

and the Online

Distributed Proofreading Team at

http://www.pgdp.net

EVERYMAN'S

LAND

BY C. N. & A. M.



WILLIAMSON

Author of

"The Lightning Conductor Discovers America," Lady Betty Across the Water ,"

"Set in Silver ," Etc.

Frontispiece

A. L. BURT COMPANY

Publishers New York

Published by arrangement with Doubleday, Page& Company

COPYRIGHT, 1918, BY



C. N. & A. M. WILLIAMSONALL RIGHTS RESERVED, INCLUDING THAT

OFTRANSLATION INTO FOREIGN LANGUAGES

INCLUDING THE SCANDINAVIAN

COPYRIGHT, 1918, BY THE FRANK A.MUNSEY COMPANY

TO ALL SOLDIERS WHO HAVE FOUGHTOR FIGHT FOR EVERYMAN'S LAND AND

EVERYMAN'S RIGHT; AND TO THOSE

WHO LOVE FRANCE



CHAPTER

VI

CHAPTER

VIICHAPTER

VIII

CHAPTER

IX

CHAPTER

X

CHAPTER XI

CHAPTER

XII

CHAPTER XIII

CHAPTER

XIV



CHAPTER

XV

CHAPTER

XVICHAPTER

XVII

CHAPTER

XVIII

CHAPTER

XIX

CHAPTER XX

CHAPTER

XXI

CHAPTER XXII

CHAPTER

XXIII



CHAPTER

XXIV

CHAPTER

XXVCHAPTER

XXVI

CHAPTER

XXVII

CHAPTER

XXVIII

CHAPTER XXIX

CHAPTER

XXX

CHAPTER XXXI

CHAPTER

XXXII



CHAPTER I

Padre, when you died, you left a messagfor me. You asked me to go on writing, if were in trouble, just as I used to writwhen you were on earth. I used t"confess," and you used to advise. Alsoyou used to scold. How you used to scold

am going to do now what you asked, ihat message.

shall never forget how you packed moff to school at Brighton, and Brian tWestward Ho! the year father died andeft us to you—the most troublesomegacy a poor bachelor parson ever had

'd made up my mind to hate England



Brian couldn't hate anything or anybodydreamers don't know how to hate: and wanted to hate you for sending us there.

wanted to be hated and misunderstood. disguised myself as a Leprechaun ansulked; but it didn't work where you werconcerned. You understood me as no one

else ever could—or will, I believe. Youaught me something about life, and to sehat people are much the same all over th

world, if you "take them by the heart."

You took me by the heart, and you held mby it, from the time I was twelve till thime when you gave your life for you

country. Ten years! When I tell them ovenow, as a nun tells the beads of her rosary

realize what good years they were, anhow their goodness—with such goodnes



as I had in me to face them—came througyou.

Even after you died, you seemed to bnear, with encouragement and adviceRemembering how pleased you werewhen I decided to train as a nurse, adde

ater to the sense of your nearnessbecause I felt you would rejoice when was able to be of real use. It was onlafter you went that my work began t

count, but I was sure you knew. I couldhear your voice say, "Good girl! Hurrafor you!" when I got the gold medal fonursing the contagious cases; your dea

old Irish voice, as it used to say the samwords when I brought you my schooprizes.

Perhaps I was "a good girl." Anyhow,



was a good nurse. Not that I deservemuch credit! Brian was fighting, and idanger day and night. You were gone; and

was glad to be a soldier in my way, witnever a minute to think of myself. Besidessomehow I wasn't one bit afraid. I lovehe work. But, Padre mio, I am not a goo

girl now. I'm a wicked girl, wickeder thayou or I ever dreamed it was in me to beat my worst. Yet if your spirit shouldappear as I write, to warn me that I'sinning an unpardonable sin, I should gon sinning it.

For one thing, it's for Brian, twin brothe

of my body, twin brother of my heart. Foanother thing, it's too late to turn backThere's a door that has slammed shubehind me.



only have imagined my tiredness thoughfor when I heard about Brian I grewsuddenly strong as steel. I was give

eave, and disinfected, and purified ahoroughly as Esther when she was beinmade worthy of Ahasuerus. Then I dashedoff to catch the first train going north.

St. Raphael was our railway station, but hadn't seen the place since I took up worn the Hôpital des Épidémies. That wa

many months before; and meanwhile raining-school for American aviators had

been started at St. Raphael. News of itprogress had drifted to our ears, but o

course the men weren't allowed to comwithin a mile of us: we were tocontagious. They had sent presents, thoug—presents of money, and one grand gif



had burst upon us from a younmillionaire whose father's name is knoweverywhere. He sent a cheque for a su

so big that we nurses were nearly knockedown by the size of it. With it waenclosed a request that the money shoulbe used to put wire-nettings in al

windows and doors, and to build a roofeoggia for convalescents. If there wer

anything left over, we might buy deckchairs and air-pillows. Of course it waeasy for any one to know that we needeall these things. Our lack was notoriousWe sent a much disinfected, carbolic

smelling round robin of thanks to "JameW. Beckett, Junior," son of the westernrailway king.

As I drove to the gare of St. Raphael,



hought of the kind boys who had helpeour poor poilus, and especially of JameBeckett. Whether he were still at th

aviation camp, or had finished his traininand gone to the front, I didn't know: but wafted a blessing to our benefactor. I littldreamed then of the unforgivable injury

was fated to do him! You see, Padre, I usehe word " fated ." That's because I'vurned coward. I try to pretend that fat

has been too strong for me. But down deepknow you were right when you said

"Our characters carve our fate."

t was a long journey from the south to th

north, where Brian was, for in war-dayrains do what they like and what nobod

else likes. I travelled for three days annights, and when I came to my journey'



end, instead of Brian being dead as I'seen him in a hundred hideous dreams, thdoctors held out hope that he might live

They told me this to give me couragebefore they broke the news that he woulbe blind. I suppose they thought I'd be shankful to keep my brother at any price

hat I should hardly feel the shock. But wasn't thankful. I wasn't! The pricseemed too big. I judged Brian by mysel—Brian, who so worshipped beauty that used to call him "Phidias!" I was sure hwould rather have gone out of this worlwhose face he'd loved, than stay in i

without eyes for its radiant smile. Buhere I made a great mistake. Brian wamagnificent. Perhaps you would havknown what to expect of him better than

knew.



Where you are, you will understand whhe did not despair. I couldn't understandhen, and I scarcely can now, though livin

with my blind Brian is teaching messons I feel unworthy to learn. It was hwho comforted me, not I him. He said thaall the beauty of earth was his already

and nothing could take it away. Hwouldn't let it be taken away! He said thasight was first given to all createcreatures in the form of a desire to seedesire so intense that with the developinfaculty of sight, animals developed eyefor its concentration. He reminded m

how in dreams, and even in thoughts—ihey're vivid enough—we see as distinctlwith our brains as with our eyes. He saihe meant to make a wonderful world fo

himself with this vision of the brain an



soul. He intended to develop the powerso that he would gain more than he haost, and I must help him.

Of course I promised to help all I couldbut there was death in my heart. remembered our gorgeous holida

ogether before the war, tramping througFrance, Brian painting those lovel"impressions" of his, which made himoney and something like fame. And oh,

remembered not only that such happholidays were over, but that soon therwould be no more money for our bariving!

We were always so poor, that church micwere plutocrats compared to us. At leashey need pay no rent, and have to buy n

clothes! I'm sure, if the truth were known



he money Father left for our educatioand bringing up was gone before wbegan to support ourselves, though yo

never let us guess we were living on youAs I sat and listened to Brian talk of oufuture, my very bones seemed to melt. Thonly thing I've been trained to do well i

o nurse. I wasn't a bad nurse when thwar began. I'm an excellent nurse nowBut it's Brian's nurse I must be. I saw thatn the first hour after the news was broken

and our two lives broken with it. I sawhat, with me unable to earn a penny, and

Brian's occupation gone with his sight, w

were about as helpless as a pair osparrows with their wings clipped.

f Brian in his secret soul had any suchoughts, perhaps he had faith to believ



hat not a sparrow can fall, unless its fals appointed by God. Anyhow, he said

never a word about ways and means

except to mention cheerfully that he ha"heaps of pay saved up," nearly thirtpounds. Of course I answered that I warich, too. But I didn't go into details. I wa

afraid even Brian's optimism might bdashed if I did. Padre, my worldly wealtconsisted of five French bank notes of hundred francs each, and a few horriblittle extra scraps of war-paper an

copper.

The hospital where Brian lay was near th

front, in the remains of a town the Britishad won back from the Germans. I callehe place Crucifix Corner: but God know

we are all at Crucifix Corner now!



odged in a hotel that had been halknocked down by a bomb, and patched ufor occupation. As soon as Brian was abl

o be moved, the doctor wanted him to go Paris to an American brain specialiswho had lately come over and madastonishing cures. Brian's blindness wa

due to paralysis of the optic nerve; but thiAmerican—Cuyler—had performed spinand brain operations which had restoresight in two similar cases. There might ba hundredth chance for my brother.

Of course I said it would be possible take Brian to Paris. I'd have made i

possible if I'd had to sell my hair to do iand you know my curly black mop of haiwas always my pet vanity. Brian being soldier, he could have the operation free



f Doctor Cuyler considered it wise toperate; but—as our man warned me—here were ninety-nine chances to on

against success: and at all events therwould be a lot of expenses in thmmediate future.

sent in my resignation to the dear Hôpitades Épidémies, explaining my reasonsand presently Brian and I set out for Pariby easy stages. The cap was put on th

climax for me by remembering how he anhad walked over that very ground thre

years before, in the sunshine of life ansummer. Brian too thought of the past, bu

not in bitterness. I hid my anguish frohim, but it gnawed the heart of me with theeth of a rat. I couldn't see what Bria

had ever done to deserve such a fate a



his, and I began to feel wicked, wicked . Iseemed that destiny had built up a higprison wall in front of my brother and me

and I had a wild impulse to kick and clawat it, though I knew I couldn't pull it down

When we arrived in Paris, Doctor Cuyle

saw us at once; but his opinion addeanother pile of flinty black blocks to thprison wall. He thought that there woulbe no hope from an operation. If ther

were any hope at all (he couldn't say therwas) it lay in waiting, resting, anbuilding up Brian's shattered health. Aftemonths of perfect peace, it was just on th

cards that sight might come back of itselfsuddenly and unexpectedly, in a momentWe were advised to live in the countryand Doctor Cuyler suggested that it woul



be well for my brother to havsurroundings with agreeable occupatiofor the mind. If he were a musician h

must have a piano. There ought to be garden for him to walk in and even worn. Motoring, with the slight vibration of

good car, would be particularly beneficia

a little later on. I suppose we must havooked to Doctor Cuyler like millionaires

for he didn't appear to dream that thercould be the slightest difficulty in carryinout his programme.

sat listening with the calm mien of one twhom money comes as air comes to th

ungs; but behind my face the wildeshoughts were raging. You've sometime

seen a row of tall motionless pines, thcalmest, stateliest things on earth



glanced yet at the newspaper we habought in the morning. I took it up, tplease Brian with the rustling of the pages

not expecting to concentrate upon a linbut instantly my eyes were caught by name I knew.

"Tragic Romance of Millionaire'Family," I read. "James W. Beckett bringshis wife to France and Reads Newspape

otice of Only Son's Death."

This was the double-line, big-lettereheading of a half column on the front pageand it brought to my mind a picture. I saw

a group of nurses gazing over each other'shoulders at a blue cheque. It was cheque for six thousand francs, signed in clear, strong hand, "James W. Beckett

Junior."



So he was dead, that generous boy, towhom our hearts had gone out in gratitudet could not be very long since he ha

finished his training at St. Raphael anbegun work at the front. What a waste osplendid material it seemed, that he shoulhave been swept away so soon!

read on, and from my own misery I haan extra pang to spare for James BecketSenior, and his wife.

Someone had contrived to tear fragmentary interview from the "bereaverailway magnate," as he was called in th

potted phrase of the journalist. Apparentlhe poor, trapped man had been too softhearted or too dazed with grief to put up forceful resistance, and the reporter ha

been quick to seize his advantage.



He had learned that Mr. and Mrs. JameW. Beckett, Senior, had nearly died ohomesickness for their son. They ha

hought of "running across to surprisJimmy." And then a letter had come fromhim saying that in a fortnight his traininwould be over. He was to be granted eigh

days' leave, which he didn't particularlwant, since he couldn't spend it with themand immediately after he would go to thfront.

"We made up our minds that Jimmyshould spend that leave of his with us,he old man had said. "We got our paper

n a hurry and engaged cabins on the firsboat that was sailing. Unluckily therwasn't one for nearly a week, but we dihe best we could. When everything wa



fixed up, I wired Jimmy to meet us at thRitz, in Paris. We had a little breeze witha U-boat, and we ran into some ba

weather which made my wife pretty sickbut nothing mattered to us except thdelay, we were so crazy to see the boy. ABordeaux a letter from him was waiting. I

old how he was just as crazy to see usbut we'd only have twenty-four hourogether, as his leave and orders for th

front had both been advanced. The delaat sea had cost a day, and that seemed likhard lines, as we should reach Paris witno more than time to wish the lad God

speed. But in the train, when we came took at the date, we saw that we'miscalculated. Unless Jimmy'd been ablo get extra leave we'd miss hi

altogether. His mother said that would b



oo bad to be true. We hoped and prayedo find him at the Ritz. Instead, we foun

news that he had fallen in his first battle."

The interviewer went on, upon his owaccount, to praise "Jimmy" Beckett. Hdescribed him as a young man of twenty

seven, "of singularly engaging manner anhandsome appearance; a graduate withigh honours from Harvard, an all-rounsportsman and popular with a large circl

of friends, but fortunately leaving neither wife nor a fiancée behind him iAmerica." The newly qualified aviatohad, indeed, fallen in his first battle: bu

according to the writer it had been a battlof astonishing glory for a beginnerSingle-handed he had engaged four enemmachines, manœuvring his own littl



ieuport in a way to excite the highesadmiration and even surprise in alspectators. Two out of the four German

planes he had brought down over thFrench lines; and was in chase of thhird, flying low above the Germarenches, when two new Fokkers appeare

on the scene and attacked him. His plancrashed to earth in flames, and a shorime after, prisoners had brought news o

his death.

"Mr. and Mrs. James W. Beckett wilhave the sympathy of all Europe as welas their native land, in these tragi

circumstances," the journalist ended history with a final flourish. "If such griecould be assuaged, pride in the gallandeath of their gallant son might be



photograph. Although the man I knew (ipeople can know each other in a day'acquaintance) had been en civile, and thi

one was in aviator's uniform, I was surhey were the same. And even before I'dsnatched up the paper to read what waprinted under the picture, something—th

wonderful inner Something that's nevewrong—told me I was looking at portrait of Jimmy Beckett.



he war—one day we were in a deliciouvillage near a cathedral town on thBelgian border. A piece of luck had fallen

n our way, like a ripe apple tumbling ofa tree. A rich Parisian and his wife camemotoring along, and stopped out of sheecuriosity to look at a picture Brian wa

painting, under a white umbrella near throadside. I was not with him. I think I mushave been in the garden of our quaint olhotel by the canal side, writing letters—probably one to you; but the couple toosuch a fancy to Brian's "impression," thahey offered to buy it. The bargain wa

struck, there and then. Two days latearrived a telegram from Paris asking foanother picture to "match" the first at thsame price. I advised Brian to choose ou

wo or three sketches for the people t



select from, and carry them to Parihimself, rather than trust the post. Hwent; and it was on the one day of hi

absence that my romance happened.Ours was a friendly little hotel, with darling landlady, who was almost as muc

nterested in Brian and me as if she'd beeour foster-mother. The morning after Briaeft, she came waddling out to th

adorable, earwiggy, rose-covered

summer-house that I'd annexed as private sitting room. "Mademoiselle," shbreathlessly announced, "there is a younmillionaire of a monsieur Anglais o

Américain just arrived. What a pity hshould be wasted because Monsieur youbrother has gone! I am sure if he could busee one of the exquisite pictures he woul



wish to buy all!"

"How do you know that the monsieur is

millionaire, and what makes you think hwould care about pictures?" I enquired.

"I know he is a millionaire because he hacome in one of those grand automobilewhich only millionaires ever have. And hink he cares for pictures because th

first thing he did when he came into th

hall was to stare at the old prints on thwall. He praised the two best which threal artists always praise, ancomplimented me on owning them" th

dear creature explained. "Besides, he is ihis neighbourhood expressly to see thcathedral; and monsieur your brother hamade a most beautiful sketch of th

cathedral. It is now in his portfolio. I



here nothing we can do? I have alreadnduced the monsieur to drink a glass o

milk while I have come to consul

Mademoiselle."thought hard for a minute, because i

would be grand if I could say when Bria

came back, "I have sold your cathedral foyou." But I might have saved myself braifag. Madame Mounet had settleeverything in her head, and was merel

playing me, like a foolish fish."What I have thought of is this," she said"I told the monsieur that he could se

something better than my prints if hwould give himself the pain of waiting tilcould fetch the key of a room where a

artist-client of ours has a marvellou

exhibition. There is no such room yet, bu



here can be, and the exhibition can beoo, if Mademoiselle will make haste t

pin her brother's pictures to the walls o

he yellow salon. With a hammer and few tacks— voilà the thing is done. Whadoes Mademoiselle say?"

Mademoiselle said "Yes—yes!" to hepart of the programme. But what of thmillionaire monsieur? Would he not balk?Would he not refuse to be bothered?

Madame was absolutely confident that hwould not do these disappointing thingsShe was so confident that I vaguel

suspected she had something up hesleeve: but time pressed, and instead oSherlock Holmesing I darted to my workAfterward she confessed, with prid

rather than repentance. She describe



graphically how the face of the monsieuhad fallen when she asked him to look aan exhibition of pictures; how he ha

begun to make an excuse that he must boff at once to the cathedral; and how shhad ventured to cut him short bremarking, "Mademoiselle the sister of th

artist, she who will show the work, ah, is a jeune fille of the most romanti

beauty!" On hearing this, the monsieur hasaid no more about the cathedral, but haordered the glass of milk.

n fifteen minutes the exhibitioconsisting of six sketches!) was ready i

he showroom of the hotel, the yellowsalon which had been occupied as bedchamber one night by the EmpresEugénie, and was always kept locke



except on gala occasions. I, not knowinhow I had been over-praised to thaudience, was also ready, quivering wit

he haste I had made in pinning up thpictures and opening the musty, closroom to the air. Then came in a younman.

As I write, Padre, I am back again in thasalon jaune, and he is walking in at thdoor, pausing a second on the threshold a

sight of me. I will give you the little plan one act. We smile. The hero of the

comedy-drama has a rather big mouth, ansuch white teeth that his smile, in hi

brown face, is a lightning-flash at dusk. Is a thin face with two dimples that makines when he laughs. His eyes are gra

and long, with the eagle-look that know



far spaces; deep-set eyes under straighblack brows, drawn low. His lashes arblack, too, but his short crinkly hair i

brown. He has a good square foreheadand a high nose like an Indian's. He is taland has one of those lean, lanky looseointed figures that crack tennis-player

and polo men have. I like him at once, anthink he likes me, for his eyes light up

and just for an instant there's a feeling as iwe looked through clear windows inteach other's souls. It is almost frighteninghat effect!

begin to talk, to shake off an od

embarrassment.

"Madame Mounet tells me you want to semy brother's pictures," I say. "Here are

few sketches. He has taken all the res



worth looking at to Paris."

"It's good of you to let me come in," th

hero of the play answers. Instantly I knowhe's not English. He has one of those nicAmerican voices, with a slight drawl, thasomehow sound extraordinarily frank.

don't speculate about his name. I don't stopo wonder who he is. I think only of whahe is. I forget that Madame has exploitehim as a millionaire. I don't care whethe

or not he buys a picture. I want nothingexcept the pleasure of talking with himand seeing how he looks at me.

mumble some polite nonsense in returfor his. He gazes at Brian's water-colourand admires them. Then he turns from thpictures to me. We discuss the sketche

and the scenes they represent. "Oh, hav



This brings us back to the business ihand. He says, "May I really buy one ohese sketches?"

"Are you sure you want to?" I laugh.

"Sure!" he answers. And I never heard thaword sound so nice, even in my own deareland.

He chooses the cathedral—which hhasn't visited yet. Do I know the price mbrother has decided on? With that questio

discover that he has Madame Mounet'version of our name. Brian and I havaughed dozens of laughs at her way o

pronouncing O'Malley. "Ommalee" ware for her, and "Mees Ommalee" she hamade me for her millionaire. For fun,

don't correct him. Let him find out fo



himself who we really are! I say that mbrother hasn't fixed a price; but would sihundred francs seem very high? The ma

considers it ridiculously low. He refuseo pay less than twice that sum. Even sohe argues he will be cheating us, angetting me into hot water when my brothe

comes. We almost quarrel, and at last thehero has his way. He strikes me as onwho is used to that!

When the matter is settled, an odd loopasses over his face. I wonder if he hachanged his mind, and doesn't know howo tell me his trouble. Something i

worrying him; that is clear. Just as I'ready to make things easy, with a questionhe laughs.

"I'm going to take you into m



come back here, or wherever you are ohe fifteenth day from now, and introduc

myself properly? Or—you've only t

speak the word, and I'll throw over thwhole footling business this minute, an——"

cut in, to say that I won't speak the wordand he mustn't throw the business over. Is quite amusing I tell him, and I hope he'l

win his bet. As for the picture—he may

pay as he chooses. But about the propentroduction—Heaven knows where

shall be in a fortnight. My brother loves tmake up his mind the night beforehand

where to go next. We are a pair of tramps

"You don't do your tramping on foot?"

"Indeed we do! We haven't seen a railway



"To—see some more of your brother'pictures," he says gravely. I know that hwishes to see me, not the pictures, and h

knows that I know; but I let it go at that.When the sketch has been wrapped upbetween cardboards, and the twelv

hundred francs placed carelessly on able, there seems no reason why Mr. JiWyndham shouldn't start for the cathedralBut he suddenly decides that the way o

wisdom is to eat first, and begs me tunch with him. "Do, please," he begs

"just to show you're not offended with mfalse pretences."

yearn to say yes, and don't see why shouldn't; so I do. We have déjeuneogether in the summer-house where Bria

and I always eat. We chat about a million



hings. We linger over our coffee, and smoke two or three of his gold-tippeEgyptians. When we suppose an hour ha

gone by, at most, behold, it is half-pasfour! I tell him he must start: he will boo late for the cathedral at its best. H

says, "Hang the cathedral!" and refuses t

stir unless I promise to dine with hiwhen he comes back.

"You mean in a fortnight?" I ask

"Probably we shan't be here.""I mean this evening."

"But—you're not coming back! You'regoing another way. You told me——"

"Ah, that was before we were friends. Ocourse I'm coming back. I'd like to stay to



morrow, and——"

"You certainly must not! I won't dine with

you to-night if you do.""Will you if I don't?"

"Perhaps."

"Then I'll order the dinner before I starfor the cathedral. I want it to be a perfecone."

"But—I've said only perhaps."

"Don't you want to pour a little honesgold into poor old Madame Mounet'pocket?"

"Ye-es."

"If so, you mustn't chase away he



customers."

"For her sake, the dinner is a bargain!"

"Not the least bit for my sake?"

"Oh, but yes! I've enjoyed our talk. Andyou've been so nice about my brother'

pictures."

So it is settled. I put on my prettiest dresswhite muslin, with some fresh red rose

Madame Mounet brings me; and thdinner-table in the summer-house is picture, with pink Chinese lanterns, pinkshaded candles, and pink geraniums

Madame won't decorate with rosebecause she explains, roses anywherexcept on my toilette, "spoil the uniqueffect of Mademoiselle."



The little inn on the canal-side buzzewith excitement. Not within the memory oman or woman has there been so importan

a client as Mr. Jim Wyndham. Mosmotoring millionaires dash by in a clouof dust to the cathedral town, where smart modern hotel has been run up t

cater for tourists. This magnificenMonsieur Américain engages the "suite ohe Empress Eugénie," as it grandl

advertises itself, for his own use and thaof his chauffeur, merely to bathe in, andrest in, though they are not to stay thnight. And the dinner ordered will enabl

Madame to show what she can do, chance she rarely gets from cheeseparincustomers, like Brian and me, and otherof our ilk.



am determined not to betray my childiseagerness by being first at the rendezvous

keep to my hot room, until I spy a tal

young figure of a man in evening dresstriding toward the arbour. To see thissight, I have to be at my window; but hide behind a white curtain and a scree

of wistaria and roses. I count sixty beforgo down. I walk slowly. I stop and

examine flowers in the garden. I coulcatch a wonderful gold butterfly, buperhaps it is as happy as I am. I wouldnake its life for anything on earth! As

watch it flutter away, my host comes ou

of the arbour to meet me.We pass two exquisite hours in eachother's company. I recall each subject onwhich we touch and even the words w



speak, as if all were written in a journaThe air is so clear and still that we cahear the famous chimes of the cathedra

clock, far away, in the town that is a banof blue haze on the horizon. At half-pasnine I begin to tell my host that he must gobut he does not obey till after ten. Then a

ast he takes my hand for good-bye—noau revoir : he will not say good-bye! "Iwo weeks," he repeats, "we shall mee

again. I shall have won my bet, and I shalbring you the thing I win."

"I won't take it!" I laugh.

"Wait till you see it, before you makesure."

"I'm not even sure yet of seeing you,"

remind him.



"You may be sure if I'm alive. I shalscour the country for miles around to finyou. I shall succeed—unless I'm dead."

All this time he had been holding my handwhile I have pretended to be unconsciouof the fact. Suddenly I seem to remember

and reluctantly he lets my fingers sliphrough his.

We bid each other adieu in the arbour.

do not go to "see him off," and I keep thpicture of Jim Wyndham under the roof oroses, in the moon-and candle-light.

Just so I have kept it for more than threyears; for we never met again. And nowhat I've seen the photograph of Jimm

Beckett, I know that we never shall meet.



Why he did not find us when the fortnighof his bet was over I can't imagine. Iseems that, if he tried, he must have com

upon our tracks, for we travelled scarcelmore than twenty miles in the two weeksPerhaps he changed his mind, and did nory. Perhaps he feared that my "romanti

beauty" might lose its romance, when seefor the second time. Something like thimust be the explanation; and I confess tyou, Padre, that the failure of the prince tkeep our tryst was the biggesdisappointment and the sharpeshumiliation of my life. It took most of th

conceit out of me, and since then I'vnever been vain of my alleged "looks" o"charm" for more than two minutes on end've invariably said to myself, "Remembe

Jim Wyndham, and how he didn't think yo



worth the bother of coming back to see."

ow you know why I can't describe th

effect upon my mind of learning that JiWyndham, the hero of my one-daromance, and Jimmy Beckett, the deaAmerican aviator, were one.



CHAPTER III

There could be no chance of mistake. Thphotograph was a very good likeness.

For a while I sat quite still with thnewspaper in my hands, living over thday in the shabby old garden. I felt like mourner, bereaved of a loved one, for in way—a schoolgirl way, perhaps—I hadoved my prince of the arbour. And

always since our day together, I'dcompared other men with him, to theidisadvantage. No one else ever capturemy imagination as he captured it in thosfew hours.



For a moment that little bit of Long Agopushed itself between me and Now. I wagrieving for my dead romance, instead o

for Brian's broken life: but quickly I wokup. Things were as bad as ever again, aneven worse, because of their contrast withe past I'd conjured up. Grief for th

death of Jimmy Beckett mingled with griefor Brian, and anxieties about money, ihe dull, sickly way that unconnecteroubles tangle themselves together i

nightmare dreams.

'm not telling you how I suffered, as aexcuse for what I did, dear Padre. I'm onl

explaining how one thing led to another.

t was in thinking of Jim Wyndham, andwhat might have happened between us i

he'd come back to me as he promised, tha



he awful idea developed in my head. Thhought wasn't born full-grown an

armoured, like Minerva when she spran

from the brain of Jupiter. It began likhis:

"If I'd been engaged to him, I might hav

gone to his parents now. I should havcomforted them by talking about their sonand they could have comforted mePerhaps they would have adopted us a

heir children. We need never have beenonely and poor. Jim would have wished

us to live with his father and mother, foall our sakes."

When the thought had gone as far as this, isuddenly leaped to an enormous height, af a devil in me had been doing the mang

rick.



heard myself thinking, "Why don't you go see Mr. and Mrs. Beckett, and tell the

you were engaged to marry their only son

The paper said he left no fiancée or wifn America. You can easily make thembelieve your story. Nobody can prove that isn't true, and out of evil good will com

for everyone."

Flames seemed to rush through my heawith a loud noise, like the Tongues of Fire

n the Upper Room. My whole body wan a blaze. Each nerve was a separate red

hot wire.

rose to my feet, but I made no soundnstinct reminded me that I mustn't wakBrian, but I could breathe better, thinbetter standing, I felt.



"They are millionaires, the Becketts—millionaires!" a voice was repeating in mbrain. They wouldn't let Brian or you wan

for anything. They'd be glad if you went them. You could make them happy. Youcould tell them things they'd love to hea—and some would be true things. You

were in the hospital close to St. Raphaefor months, while Jimmy Beckett was ihe training camp. Who's to say you didn

meet? If you'd been engaged to him sinchat day years ago, you certainly woul

have met. No rules could have kept yoapart. Go to them—go to them—or i

you're afraid, write a note, and ask ihey'll receive you. If they refuse, no har will have been done."

Maybe, even then, if I'd stopped to tel



myself what a wicked, cruel plan it was, should have given it up. But it seemed burning inspiration, and I knew that I mus

act upon it at once or never.subsided into my chair again, and softly

very softly, hitched it closer to the tabl

which pretended to be a writing-desknside a blotting-pad were a few sheets ohotel stationery and envelopes. Mstylographic pen glided noiselessly ove

he paper. Now and then I glanced ovemy shoulder at Brian, and he was still fasasleep, looking more like an angel than man. You know my nickname for him was

always "Saint" because of his beautifupure face, and the far-away look in hieyes. Being a soldier has merely bronzehim a little. It hasn't carved any hard lines



Being blind has made the far-away thinghe used to see come near, so that he walkn the midst of them.

wrote quickly and with a dreadful kinof ease, not hesitating or crossing out single word.

"Dear Mr. and Mrs. Beckett," I begabecause I meant to address my letter t

both). "I've just heard that you have com

over from America, only in time to learnof your great loss. Is it an intrusion to telyou that your loss is mine too? I dearloved your son. I met him nearly fou

years ago, when my brother and I werravelling in France and Belgium. Oumeeting was the romance of my life. hardly dare to think he told you about i

But a few months ago I took up nursing a



he Hôpital des pidemies, near SRaphael. As you know, he was thereraining. He sent us a cheque for ou

sufferers; and what was fated to happedid happen. We met again. We loved eachother. We were engaged. He may havewritten to you, or he may have waited til

he could tell you by word of mouth.

"I am in Paris, as you will see by thiaddress. My soldier brother has lost hi

sight. I brought him here in the hope of cure by your great American specialist DrCuyler, but he tells me an operation wouldbe useless. They say that one sorrow

blunts another. I do not find it so. My hears almost breaking. May I call upon you

To see his father and mother would be comfort to me. But if it would b



otherwise for you, please say 'no.' I wilry to understand.

"Yours in deepest sympathy,"Mary O'Malley."

As I finished, Brian waked from his nap

so I was able to leave him and rudownstairs to send off the letter by hand.

When it had gone, I felt somewhat as I'v

felt when near a man to whom aanæsthetic is being given. The fumes oether have an odd effect on me. They turme into a "don't care" sort of perso

without conscience and without fear. Nowonder some nations give soldiers a dasof ether in their drink, when they have tgo "over the top!" I could go, and feel n



sense of danger, even though my reasonknew that it existed.

So it was while I waited for thmessenger from our mean little hotel tcome back from the magnificent RitzWould he suddenly dash my sinful hope

by saying, " Pas de réponseMademoiselle"; or would he bring me etter from Father and Mother Beckett? I

he brought such a letter, would it invite m

o call and be inspected, or would isuggest that I kindly go to the devil?

was tremendously keyed up; and yet—

curiously I didn't care which of theshings happened. It was rather as if I wern a theatre, watching an act of a play tha

might end in one of several ways, neithe

one of which would really matter.



read aloud to Brian. My voice soundesweet and well modulated, I thought; buquite like that of a stranger. I was readin

some moving details of a vast battlewhich—ordinarily—would have stirreme to the heart. But they made nmpression on my brain. I forgot the word

as they left my lips. Dimly I wondered ihere were a curse falling upon m

already: if I were doomed to lose alsense of grief or joy, as the man in the oldstory lost his shadow when he sold it tSatan.

A long time passed. I stopped reading

Brian seemed inclined for the first timsince his misfortune to talk over ways anmeans, and how we were to arrange oufuture. I shirked the discussion. Thing



would adjust themselves, I said evasivelyhad some vague plans. Perhaps the

would soon materialize. Even by to

morrow—— When I had got as far as that, tap, tapcame the long expected knock at the door

sprang up. Suddenly the ether-likcarelessness was gone. My life—my versoul—was at stake. I could hardly uttehe little word " Entrez!" my throat was s

ight, so dry.The very young youth who opened thdoor was not the one I had sent to the Ritz

But I had no time to wonder why notwhen he announced: "Un monsieur et undame, en bas, demandent à voiMademoiselle."



My head whirled. Could it be?—busurely no! They would not have come tsee me. Yet whom did I know in Paris?

Who had learned that we were at thihotel? Had the monsieur and the damgiven their name? No, they had not. Thehad said that Mademoiselle woul

understand. They were in the salon.

heard myself reply that I would descenout de suite. I heard myself tell Brian tha

should not be long away. I saw my facn the glass, deathly pale in its frame o

dark hair, the eyes immense, with thpupils dilating over the blue, as an ink

pool might drown a border of violets anblot out their colour. Even my lips werwhite. I was glad I had on a black dress—glad in a bad, deceitful way; though for



moment after learning who Jimmy Beckewas, I had felt a true thrill of loyasatisfaction because I was in mourning fo

my lost romance.went slowly down the four flights o

stairs. I could not have gone fast withou

falling. I opened the door of the stuffsalon, and saw—the dearest couple thwide world could hold.



CHAPTER IV

They sat together, an old-fashioned pairon an old-fashioned sofa, facing the doorThe thing I'd thought impossible hahappened. The father and mother of JiBeckett had come to me.

For some reason, they seemed as mucsurprised at sight of me as I at sight ohem. We gazed at each other for annstant, all three without moving. Then th

old man (he was old, not middle-aged, amost fathers are nowadays) got to his feetHe took a step toward me, holding out hihand. His eyes searched mine; and

dimmed by years and sorrow as the



were, there was in them still a reminder ohe unforgotten, eagle-gaze. From him th

son had inherited his high nose and squar

forehead. Had he lived, some day Jim'face might have been chopped by Time'hatchet into just such a rugged brown masof old-manliness. Some day, Jim's thic

and smooth brown hair might have turnento such a snow-covered thatch, like th

roof of a cottage on a Christmas card.

The old lady was thin and flat of line, lika bas-relief that had come alive and losts background. She had in her forget-me

not blue eyes the look of a child who ha

never been allowed to grow up; and knew at once that she was one of thoswomen kept by their menfolk on a higshelf, like a fragile flower in a silve



vase. She, too, rose as I entered, but sandown again on the sofa with a littlgesture at the same time welcoming an

helpless."My daughter, no wonder he loved you!said the old man. "Now we see you, w

understand, don't we, Jenny?" Holding mhand, he turned and led me toward hiwife, looking at me first, then at her. "Wehad to come. We're going to love you, fo

yourself—and for him."Speaking, his face had a faintlperceptible quiver of strained nerves o

old age, like a sigh of wind ruffling thcalm surface of water. I felt how he fougho hide his emotion, and the answerinhrill of it shot up through my arm, as ou

hands touched. My heart beat wildly, and



he queer thought came that, if we were ihe dark, it would send out pulsing light

from my body like the internal lamp of

firefly.He called me his "daughter!" As I heardhat word of love, which I had stolen,

realized the full shame and abomination ohe thing I had done. My impulse was tcry out the truth. But it was only ampulse, such an impulse as lures one t

ump from a height. I caught myself bacfrom yielding, as I would have caughmyself back from the precipice, lest ianother moment I should lie crushed in

dark gulf. I waved before my eyes the flaof Brian's need, and my bad courage camback.

let Mr. Beckett lead me to the sofa. I le



his hand on my shoulder gently press mo sit down by his wife, who had no

spoken yet. Her blue eyes, fixed wit

piteous earnestness on mine, were likhose of a timid animal, when it is makinup its mind whether to trust and "take to" human stranger who offers advances.

seemed to see her thinking—thinking noso much with her brain as with her heartas you used to say Brian thought. I saw hedeas move as if they'd been the works o

a watch ticking under glass. I knew thashe wasn't clever enough to read my mindbut I felt that she was more dangerous

perhaps, than a person of criticantelligence. Being one of those alwayswas, always-will-be women—wifewomen, mother-women she might b

nstinct see the badness of my heart as



was reading the simple goodness of hers.

Her longing to know the soul of m

pierced to it like a fine crystal spear; anhe pathos of this bereaved mother anfather, who had so generously answeredmy call, brought tears to my eyes. I had no

winced away from her blue searchlightsbut tears gathered and suddenly poureover my cheeks. Perhaps it was thragedy of my own situation more tha

hers which touched me, for I was pityinas much as hating myself. Still the tearwere true tears; and I suppose nothing could have said or done would hav

appealed to Jim Beckett's mother as theappealed.

"Oh! you loved him!" she quavered, as i

hat were the one question for which sh



had sought the answer. And the next thing knew we were crying in each other's armshe little frail woman and the cruel gir

who was deceiving her. But, Padre, thcruel girl was suffering almost as shdeserved to suffer. She had loved JiWyndham, and never will she lov

another man.

"There, there!" Mr. Beckett was soothinus, patting our shoulders and our heads

"That's right, cry together, but don't grudgJim to the cause, either of you. I don't! I'proud he went the way he did. It was grand wayand a grand cause. We've got to

remember how many other hearts in thworld are aching as ours ache. We're noalone. I guess that helps a little. AndJenny, this poor child has a double sorrow



o bear. Think of what she wrote about hebrother, who's lost his sight."

The little old lady sat up, and with clean, lavender-scented handkerchiewiped first my eyes and then her own.

"I know—I know," she said. "But the chilwill let us try to comfort her—unless shhas a father and mother of her own?"

"My father and mother died when I was ittle girl," I answered. "I've only m

brother in the world."

"You have us," they both exclaimed in the

same breath: and though they bore as mucphysical likeness to one another as delicate mountain-ash tree bears to throcky mountain on which it grows



suddenly the two faces were so lit withe same beautiful inward light, that ther

was a striking resemblance between them

t was the kind of resemblance to be seeonly on the faces of a pair who have loveeach other, and thought the same thoughtong year after long year. The light was so

warm, so pure and bright, that I felt as if fire had been lit for me in the cold darroom. I didn't deserve to warm my handn its glow; but I forgot my falseness for

moment, and let whatever was good in mflow out in gratitude.

couldn't speak. I could only look, an

kiss the old lady's tiny hand—ungloved thold mine, and hung with loose rings orich, ancient fashion such as children lovo be shown in mother's jewel-box. I



return, she kissed me on both cheeks, anhe old man smoothed my hair, heavily.

"Why yes, that's settled then, you belong tus," he said. "It's just as if Jimmy'd lefyou to us in his will. In his last letter thboy told his mother and me that when w

met we'd get a pleasant surprise. We—silly old folks!—never thought of a lovstory. We supposed Jim was booked fopromotion, or a new job with some sort o

honour attached to it. And yet we mighhave guessed, if we'd had our wits abouus, for we did know that Jimmy'd fallen iove at first sight with a girl in France

before the war broke out."

"He told you that!" I almost gasped. Theh e had fallen in love, and hadn't gon

away forgetting, as I'd thought! Or was i



some other girl who had won him at firssight? This was what I said to myself: ansomething that was not myself added

"Now, if you don't lose your head, youwill find out in a minute all you've beepuzzling over for nearly four years."

"He told his mother," Mr. Beckett said"Afterwards she told me. Jim wouldnhave minded. He knew well enough shalways tells me everything, and he didn

ask her to keep any secret.""It was when I was sort of cross one nightbecause he didn't pay enough attention to

nice girl I'd invited, hoping to pleashim," Mrs. Beckett confessed. "He'd juscome back from Europe, and I enquired ihe French girls were so handsome, they'

spoiled him for our home beauties. I le



him see that his father and I wanted him tmarry young, and give us a daughter wcould love. Then he answered—

remember as if 'twas yesterday!—'Motheryou wouldn't want her unless I could lovher too, would you?' 'Why no,' I answeredBut you would love her!' He didn't spea

for a minute. He was holding my handcounting my rings—these ones you see—ike he always loved to do from a child

When he'd counted them all, he looked upand said, 'It wasn't a French girl spoileme for the others. I'm not sure, but I thinshe was Irish. I lost her, like a fool, tryin

o win a silly bet.' Those were his verwords. I know, because they struck me soteased him to explain. After a while h

did."



"Oh, do tell me what he said!" I begged.

At that minute Jim was alive for us al

hree. We were living with him in the pasthink none of us saw the little stuffy roowhere we sat. Only our bodies were thereike the empty, amber shells of locust

when the locusts have freed themselveand vanished. I was in a rose arbour, on day of late June, in a garden by a canahat led to Belgium. The Becketts were i

heir house across the sea."Why," his mother hesitated, "it was quita story. But when he found you again h

must have told you it all.""Ah, but do tell me what he told you!"

"Well, it began with a landlady in a hote



wanting him to see a picture. The artiswas away, but his sister was there. Thawas you, my dear."

"Yes, it was I. My poor Brian paintedsuch beautiful things before——"

"We know they were beautiful, becausewe've seen the picture," Father Beckebroke in. "But go on, Mother. We'll telabout the picture by and by. She'll like to

hear. But the rest first!"The little old lady obeyed, and went on"Jimmy said he was taken to a room, anhere stood the most wonderful girl he'

ever seen in his life—his 'dream comalive.' That's how he described her. Andhere was more. Father, I never told yo

his part. But maybe Miss—Miss——"



"Will you call me 'Mary'?" I asked.

"Maybe 'Mary' would like to hear. O

course I never forgot one word. Nmother could forget! And now I see hdescribed you just right. When you hearyou'll know it was love made his tal

about you poetry-like. Jimmy never talkehat way to me of any one, before osince."

Padre, I am going to write down the thinghe said of me, because it is exquisite tknow that he thought them. He said, I haeyes "like sapphires fallen among dar

grasses." And my hair was so heavy andhick that, if I pulled out the pins, it woulfall around me "in a black avalanche."

Ah, the joy and the pain of hearing thes



words like an echo of music I had nearlmissed! There's no language for what felt. But you will understand.

He had told his mother about our daogether. He said, he kept falling deeper iove every minute, and it was all he coul

do not to exclaim, "Girl, I simply musmarry you!" He dared not say that lest should refuse, and there would be an enof everything. So he tried as hard as h

could to make me like him, and remembehim till he should come back, in twweeks. He thought that was the best wayand he would have let his bet slide if h

hadn't imagined that a little mystery mighmake him more interesting in my eyesBelieving that we had met again, MrsBeckett supposed that he had explaine



his to me. But of course it was all newand when she came to the reason why JiWyndham had never come back, I though

for a moment I should faint. He was takell in Paris, three days after we partedwith typhoid fever; and though it wanever a desperate case—owing to hi

strong constitution—he was delirious foweeks. Two months passed before he wawell enough to look for me, and by thaime all trace of us was lost. Brian and

had gone to England long before. Jim'friend—the one with whom he had the be—wired to the Becketts that he was ill

but not dangerously, and they weren't tocome over to France. It was only when hreached home that they knew how seriouhe trouble had been.



While I was listening, learning that Jihad really loved me, and searched for met seemed that I had a right to him after all

hat I was an honest girl, hearing news oher own man, from his own people. It waonly when Mr. Beckett began to draw mout, with a quite pathetic shyness, on th

subject of our worldly resources that was brought up short again, against thdark wall of my deceit. It should havbeen exquisite, it was heartbreaking, tsee how he feared to hurt my feelings witsome offer of help from his abundance"Hurt my feelings!" And it was with th

sole intention of "working" them fomoney that I'd written to the Becketts.

That looks horrible in black and whitedoesn't it, Padre? But I won't try to hid



my motives behind a dainty screen, froyour eyes or mine. I had wanted and meano get as much as I could for Brian an

myself out of Jim Beckett's father anmother. And now, when I was on the wao obtain my object, more easily than I ha

expected—now, when I saw the kind o

people they were—now, when I knew thao Jim Wyndham I had been an ideal, "hi

dream come true." I saw my own face an a mirror. It was like the sly, mean face

of a serpent disguised as a woman.

remember once saying to you, Padrewhen you had read aloud "The Idylls o

he King" to Brian and me as children, thaVivien was the worst cad I ever heard osince the beginning of the world! I havenchanged my mind about her since, excep



hat I give her second place. I am in thfirst.

suppose, when I first pictured thBecketts (if I stopped to picture them aall) I imagined they would be an ordinarAmerican millionaire and millionairess

bow-fronted, self-important creatures; thold man with a diamond stud like headlight, the old lady afraid to take colf she left off an extra row of pearls. In ou

desperate state, anything seemed fair iove or war with such hard, worth-their

weight-in-gold people. But I ought to havknown that a man like Jim Beckett couldn

have such parents! I ought to have knowhey wouldn't be in the common class o

millionaires of any country; and thawhatever their type they would be unique



Well, I hadn't known. Their kindnessheir dear humanness, their simplicity

overwhelmed me as the gifts of shield

and bracelets from the Roman warrioroverwhelmed treacherous Tarpeia. Andwhen they began delicately begging me tbe their adopted daughter—the very thin

'd prayed for to the devil!—I felt hundred times wickeder than if Jim hadnset me on a high pedestal, where thewished to keep me with their money, theiove, as offerings.

Whether I should have broken down anconfessed everything, or brazened it out i

spite of all if I'd been left alone to decideshall never know. For just then the doo

opened, and Brian came into the room.



CHAPTER V

Why Brian's coming should make all thdifference may puzzle you, Padre, but I'lexplain.

Ours is an amateurish hotel, especiallsince the war. Any one who happens tohave the time or inclination runs it: or ino one has time it runs itselfConsequently mistakes are made. But whacan you expect for eight francs a day, withension?

said that a very young youth brought uhe news of the Becketts' arrival. He'

merely announced that "un monsieur e



une dame" had called. Apparently thehad given no names, no cards. But in truthere were cards, which had been mislaid

or in other words left upon the desk in thbureau, with the numbers of both ourooms scrawled on them in penci

obody was there at the time, but whe

he concierge came back (he is a sort ounofficial understudy for the mobilizemanager) he saw the cards and sent theupstairs. They were taken to Brian and thnames read aloud to him. He supposedfrom vague information supplied by tharçon (it was a garçon this time) that

wished him to come and join me in thsalon with my guests. He hated the thoughof meeting strangers (the name "Beckettmeant nothing to him), but if he wer

wanted by his sister, he never yet left he



n the lurch.

He and I both knew the house with ou

eyes shut, before the war; and now thaBrian is blind, he practises in the mosreckless way going about by himself. Hrefused to be led to the salon: he cam

unaided and unerring: and I thought whehe appeared at the door, I'd never seehim look so beautiful. He is beautiful yoknow! Now that his physical eyesight i

gone, and he's developing that mysteriou"inner sight" of which he talks, there's nother adjective which truly expresses himHe stood there for a minute with his han

on the door-knob, with all the light in throom (there wasn't much) shining straighnto his face. It couldn't help doing that, ahe one window is nearly opposite th



door; but really it does seem sometimehat light seeks Brian's face, as the "spoight" in theatres follows the hero o

heroine of a play.There was an asking smile on his lips, an—by accident, of course—his dear blin

eyes looked straight at Mrs. Beckett. Weare enough alike, we twins, for any one tknow at a glance that we're brother ansister, so the Becketts would have known

of course, even if I hadn't cried out isurprise, "Brian!"

They took it for granted that Brian woul

have heard all about their son Jim; soouched by the pathos of his blindness—he lonely pathos (for a blind man is aonely as a daylight moon!) Mrs. Becke

almost ran to him and took his hand.



"We're the Becketts, with your sister," shesaid. "Jimmy's father and mother. I expecyou didn't meet him when they wer

getting engaged to each other at StRaphael. But he loved your picture that hbought just before the war. He used to sayf only you'd signed it, his whole lif

might have been different. That was whehe'd lost Mary, you see—and he'd got holof her name quite wrong. He thought iwas Ommalee, and we never knew a worabout the engagement, or her real name oanything, till the letter came to us at ouhotel to-day. Then we hurried around

here, as quick as we could; and shpromised to be our adopted daughter. Thameans you will have to be our adopteson!"



think Mrs. Beckett is too shy to likalking much at ordinary times. She woul

rather let her big husband talk, and liste

admiringly to him. But this wasn't aordinary time. To see Brian stand at thedoor, wistful and alone, gave her a pain iher heart, so she rushed to him, an

poured out all these kind words, whiceft him dazed.

"You are very good to me," he answered

oo thoughtful of others' feelings, aalways, to blurt out—as most peoplwould—"I don't understand. Who are youplease?" Instead, his sightless bu

beautiful eyes seemed to search the roomand he said, "Molly, you're here, arenyou?"

ow perhaps you begin to understand wh



his coming, and Mrs. Beckett's greeting ohim, stopped me from telling the truth—i

would have told it. I'm not sure if

would, in any case, Padre; but as it was could not. The question seemed settledTo have told the Becketts that I was anadventuress—a repentant adventuress—

and let them go out of my life withouBrian ever knowing they'd come into iwas one thing. To explain, to accusemyself before Brian, to make him despishe only person he had to depend on, an

so to spoil the world for him, was anothehing.

accepted the fate I'd summoned like thgenie of a lamp. "Yes, Brian, I'm here," answered. And I went to him, and toopossession of the hand Mrs. Beckett ha



eft free. "I never told you about mromance. It was so short. And—and ondoesn't put the most sacred things i

etters. I loved a man, and he loved meWe met in France before the war, and loseach other.

"Afterward he came back to fight. A fewdays ago he fell—just at the time when hiparents had hurried over from America tosee him. I—I couldn't resist writing them

etter, though they were strangers to me. ——"

"That's not a word I like to hear on you

ips—'strangers'," Mr. Beckett broke in"even though you're speaking of the pasWe're all one family now. You don't mindmy saying that, Brian, or taking it fo

granted you'll consent—or calling yo



Brian, do you?"

"Mind!" echoed Brian, with his sweet

young smile. "How could I mind? It's liksomething in a story. It's a sad story—because the hero's gone out of it—no, hhasn't gone, really! It only seems so

before you stop to think. I've learneenough about death to learn that. And I caell by both your voices you'll be friend

worth having."

"Oh, you are a dear boy!" exclaimed MrsBeckett. "God is good to give you anyour sister to us in our dark hour. I feel a

f Jimmy were here with us. I do believhe is! I know he'd like me to tell you whahe did with your picture, and what we'vdone with it since, his father and I."



Brian must have felt that it would be goofor us all to talk of the pictures, just thennot of this "Jimmy" who was still

mystery to him. He caught up the subjecand said that he didn't understand. Whapicture was it of which they spoke? Hgenerally signed his initials, but they'

mentioned that this was unsigned——

"Don't you remember," I explained, "thsketch I sold for you to Mr. Wyndham

when we were tramping through FranceYou told me when you came back fromParis that it wasn't quite finished. You'dmeant to put on a few more touches—an

your signature. Well, 'Wyndham' was onlyhe middle name. I never told you muc

about that day. I was half ashamedbecause it was the day when my romanc



began and—broke. I hoped it might begiagain sometime, but—but—you shall heahe whole story soon. Only—not now."

Even as I promised him, I promisemyself to tell him nothing. I might have tie in deeds to Brian. I wouldn't lie i

words. Mrs. Beckett might give him heversion of her son's romance—some dayJust at the moment she was relatingalmost happily, the story of the picture

and it was for me, too.Jim had had a beautiful frame made foBrian's cathedral sketch, and it had bee

hung in the best place—over his desk—ihe special sanctum where the things hoved most were put. In starting fo

Europe his father and mother had planne

o stop only a short time in a Paris hotel



They had meant to take a house, where Jicould join them whenever he got a fewdays' leave: and as a surprise for him the

had brought over his favourite treasurefrom the "den." Among these was thunsigned picture painted by the brother oThe Girl . They had even chosen the house

a small but charming old château to whicJim had taken a fancy. It was rather closo the war zone in these days, but that ha

not struck them as an obstacle. They wernot afraid. They had wired, before sailingo a Paris agent, telling him to engage th

château if it was still to let furnished. O

arriving the answer awaited them: thplace was theirs.

"We thought it would be such a joy toJim," Mrs. Beckett said. "He fell in lov



with that château before he came dowwith typhoid. I'll show you a snapshot hook of it. He used to say he'd giv

anything to live there. And crossing on thship we talked every day of how we'make a 'den' for him, full of his owhings, and never breathe a word till h

opened the door of the room. We're inhonour bound to take the house nowwhether or not we use it—without Jim. don't know what we shall do, I'm sureAll I know is, I feel as if it would kill mo turn round and go home with our broke

hearts."

"We've got new obligations right hereJenny. You mustn't forget that," said MrBeckett. "Remember we've just adopted daughter—and a son, too. We must consul



hem about our movements."

"Oh, I hadn't forgotten!" the old lady cried

"They—they'll help us to decide, ocourse. But just now I can't make myselfeel as if one thing was any better thaanother. If only we could think o

something Jim would have liked us to doSomething—patriotic—for France."

"Mary has seen Jim since we saw him

dear. Perhaps from talk they had she'lhave a suggestion to make."

"Oh no!" I cried. "I've no suggestion."

"And you, Brian?" the old man persisted.

Quickly I answered for my brother. "Thenever met! Brian couldn't know what—

Jim would have liked you to do."



"It's true, I can't know," said Brian. "But hought has come into my head. Shall I telt to you?"

"Yes!" the Becketts answered in a breathThey gazed at him as if they fancied hinspired by their son's spirit. No wonder

perhaps! Brian has an inspired look."Are you very rich?" he asked bluntly, aa child puts questions which grown-up

veil."We're rich in money," answered the oldman. "But I guess I never quite realizeill now, when we lost Jimmy, how poo

you can be, when you're only rich in whahe world can give."

"I suppose you'll want to put up the fines



monument for your son that money cabuy," Brian went on, as though he hadwandered from his subject. But I—

knowing him, and his slow, dreamy waof getting to his goal—knew that he wanot astray. He was following some stawhich we hadn't yet seen.

"We've had no time to think of amonument," said Mr. Beckett, with choke in his voice. "Of course we woul

wish it, if it could be done. But Jim lies oGerman soil. We can't mark the place——"

"It doesn't much matter—to him—wherhis body lies," Brian went on. " He is non German soil, or in No Man's Land

Wouldn't he like to have a monument in

veryman's Land ?"



"What do you mean?" breathed the littlold lady. She realized now that blindBrian wasn't speaking idly.

"Well, you see, France and Belgiumogether will be Everyman's Land after th

war, won't they?" Brian said.

"Every man who wants the world's trupeace has fought in France and Belgium, ihe could fight. Every man who has fought

and every man who wished to fight bucouldn't, will want to see those lands thahave been martyred and burned, when thehave risen like the Phœnix out of thei

own ashes. That's why I call France anBelgium Everyman's Land. You say youJim spent some of his happiest days thereand now he's given his life for the land h

oved. Wouldn't you feel as if he wen



with you, if you made a pilgrimage froown to town he knew in their days o

beauty—if you travelled and studied som

scheme for helping to make each onbeautiful again after the war? If you dihis in his name and his honour, could h

have a better memorial?"

"I guess God has let Jim speak througyour lips, and tell us his wish," said MrBeckett. "What do you think, Jenny?"

"I think what you think," she echoed. "It'right the word should come to us from thbrother of Jim's love."



CHAPTER VI

That is the story, Padre, as far as it hagone. No sign from you, no look in youeyes, could show me myself in a meaneight than shines from the mirror of m

conscience. If Jim hadn't loved me, iwould be less shameful to trade on th

rust of these kind people. I see thaclearly! And I see how hateful it is tomake Brian an innocent partner in thfraud.

'm taking advantage of one man who idead, and another who is blind. And it ias though I were "betting on a certainty,

because there's nobody alive who ca



come forward to tell the Becketts or Briawhat I am. I'm safe, brutally safe!

You'll see from what I have written howBrian turned the scales. The plan hproposed developed in the Beckettsminds with a quickness that could happe

only with Americans—and millionairesFather Beckett sees and does things on thgrand scale. Perhaps that's the secret ohis success. He was a miner once, he ha

old Brian and me. Mrs. Beckett was district school teacher in the Far Westwhere his fortune began. They marriewhile he was still a poor man. But that'

by the way! I want to tell you now of hipresent, not of his past: and the workinout of our future from Brian's suggestionTen minutes after the planting of the seed



ree had grown up, and was putting forteaves and blossoms. Soon there will b

fruit. And it will come into existence ripe

suppose Americans are like that. Themanage their affairs with mental intensivculture.

The Becketts are prepared to love me foJim's sake; but Brian they worship as supernatural being. Mr. Beckett says he'saved them from themselves, and give

hem an incentive to live. It was onlyesterday that they answered my S. O. Scall. Now, the immediate future is settledfor the four of us; settled for us together .

Father Beckett is asking leave to travel eautomobile through the liberated lands. Ieach town and village Jim's parents wil

decide on some work of charity o



reconstruction in his memory, above all iplaces he knew and loved. They cadentify these by the letters he wrote hom

from France before the war. His mothehas kept every one. Through presentiment of his death, or because shcouldn't part from them, she has brough

along a budget of Jim's letters froAmerica. She carries them about in a littlmorocco hand-bag, as other women carrheir jewels.

The thought of Brian's plan is for the twold people like an infusion of blood iemptied veins. They say that they woul

never have thought of it themselves, and ihey had, they would not have ventured t

attempt it alone, ignorant of French as theare. But this is their generous way o



calm content that used to enfold him whehe packed his easel and knapsack for ramp. Blindness isn't blindness for Brian

t's only another kind of sight."I shan't see the wreck and misery yoothers will have to see," he says. "Horror

don't exist any more for my eyes. I shalsee the country in all its beauty as it wabefore the war. And who knows but I shalfind my dog?" (Brian lost the mos

wonderful dog in the world when he wawounded.) He is always hoping to find iagain!

He doesn't feel that he accepts charitfrom the Becketts. He believes, with kind of modest pride, that we're reallndispensable. Afterward—when the tou

s over—he thinks that "some othe



scheme will open." I think so too. ThBecketts will propose it, to keep us withem. They will urge and argue, littl

dreaming how I drew them, with grappling-hook resolve to become barnacle on their ship!

To-morrow we move to the Ritz. TheBecketts insist. They want us near thefor "consultations"! This morning thformal request was made to the Frenc

authorities, and sent to headquarters. Ohe fourth day the answer will come, anhere's little doubt it will be "yes."

Can I bear to go on deceiving JiBeckett's father and mother, or—shall ake the other alternative? I must decido-night.



Since I wrote that last sentence I hav

been out, alone—to decide. Padre, it wan my mind never to come back.

walked a long, long way, to the Champs

Élysées. I was very tired, and I sat dow—almost dropped down—on a seat undehe high canopy of chestnut trees. I coul

not think, but I had a sense of expectatio

as if I were waiting for somebody whwould tell me what to do. Paris in thautumn twilight was a dream of beautySuddenly the dream seemed to open, an

draw me in. Some one far away, whom had known and loved, was dreaming meWhat I should decide about the futuredepended no longer on myself, but upo



undertone of music—a tune in the makin—in the tramp, tramp, of the soldiers' feehe rumble and whirr of the cars-of-war

he voices of women, the laughing cries ochildren.

thought how simple it would be, t

spring up and throw myself under one ohe huge, rushing camions: how easily thhing might be taken for an accident if

stage-managed it well. The Beckett

would be angels to Brian when I wagone! But the dreamer of the dream woulnot let me stir hand or foot. He put a spelof stillness upon me; he shut me up in

ransparent crystal box, while outside alhe world moved about its own affairs.

The mauve light of Paris nights filtered up

from the gleaming asphalt, as if through



What the meaning of my impression was

don't know. But it must have a meaning, iwas so strong and real. It has made mchange my mind about—the othealternative. I want to live, and find m

way back into that dream.



CHAPTER VII

Padre, you were right. My greatescomfort, as of old, is in turning to you.

think you had a glimpse of the futurwhen you left me that last message: "Writo me, in the old way, just as if I wer

alive and had gone on a long journey."

When I lock my door, and get out thiournal, it seems as if a second door—

door in the wall—opened, to show yo

smiling the good smile which made youface different from any other. I dondeserve the smile. Did I ever deserve itYet you gave it even when I was at my



worst. Now it seems to say, "In spite oall, I won't turn my back on you. I havengiven you up."

When I first began to write in this boothe purple-covered journal which wa

your last present to me), I meant just t

relieve my heart by putting on paper, as ifor you, the story of my wickedness. Nowhe story is told, I can't stop. I can't shuhe door in the wall! I shall go on, and on

shall tell you all that happens, all I feeand see, and think. That must have beewhat you meant me to do.

When Brian and I were away from home million years ago, before the war, wwrote you every day, if only a fewparagraphs, and posted our letters at th

end of a week. You said those letters wer



your "magic carpet," on which yoravelled with us. Poor Padre, you'd nime nor money for other travelling! You

never saw France, till the war called youAnd after a few bleak months, that othegreat call came. I shall write to you abouFrance, and about myself, as I should hav

written if you were back at home.

First—about myself! A few pages ago said that there was no one alive wh

could prove me a liar, to the Becketts oBrian: that I was "safe—brutally safe.Well, I was mistaken. I am not safe. But will go back to our start.

Everyone warned the Becketts that thewould get no automobile, no essence, anno chauffeur. Yet they got all three, as

magically as Cinderella got her coach an



four. The French authorities played fairgodmother, and waved a wand. Why notwhen in return so much was to be done fo

France?The wand gave a permit for the wholfront (counting in the American front!

from Lorraine to Flanders. It produced big gray car, and a French soldier to drivt. The soldier has only one leg: but he ca

do more with that one than most men wit

wo. Thus we set forth on the journeBrian planned, the Becketts so grateful—poor darlings—for our company, that iwas hard to realize that I didn't belong .

t was a queer thought that we should baking the road to Germany—we, of al

people: yet every road that leads east fro

Paris leads to Germany. And it was a



boys of the "class" of next year. Womenswept out the gloomy shops: women drovomnibuses: women hawked the mornin

papers. Outside Paris we were stopped bsoldiers, appearing from sentry-boxes: oupapers were scanned; almost reluctantlwe were allowed to pass on, to the Secre

Region of Crucifix Corner, which spyineyes must not see—the region oaeroplane hangars, endless hangars, losamong trees, and melting dimly into a dihorizon, their low, rounded roof"camouflaged" in a confusion of splodgecolours.

There was so much to see—so mucwhich was abnormal, and belonged to wa—that we might have passed withouglancing at a line of blue water, paralle



with our road at a little distance, had noBrian said, "Have we come in sight of thOurcq? We ought to be near it now. Don'

you know, the men of the Marne say thmen of the Ourcq did more than they tsave Paris?"

The Becketts had hardly heard of thOurcq. As for me, I'd forgotten that part ihe drama of September, 1914. I knew thahere was an Ourcq—a canal, or a river

or both, with a bit of Paris sticking to itbanks: knew it vaguely, as one knows andforgets that one's friends' faces havprofiles. But Brian's words brought bac

he whole story to my mind in a flash. remembered how Von Kluck was trappedike a rat, in the couloir of the Ourcq, bhe genius of Gallieni, and the gloriou



coöperation of General Manoury and thdear British "contemptibles" undeGeneral French.

t was a desperate adventure that—to trand take the Germans in the flank; anGallieni's advisers told him there wer

not soldiers enough in his command to dt. "Then we'll do it with sailors!" he said"But," urged an admiral, "my sailors arnot trained to march."

"They will march without being trained,said the defender of the capital. "I've been China and Madagascar, I know wha

sailors can do on land.""Even so, there will not be enough men,answered the pessimists.



"We'll fill the gaps with the police," saidhe general, inspired perhaps by Sainte

Geneviève.

So the deed was dared; and in a panic asight of the mysteriously arriving troopsVon Kluck retreated from the Ourcq to the

Aisne. It was when he heard how the trichad been played and won by sheebravado, that he cried out in rage, "Howcould I count on such a coup? Not anothe

military governor in a hundred woulhave risked throwing his whole force sixtkilometres from its base. How should guess what a dare-devil fool Gallien

would turn out? But if Trochu, in '70, hadbeen the same kind of a fool, we shoulnever have got Paris!"

Half the ghosts in history seemed to haun



his Route de Strasbourg, and to meet uas we passed. You know how you see thecharacters in a moving-picture play, and

behind them the "fade ins" that show theiife history, visions that change on thscreen like patterns in a kaleidoscope? Son this meadow-bordered road, peacefu

n the autumn sunlight, we saw with ouminds' eyes the soldiers of 1914: behinhem the soldiers of 1870: farther in th

background Napoleon the Great with himen: and fading into the distanceprocessions of kings who had marchealong the Marne, since the day Sainte

Geneviève ordered the gates of Paris to bshut in the face of Attila.

Such a gay, gold-sequined blue-greeribbon of a river it looked! Almos



mpudent in gaiety, as if it wished toforget and be happy. But souls and rivernever really forget. When they know wha

he Marne knows, they are gay only on thsurface!

t was at Meaux where we had our firs

close meeting with the Marne: Meaux, thcity nearest Paris "on the Marne front,where the Germans came: and even aftehree years you can still see on the lef

bank of the river traces of trench—shallow, pathetic holes dug in wild hasteWe might have missed them, we creaturewith mere eyes, if Brian hadn't asked

"Can't you see the trenches?" Then wsaw them, of course, half lost under rangrass, like dents in a green velvet cushiomade by a sleeper who has long ag



waked and walked away.

From a distance the glistening gray roof

of Meaux were like a vast crowd of darkwinged doves; but as we ran into the towt opened out into dignified importance

able to live up to its thousand years o

history. There was no work for thBecketts there, we thought, for thGermans had time to do little materiaharm to Meaux in 1914: and at first sigh

here seemed to be no need of alms. BuJim had loved Meaux. His mother toofrom her blue morocco bag his lettedescribing the place, mentioning how h

had met the bishop through a Frencfriend.

"Do you think," she asked me timidly, "w

might call on the bishop? Who knows bu



he remembers our Jimmy?"

"He's a famous bishop," said Brian. "I'v

heard poilus from Meaux tell stories ohow the Germans were forced to respechim, he was so brave and fine. He took thchildren of the town under his protection

and no harm came to one of them. Therwere postcard photographs going rounearly in the war, of the bishop surroundedby boys and girls—like a benevolent Pie

Piper. It's kindness he's famous for, awell as courage, so I'm sure we may call.

ear the beautiful old cathedral w

passed a priest, and asked him where tfind the bishop's house. "You need not goso far; here he comes," was the answerWe looked over our shoulders, almos

guiltily, and there indeed he was. He had



been in the cathedral with two Frencofficers, and in another instant the triwould have turned a corner. Our look and

he priest's gesture told the bishop that wwere speaking of him. He paused, and MrBeckett jumped out of the stopped caragile as a boy in his excitement.

"Oh, I forgot, I can't talk French! Maryyou must see me through!" he pleaded.

hurried to the rescue, and together wwalked up to the bishop. Off came MrBeckett's hat; and both officers saluted usOne was a general, the other a colonel.

f I'd had time to rehearse, I might havdone myself some credit. As it was, stammered out some sort of explanatio

and introduced Jim's father.



"I remember young Monsieur Beckett," thbishop said. "He was not one to bforgotten! Besides, he was generous t

Meaux. He left a noble present for oupoor. And now, you say, he has given hisife for France? What is there I can do t

prove our gratitude? You have come to

Meaux because of his letters? Wait a fewminutes, till these brave messieurs havgone, and I myself will show you thcathedral. Oh, you need not fear! It will ba pleasure."

He was as good as his word, and betterot only did he show the splendid Gothi

cathedral, pride of the "fair Île-deFrance," but the bishop's house as welBossuet had lived there, the most famoubishop Meaux had in the past. It wa



from his hill-castle near the Spanisfrontier, but most likely he loved one ohe shut-up ladies. Or perhaps it wa

simply for love of all womanhood, sincGaston was so chivalrous that Froissarsaid, "I never saw one like him opersonage, nor of so fair form, nor so wel

made."

From Meaux our road (we were going tmake Nancy our centre and stoppin

place) followed the windings of the greeribbon Marne to Château-Thierry, on thriver's right bank. There's a rather thrillinruin, that gave the town its name, an

dominates it still—the ruin of a castlwhich Charles Martel built for a younKing Thierry. The legend says that thiboy differed from the wicked king



Thierry, sons and grandsons of thFrankish Clovis; that he wanted to bgood, but "Fate" would not let him

Perhaps it's a judgment on those terriblThierry kings, who left to their enemieonly the earth round their habitation—"because it couldn't be carried away"—

hat the Germans have left ruins iChâteau-Thierry more cruel than those ohe crumbling castle. In seven Septembe

days they added more monumenthistoriques than a thousand years hagiven the ancient Marne city.

Jim Beckett had written his mother al

about the town, and sent postcard pictureof its pride, the fortress-like, fifteenthcentury church with a vast tower set upoa height. He liked Château-Thierr



because Jean de la Fontaine was borhere, and called it "a peaceful-lookin

place, just right for the dear fable-maker

who was so child-like and sweet-naturedhat he deserved always to be happynstead of for ever in somebody's debt." A

soldier having seen the wasted country a

he front, might still describe ChâteauThierry as a "peaceful-looking place." But was the first glimpse the Becketts ha

had of war's abominable destruction. ook up nursing in the south of Franc

before the Zeppelins made much visiblmpression on London; and as

volunteered for a "contagious" hospita've lived an isolated life far from alhorrors save those in my own ward, anhe few I saw when I went to nurse Brian

Perhaps it was well for us to begin wit



Château-Thierry, whose gaping woundare not mortal, and to miss tragiVarreddes. Had Sermaize-les-Bains

which burst upon us later, been our firsexperience, the shock might have been togreat for Mrs. Beckett. As it was, wworked slowly to the climax. Yet even so

we travelled on with a hideous mirage obroken homes, of intimacies brutally laibare, floating between the landscape anour eyes. We could not get rid of thimirage, could not brush it away, thoughe country was friendly and fair of fac

as a child playing in a waterside meadow

The crudely new bridges that crossed thMarne were the only open confessions owhat the river had suffered. But the Marnspirit had known wars enough to lear

"how sweet it is to live, forgetting." Wit



her bits of villages scattered like strewflowers on her green flood, she floats in dream of her adventurous past and th

glorious future which she has helped twin for France.

t was hard to realize that the tiny islan

villages and hamlets on the level shorehad seen the Germans come and go; thaunder the gray roofs—furry-soft as thbacks of Maltese cats—hearts had beate

n agony of fear; that along the white roadwith its double row of straight trees likan endless army on parade, weepinfugitives had fled.

We were not aiming to reach Nancy thanight, so we paused at Épernay. Thenemy behaved better there than in mos

Marne towns, perhaps because Wagne



and harder to get.

Outside Champagnopolis, in the wid

wooden village of hospital huts, a doctoold us a war ghost story. One night thGermans made a great haul of champagneof a good year, in a castle near by. They

had knocked off the heads of many bottlesnaming each for a French general oyesterday or to-day, when some officewho knew more history than the res

remembered that Henri IV had takeÉpernay in 1592. He named his bottle foHenri de Navarre, and harangued hicomrades on the superiority of Wilhel

von Hohenzollern. As the speechmakecracked the neck with his sword, thbottle burst in a thousand piecesdrenching everyone with wine. A bit o



glass struck the electric lamp over thable, and out went the light. For an instanhe room was black. Then a white ra

flickered on the wall, as if thrown throughe window by a searchlight. Out of itglimmer stepped a man, with a longaughing face and a pointed beard. Roun

his neck was a high ruff. He wore doublet of velvet, and shining silk hose. Ihis hand was a silver goblet, frothing ovehe top with champagne. "He drinks bes

who drinks last!" cried he in French, anflung the goblet at the face of him whnamed the bottle. At the same second ther

was a great explosion, and only onsoldier escaped; he who told the story.

Think, Padre, it was near Châlons thaAttila was defeated, and forced to fly fro



France for ever! I ought to say, Attila thefirst, since the self-named Attila II hasnyet been beaten back beyond the Rhine.

We—you, and Brian and I—used to haveexcited arguments about reincarnationYou know now which of us was right! Bu

cling to the theory of the spiral, ievolution of the soul—the soul of a man ohe soul of the world. It satisfies my sens

of justice and my reason both, to believ

hat we must progress, being made foprogression; but that we evolve upwarslowly, with a spiral motion which bringus at certain periods, as we rise, directl

above the last earth-phase in ouevolution. If it's true, here, after nearlhirteen centuries, are the Hun

overrunning Europe once more. Learne



Huns, scientific Huns, but always Hunsrepeating history on a higher scalebarbarously bent on pulling down th

iberty of the world by the power of brutforce. Again they're destined to bconquered as before, at a far bigger priceWhat will the next turn of their spira

bring, I wonder? A vast battle of intellectperhaps, when wars of blood have beeforgotten. And I wonder, too, where haAttila been, since he was beaten in thiChampagne country of the Marne, andied two years later at his wedding-feasn Hungary!

Did he appear in our world again, in thform of some great, cruel general or kingor did his soul rest until it wareincarnated in the form that claims hi



name to-day?

could scarcely concentrate upo

Châlons, though it's a noble towncrowded with grand old buildings. Mmind was busily travelling back, back inthistory, as Peter Ibbetson travelled in hi

prison-dreams. It didn't stop on its way tsee the city capitulate to the Allies i1814, just one hundred years before thgreat new meaning came into that wor

"allies." I ran past the brave fifteenthcentury days, when the English used tattack Châlons-sur-Marne, hoping to keeheir hold on France. I didn't even paus

for Saint-Bernard, preaching the Crusadn the gorgeous presence of Louis VII an

his knights. It was Attila who lured mdown, down into his century, buried deep



under the sands of Time. I heard the rinof George Meredith's words: "Attila, mAttila!" But I saw the wild warrior Attila

fighting in Champagne, not the dead maadjured by Ildico, his bride. I saw hi"short, swarthy, broad-chested," in hicrude armour, his large head, "early gray,

ifted like a wolf's at bay. I saw his fierceugly face with its snub nose and littledeep-set eyes, flushed in the fury of defeaas he ordered the famous screen ochariots to be piled up between him anhe Romano-Gauls. I saw him and his me

profiting by the strange barrier, and th

enemy's exhaustion, to escape beyond thRhine, with eyes yearning toward thcountry they were to see no more.

History calls that battle "one of th



decisive battles of the world," yet it lasteonly a day, and engaged from a hundredand seventy-four thousand to thre

hundred thousand men. Oh, the spiral obattles has climbed high since then!

think I should have had a presentiment o

he war if I'd lived at Châlons, proud citof twenty-two bridges and the CanaRhine-Marne. The water on stormy daymust have whispered, "They are coming

Take care!"At Vitry-le-François there is also thasame sinister canal which leads from th

Marne to the Rhine, the Rhine to thMarne. The name has a wicked sound ihese days—Rhine-Marne; and at Vitry-le

François of all places. The men from ove

he Rhine destroyed as much as they ha



ime to destroy of the charming old towplanned by Francis I, and named for himAll the villages round about the new Hun

broke to pieces, like the toy towns ochildren: Revigny, sprayed from handpumps with petrol, and burnt to thground: Sermaize-les-Bains, loved b

Romans and Saracens, obliterated; womedrowned in the river by laughing Germasoldiers, deep down under yellow waterilies, which mark their resting place to

day: everywhere, through the fields anforests, low wooden crosses in the midsof little votive gardens, telling their silen

ale.Ah, but it is good that Mother Beckett sawChâteau-Thierry first, or she might havcovered her eyes and begged to go back t



Paris! Here all speaks of death andesolation, save the busy little hutvillages of the Quakers. The "Friends

quietly began their labour of love beforhe Battle of the Marne was ended, anhey're "carrying on" still. The Frencranslate them affectionately into "le

mis."

t was at Bar-le-Duc that I met disasteface to face in so strange a way that i

needs a whole letter to tell you whahappened.



CHAPTER VIII

There were so many things to see by thway, and so many thoughts to think abouhem, that Father Beckett and Bria

decided on an all night stop at Bar-le-DucThe town hadn't had an air raid for weeksand it looked a port of peace. As wel

magine enemy aeroplanes over thbarley-sugar house of the witch in thenchanted forest, as over this comfortablhome of jam-makers!

"Jim always asked for currant jam of Bare-Duc on his birthdays, ever since he wa

a little, little boy," Mrs. Becket

remembered aloud. "And even when h



was grown up! But then, he wouldn't waifor birthdays. He wanted it every day fobreakfast; and for tea at those grand New

York hotels, where I wouldn't go withouhim, any sooner than in a lion's den. Oh, iwill be nice to stay at Bar-le-Duc! Ihere's been a jam factory blown up, we'l

help build it again, to please Jim."

Father Beckett was shrewdly of opiniohat the jam factories could take care o

hemselves, which rather disappointed hiwife. She was vaguely disappointed toon Bar-le-Duc. I think she expected t

smell a ravishing fragrance of Jim'

favourite confiture as we entered thown. It had been a tiring day for her, with

all our stops and sightseeing, and she haess appetite for history than for jam. We



had passed through lovely country sincChâlons, decorated with beautiful talrees, high box hedges, and distant, rollin

downs golden with grain and sunlighAlso, whenever our road drew near thrailway, we'd caught exciting glimpses oong trains "camouflaged" in blurry green

and blues, to hide themselves froaeroplanes. Nevertheless, Mother Beckehad begun to droop. Her blue eyes hardlbrightened to interest when Brian said wwere in the famous region of the Meusepart of the Austrian Empire iCharlemagne's day: that somewher

hereabout Wittekind, the enslaved Saxonused to work "on the land," not dreaminof the kingly house of Capet he was tfound for France, and that Bar-le-Du

tself would be our starting-point fo



Verdun, after Nancy and the "LorraineFront."

For her Bar-le-Duc had alwayrepresented jam, endless jam, loved bJim, and talk of the dukes of Bar broughno thrill to Jim's mother. She cared mor

o see the two largest elms in France owhich Jim had written, than any ruins oducal dwellings or tombs of Lorrainprinces, or even the house where Charles

Edouard the Pretender lived for years.Fortunately there was a decent hotevaguely open in the upper town on the hil

with a view over the small tributary riveOrnain, on which the capital city of thMeuse is built. One saw the Rhine-MarnCanal, too, and the picturesque roofs o

old fifteenth-century houses, huddle



ogether in lower Bar-le-Duc, shut iamong the vine-draped valleys oChampagne.

As we left the car and went into the hoteI lingering behind to help Brian) I notice

another car behind us. It was more like

axi-cab than a brave, free-borautomobile, but it had evidently come ong way, as it was covered with dust, an

from its rather ramshackle roof waved

Red Cross flag.n the good days before the war I shoul

have thought it the most natural thing o

earth if a procession of twenty motors harailed us. But war has put an end to joyrides. Besides, since the outskirts of Pariswe had been in the zone de guerre

constantly stopped and stared at b



woman in the car—a woman in nurse'dress. A thick veil covered her face, buher figure was girlish. I noticed that sh

was extremely small and slim in her longdust-dimmed blue cloak: a mere doll of creature.

The man's back was turned toward me ahe aided the nurse; but suddenly he flung glance over his shoulder, and staredstraight at me, as if he had expected to fin

me there.He was rather short, and too squarely builfor his age, which might be twenty-eigh

or thirty at most; but his great dark eyewere splendid, so gorgeously bright ansignificant that they held mine for a seconor two. This vexed me, and I turned awa

with as haughty an air as could be put o



smallest acts for granted.

So "omelette à la confiture de groseilles

was ordered; and just as we had come the end of it and our meal, some one begao play the piano in the public drawin

room next door. At the first touch,

recognized a master hand. The air wafrom Puccini's "La Tosca"—third act, anda moment later a man's voice caught it up—a voice of velvet, a voice of the heart—

an Italian voice.We all stopped eating as if we'd beenstruck by a spell. We hardly breathed. The

music had in it the honey of a millioflowers distilled into a crystal cup. It waso sweet that it hurt—hurt horribly andeliciously, as only Italian music can hurt

Other men sing with their brains, wit



heir souls, but Italians sing with theiblood, their veins, the core of their heartsThey are their songs, as larks are.

The voice brought Jim to me, and snatchehim away again. It set him far off at hopeless distance, across steep purpl

chasms of dreamland. It dragged my hearout, and then poured it full, full of aunknown elixir of life and love, whicwas mine, yet out of reach forever. I

showed me my past hopes and futursorrows floating on the current of my owblood like ships of a secret argosy sailinhrough the night to some unknown goa

So now, when I have told you what it dido me, you will know that voice was lik

no voice I ever heard, except Caruso's. Iwas like his—astonishingly like; an



hardly had the last note of "Mario's" sonof love and death dropped into silencwhen the singer began anew with one o

Caruso's own Neapolitan folk-songs"Mama Mia."

had forgotten Mother and Father Becke

—even Brian—everyone except my losJim Wyndham and myself. But suddenly ouch on my hand made me start. The littl

old lady's, small, cool fingers were o

mine, "My daughter, what do the wordmean?" she asked. "What is that bosaying to his mama?" Her eyes were bluakes of unshed tears, for the thought o

her son knocked at her heart.

"It isn't a boy who sings, dear," I said. "It'supposed to be a young man who tries t

ell his mother all about his love, but it i



painful death then obey; but, unabashedhe American husband flung wide open th

folding doors.

At the piano sat the short, square-builyoung man of the Red Cross taxi. Leaninwith both elbows on the instrument stoo

he doll-like figure of his companion, thgirl in nurse's dress. His back and heprofile were turned our way, but at thsound of the opening door he wheeled o

he stool, and both stared at Mr. BeckettAlso they stared past him at me. Why ame, and not the others, I could never havguessed then.

Our little room was lit by red-shadecandles on the table, while the saloadjoining blazed with electricity. As the

doors opened, it was like the effect of



flashlight for a photograph. I saw that thman and the girl resembled each other ifeature; nevertheless, there was a strikin

difference between the two. It wasn't onlhat he was squarely built, with a shorhroat, and a head shaped like Caruso's

whereas she was slight, with a smal

high-held head on a slender neck. Thchief difference lay in expression. Thman—who now looked younger than I hahought—had a dark, laughing face, ga

and defiant as a Neapolitan street boy. Imight be evil, it might be good. The girwho could be no more than twenty, wa

sullen in her beauty as a thundercloud.The singer jumped up, and took a fewsteps forward, while the girl stood stiland gloomed.



"I hope I didn't disturb you?" The questiowas asked of Mr. Beckett, and throwightly as a shuttlecock over the old man'

head to us in the next room. It was asken English, with a curiously winninaccent, neither Italian nor Irish, busuggesting both.

"Disturbed!" Father Beckett explained thahis errand was to beg for more music. "It'ike being at the opera!" was the bes

compliment he had to give.The young man smiled as if a light habeen turned on behind his eyes and hi

brilliant white teeth. "Delighted!" he said"I can't sing properly nowadays—shelshock. I suppose I never shall again. But do my best."



He sat down once more at the piano, anwithout asking his audience to choosebegan in a low voice an old, swee

entirely banal and utterly heartbreakinballad of Tosti's, with words by ChristinaRossetti:

"When I am dead, my dearest,Sing no sad songs for me,Plant thou no roses at my head, Nor shady cypress tree.

Be the green grass above meWith showers and dewdrops wet,And if thou wilt, remember,And if thou wilt, forget.

I shall not see the shadows,I shall not feel the rain;I shall not hear the nightingale



"Perhaps I oughtn't to have sung that stuffMr. Beckett," he said. "But your son likedt at St. Raphael. We knew each othe

here, very well."As he spoke his eyes turned to medeliberately, with meaning. There was

gentle, charming smile on his southerface, but I knew, as if he had told me in somany words, that my secret was his.

nvoluntarily I glanced at the girl. She hanot moved. She stood as before, heelbows on the piano, her small facpropped between her hands. But she, too

was looking at me. She had no expressiowhatever. Her eyes told as little as twoshut windows with blinds drawn downThe fancy flashed through me that a judg

might look thus waiting to hear the verdic



of the jury in a murder case.

"These two have followed us on purpos

o denounce me," I thought. Yet it seemeda stupidly melodramatic conclusion, likhe climax of a chapter in an old

fashioned, sentimental story. Besides, th

man—evidently the leader—had not at alhe face of Nemesis. He looked a merryhappy-go-lucky Italian, only a littlsubdued at the moment by the pathos of hi

own nightingale voice and the memory oJim Beckett. I was bewildered. My reasodid not know what to make of him. But mnstinct warned me of danger.

Mother Beckett dried her eyes with one oher dainty handkerchiefs which alwaysmell like lavender and grass pinks—he

eitmotif in perfume. "You knew our Jim?



on his face, as if the bombardment carriehim back to life in the trenches. But thbeautiful sightless eyes searched for wha

hey could not see: and I knew that I wan his thoughts. I would have gone to himafter the first petrifying instant of surprisebut the singing-man stopped me. "Are yo

afraid?" I heard his voice close to my earPerhaps he shouted. But in the din it waas if he whispered.

"No!" I flung back. "Had you not better gand take care of your sister?"

He laughed. "My sister! Look at her! Doe

she need taking care of?"The girl had come from the suddenldarkened salon into our room. As h

spoke, she walked to the table, helpe



apologizing for the raid as if it had beean accident of his kitchen. We must haveno fear. All danger was over. The avion—

only one!—had been chased out of ouneighbourhood. The noise we heard nowwas merely shrapnel fired by anti-aircrafguns. We would not be disturbed again

hat he'd guarantee from his experience!

Mrs. Beckett emerged from her husband'coat. Mr. Beckett laughed, and patting hi

wife's shoulder, complimented hecourage. "I'm not sure we haven't behavepretty well for our first air raid," he said"The rest of you were fine! But I suppos

even you ladies have seen some of thesshows before? As for you, Brian, my boyyou're a soldier. What we've been througmust seem a summer shower to you. And



you, sir"—he turned to the singing-ma—"I think you mentioned you'd had shelshock——"

"Yes," the other answered quickly. "It cosme my voice."

"Cost you your voice?" Father Beckeechoed. "If it was better than it is nowwhy, it must have been a marvel! We'regnorant in the music line, my wife and I

so if we ought to know who you are——"The young man laughed. "Oh, don't bafraid of hurting my feelings! If you weran Italian, or a Britisher—but aAmerican! I sang in New York only parof last winter, and then I—came ovehere, like everyone else. My name i

Julian O'Farrell, but my mother was a



sister's shoulder) "to her room and to behe better it will be."

Any one apparently less likely to faint, oess in need of rest, than the "poor littlgirl" indicated, it would be difficult tfind, I thought: but the kindly Beckett

were the last creatures to be critical. Thesympathized, and changed their invitatiofrom after-dinner coffee to breakfast anine. This was accepted by O'Farrell fo

himself and his sister, and taking the girl'arm, the ex-singer swept her off in dramatic exit.

When they had gone, it was Brian whasked me if I had known them in the southand because no incentive could make mie to Brian, I promptly answered "No.

As I spoke, it occurred to me that now, i



ever, was the moment when I might stilsucceed in spoking the wheel of Mr. andMiss O'Farrell before that wheel had tim

o crush me. I could throw doubt upoheir good faith. I could hint that, if thehad really been doing Red Cross or othework at St. Raphael, I should certainl

have heard of them. But I held my peace—partly through qualms of consciencepartly through fear. Unless the man hadproofs to bring of his bona fides wherJim Beckett was concerned, he woulscarcely have followed us to claiacquaintance with the parents an

confound the alleged fiancée. That he hafollowed us on purpose I was sure. Nofor a second did I believe that the arrivaof the taxi-cab in our wake was

coincidence!



CHAPTER X

To my surprise, there were only threeines, scribbled in pencil.

"Come to the salon for a talk when the resof your party have gone to bed. I'll bwaiting, and won't keep you long."

"Impudent brute!" I said out aloud. But moment later I had decided to keep thappointment and learn the worst. Needmust, when the devil drives!—if you're i

he power of the devil. I was. And, alashrough my fault, so was Brian. Afte

going so far, I could not afford to bhrown back without a struggle; and I wen



pardon!" the man gurgled. "I wawondering which is older, your Je SaiTout or my Illustration? Mine's th

Christmas number of 1909.""Yours has the advantage in age," replied, without a smile. "Mine goes bac

only to 1912.""Ah! I'm glad to score that one point," hsaid, still laughing. "Dear Miss O'Malley

won't you please sit down? I'm a lazfellow, and I'm so tired of standing! Nowdon't begin by being cross with mbecause I call you 'dear.' If you realized

what I've done for you, and what I'm reado do, you'd say I'd earned that right, tbegin with!"

"I don't understand you at all, or why yo



should claim any right," I hedged. But I sadown, and he sank so heavily into aancient, plush-covered chair that a spra

of dust flew up from the cushions."I'm afraid I'm rather too fat!" hapologized. "But I always lose fles

motoring, so you'll see a change for thbetter, I hope—in a week or two. I expecour lines will be cast in the same placefor some time to come—if you're as wis

as—as you are pretty. If not, I'm afraidyou and Mr. O'Malley won't be long witour party. I say, you are gorgeous whenyou're in a rage! But why fly into a fury

You told me you didn't understand things'm doing my best to explain."

"Then your best is very bad," I said.



he pot and I'm the kettle, because we'rboth tarred with the same brush. By thway, are pots and kettles blacked wit

ar? They look it. But that's a detail. Msister and I are just as dead broke andown and out as you and your brother are

mean, as you were, and as you may b

again, if you make mistakes."

"I'd rather not bring my brother into thidiscussion," I said. "He's too far above i

—and us. You can do as you choose abouyour sister."

"I can make her do as I choose," h

amended. "That's where my scheme camn, and where it still holds good. When read the news of Pa and Ma Beckearriving in Paris, it jumped into my hea

ike a—like a——"



"Toad," I supplied the simile.

"I was leaving it to you," said he. "

hought you ought to know, for by wonderful coincidence which shouldraw us together, the same great idea mushave occurred to you—in the same way

and on the same day. I bet you the firshundred francs I get out of old Beckett that was so!"

"Mr. O'Farrell, you're a Beast!" I cried."And you're a Beauty. So there we arecast for opposite parts in the same playQueer how it works out! Looks like thhand of Providence. Don't say what yowant to say, or I shall be afraid you'vbeen badly brought up. North of Ireland,

understand. We're South. Dierdre's a Sinn



Feiner. You needn't expect mercy fromher, unless I keep her down with a stronhand—the Hidden Hand. She hates yo

ortherners about ten times worse thashe hates the Huns. Now you look as iyou thought her name wasn't Dierdre! It isbecause she took it. She takes a lot o

hings, when I've showed her how. Fonstance, photographs. She has severa

snapshots of Jim Beckett and me togetherhave some of him and her. They're prett

strong cards (I don't mean a pun!) if wdecide to use them. Don't you agree?"

"I neither agree nor disagree," I said, "fo

understand you no better now than wheyou began."

"You're like Mr. Justice What's-his-name

who's so innocent he never heard of th



race course. Well, I must adapt myself toyour child-like intelligence! I'll go back bit to an earlier chapter in my career, th

way novels and cinemas do, after they'vgiven the public a good, bright opening. Iwas true, what I said about my voice. I'vost everything but my middle register.

had a fortune in my throat. At present I'vgot nothing but a warble fit for a smaldrawing room—and that, only by carefumanagement. I knew months ago I coulnever sing again in opera. I was coininmoney in New York, and would be now—f they hadn't dug me out as a slacker—a

embusqué —whatever you like to call it. was a conscientious objector: that is, mconviction was it would be sinful to risk bullet in a chest full of music, like mine—

a treasure-chest. But the fools didn't see i



n that light. They made America too hot thold either Giulio di Napoli or JuliaO'Farrell. I'm no coward—I swear to yo

'm not, my dear girl! You've only to lookme square in the face to see I'm not. I'full of fire. But ever since I was a boy I'vived for my voice, and you can't die fo

your voice, like you can for your countryt goes—pop!—with you. I managed t

convince the doctors that my heart was toumpy for the trenches. I see digitalis i

your eye, Miss Trained Nurse! It wasn't. Iwas strophantis. But they would set me tdriving a motor ambulance—cold-hearte

brutes! I got too near the front line one da—or rather the front line got too near meand a shell hit my ambulance. The nexhing I knew I was in hospital, and the firs

hing I thought of was my voice. A frog



found it—such as it is. All I ask of it is noo break down till the Becketts havearned to love me as their dear, dead

son's best friend. As for Dare—what shwas to the dear dead son depends on you.

"Depends on me?" I repeated.

"Depends on you. Dare's not a gooSunday-school girl, but she's good to hebrother—as good as you are to yours, i

her way. She'll do what I want. But thquestion is Will you?"

For a moment I did not speak. Then asked, "What do you want?"

"Only a very little thing," he said. "To liveand let live, that's all. Don't you try tqueer my pitch, and I won't queer yours."



"What is your pitch?" I asked.

He laughed. "You're very non-committal

aren't you? But I like your pluck. You'venever once admitted by word or look thayou're caught. All the same, you know youare. You can't hurt me, and I can hurt you

Your word wouldn't stand against myproofs, if you put up a fight. You'd godown—and your brother with you. Oh, don't think he's in it! The minute I saw hi

face I was sure he wasn't; and I guessefrom yours that what you'd done wamostly or all for him. Now, dear MisO'Malley, you know where you are wit

me. Isn't that enough for you? Can't youst be wise and promise to let me alon

on my 'pitch,' whatever it is?"

"I won't have Mr. and Mrs. Beckett mad



fools of in any way."

He burst out laughing. "That's good—fro

ou! I give you leave to watch over theinterests, if you let me take care of mines it a bargain?"

did not answer. I was thinking—thinkinfuriously, when the landlord came to thdoor to put out the lights.

O'Farrell sprang to his feet. "We're readyo go. We can leave the room free, can

we, Miss O'Malley?" he said in French.

Somehow, I found myself getting up, and

fading out of the room as if I'd beehypnotized. I walked straight to the foot ohe stairs, then turned at bay to delive

some ultimatum—I scarcely knew what



But O'Farrell had cleverly accomplished vanishing act, and there was nothing leffor me to do save go to my own room.



CHAPTER XI

Thinking things over in the night, I decideo wait until after breakfast before makin

up my mind to anything irrevocableBreakfast being the appointed rendezvousO'Farrell would then lay his cards on thable. If he slipped some up his sleeve,

must make it my business to spot the tricand its meaning for the Becketts.

As I offered this sop to my conscience, could almost hear O'Farrell saying, witone of his young laughs, "That's right. Sea thief to catch a thief!"

At ten o'clock we were to start for Nanc



pleasant companion, there's no doubt. Bu——"

"But—what?""Well, we must always keep in mind thahe's an actor. We mustn't take tooseriously anything he says or does. Andyou, Molly—you must be more carefuhan the rest."

"I! But I told you I'd never met him at SRaphael. I never set eyes on him till lasnight."

"I know. Yet I felt, when he 'set eyes' on

you—oh, I don't know how to expreswhat I felt! Only—if it had happened ohe stage, there'd have been music for it ihe orchestra."



"Brian, how strange you are!" I almosgasped. "Ought we to let the man and hisister go on with us, if that's their aim

Their Red Cross flag may be camouflageyou know! Very likely they're adventurersafter the Beckett's money. We couldadvise Father and Mother Beck——"

"Let's follow a famous example, and 'waiand see'—if only for the girl's sake."

"Oh, you think so well of her!""Not well, exactly," Brian hesitated. "don't know what to think of her yet. But—hink about her. I feel her, as I fee

electricity before a thunderstorm bursts."

"A thunderstorm expresses her!" aughed. "I thought of that myself. She'



"Poor child! Life must have gone harwith her. She's probably got a grouch, ahe American boys over here say. We mus

ry and do something to soften her downand make her see things through rosiespectacles, if she and her brother join oo our party for a while."

"Ye-es."

"You don't like her, Molly?"

"Oh, I've hardly thought of her, dear. Buyou seem to have made up for that."

"Thunderstorms make you think abou

hem. They electrify the atmosphere. I sehis girl so distinctly somehow: little

white thing; big, gloomy eyes like stormn deep woods, and thin eyelids—yo



know, that transparent, flower-petal kindwhere you fancy you see the iris lookinhrough, like spirit eyes, always awak

while the body's eyes sleep; and—and lotof dark hair without much colour—haiike smoke. I see her a suppresse

volcano—but not extinct."

"The day may come when we'll wish shwere extinct. But really you've describeher better than I could, though I stare

quite a lot last night. Come along, deart's six minutes to nine. Let's trot down t

breakfast."

We trotted; but early as I'd meant to beand early as we were, the O'Farrells anhe Becketts were before us. How lonhey had been together I don't know, bu

hey must have finished their firs



nstalment of talk about Jim, for alreadhey had got on to the subject of plans.

"Well, it will be noble of you to help uwith supplies. The promise we've gofrom our American Red Cross man iParis is limited," O'Farrell was saying i

his voice to charm a statue off its pedestaas we came in. He sprang to shut the doofor us, and gave me the look of a cherubifox, as much as to say, "You see where

we've got to! But it's all for the goocause. There's more than one person not ablack as he's painted!"

"Molly's watch must be slow," said Brian"She thought it was only six minutes tnine."

"She's right. But it seems the big clock i



agreeable and intelligent than mostPerhaps, after all, villains don't run iypes!

soon learned that Father and MotheBeckett were rejoicing in the acquisitioof Jim's two friends as travellin

companions. The celebrated snapshotwere among the cards O'Farrell had kepup his sleeve. No doubt he'd waited tmake sure of my attitude (though h

appeared to take it for granted) befordeciding what use to make of his besrumps. Seeing that I let slip my one an

only chance of a denunciation-scene, h

flung away his also, with an air of dashinchivalry which his sister and I alone wern a position to appreciate. For me it ha

been a case of "speak now, or foreve



after hold your peace." For him, decision was not irrevocable, as he couldenounce me later, and plead that I had

been spared at first, through kindness oheart. But I did not stop to consider thadetail. I saw the man and myself aaccomplices, on an equal footing, eac

having given quarter to the other. As fohe girl, I still thought of her hardly at aln spite of Brian's words. She was a

unknown quantity, which I would waste nime in studying, while the situation tha

opened bade me sharpen my wits.

n the five or ten minutes before we joine

hem the Becketts had consented—ooffered—to help finance the Red Croscrusade. To achieve this was worthy ohe Irish-Italian's talents. But the littl



surprises: and I think as she boughMadeleines of Commercy she moistenehem with a few tears.

expected to find Nancy beautiful, sincfor so long it was the capital of prouLorraine, but I hadn't guessed howbeautiful or individual. Now I shal

always in future see the details of eacsplendid square and park by shutting meyes and calling the vision to come—aBrian does.

We drove straight to the door of afascinating, old-fashioned hotel in thmost celebrated square of all, the Plac

Stanislas; but we didn't go in. We couldn



stolidly turn our backs upon the magipicture, lit by a sudden radiance osunshine, for in another moment the fairy

ike effect might fade. Yes, "fairy-like" ishe word; and as our two cars drew up—ike Dignity and Impudence—I had th

feeling that we'd arrived in the capital o

fairyland to visit the king and queen.

t was I who described the scene to Brianhe eighteenth-century perfection of th

buildings, each one harmoniouslproportioned to suit the others; the towhall, with its wonderful clock; the palacehe theatre, and the rest of the happ

architectural family reared by DukStanislas; each with its roof-decoration ocarved stone vases, and graceful statuemiraculously missed so far by Germa



We saw him in a powdered perruque, onhis way to the ducal palace, after somreligious ceremony that had attracte

crowds of loyal Catholic Lorrainersbeside him, his good wife of bourgeoissoul but romantic name, CatherinOpalinska, a comfortable woman, to

arge for the fashionable robe à panierswith the pair, their daughter Marie, proudof the fate foretold by a fortune-teller, thashe should be queen of France; the Royafamily, and the aristocrats of their northercourt; the smart Polish officers in uniformhe pretty, coquettish women, and dark

faced musicians of Hungary; the Swedisphilosophers, the long-haired Italiaartists; and above all, the beautifuMarquise de Boufflers—rival of th

Queen—with her little dogs and blac



change to interest rather than sympathyShe had the air of saying in her mind"You look more like a St. George, stepped

down from a stained-glass window, thaan ordinary man of to-day. You seem tohink about everyone else before yourself

and to see a lot more with your blind eye

han we see. You pretend to be happy, tooas if you wanted to set everybody a gooexample. But it's all a pose—a pose! shall study you till I find you out, rickster like the rest of us."

felt a sudden stab of dislike for the girfor daring to put Brian on a level wit

herself—and me. I wanted to punish hesomehow, wanted to make the littlwretch pay for her impertinent suspicions

pushed past her brusquely to stan



n the air with which passers-by receivehe news.

"Oh, lord, here I go again!" the wearsiren sighed.

"Third time to-day, mon Dieu!" grumblea very old man to a very blasé porter, whodutifully shot out of the hotel to rescue ouuggage, if not us, from possible thougmprobable danger. We let him haul in ou

bags, but remained glued to the pavemenutterly absorbed and fascinated, waitinfor the show to begin.

We had not long to wait! For an instant thepearl-pale zenith shone serenely voidThen, heralded by a droning noise as ogiant bees, and a vicious spitting o

shrapnel, high overhead sailed a wide



n defence of my own brother! Thprimitive fishwife within me rose to thsurface. "Mind your own business!"

rudely flung at her: and slipping my ar under Brian's, in a voice of curdled creabegged him to come with me indoors.

The others followed, and about threseconds later a bomb fell in front of thhotel. It was a "dud," and did not explodebut it made a hole in the pavement an

sent a jet of splintered stone into the air.Perhaps the girl had saved us from deathor at least from disfiguring wounds, but

was in no mood to thank her for that. I walad I had been a fishwife, and I thoughBrian lacked his usual discernment iattributing hidden qualities to such

person as Dierdre O'Farrell.



nterpreter, I dimly expected to meet twopolite automata, as little human acreatures of flesh and blood can be

nstead, I saw a perfectly delightful pair oParisians, with the warm, kind manner onhinks of as southern. They were frankl

pleased that a millionaire's purs

promised to open for Nancy. Monsieur lPréfet offered himself to the Becketts aguide on a sightseeing expedition next dayand Madame, the Préfet's wife, proposeo exhibit her two thousand children, ol

and young, refugees housed in what onchad been barracks. "The Germans preten

o believe they are barracks still, full osoldiers, as an excuse for bombs," shsaid. "But you shall see! And if you wish—if you have time—we will take you t

see also what the Boches have done t



some of our other towns—ah, but beautifuowns, of an importance! Lunéville, an

Gerbévillers, and more—many more. You

should know what they are like before yogo on to the Grande Couronne, wherancy was saved in 1914."

Of course the Becketts "wished." Ocourse they had time. "Molly, tell Mr. andMrs. Préfet we've got more time thaanything else!" said the old man eagerly

"Oh, and I guess we've got a little moneyoo, enough to spread around among thos

other places, as well as here. This igoing to be something like what Ji

would want at last!"

When the Préfet and his wife rose to gohey invited not only the Becketts bu

Brian and me to dine at their house tha



family went on as if in peace. As a manhe Préfet longed to send his wife an

children far away. As a servant of France

he thought best to let them stop, to "set aexample of calmness." And if they hadbeen bidden to go, they would still havstayed.

The Préfet's house is one of the eighteenthcentury palaces of the Place Stanislas; ann the story I'd like to write, I should put

description of their drawing room, and thscene after dinner that night.

magine a background of decorative walls

adorned with magnificent portraits (one ohe best is Stanislas, and better still iLouis XVI, a proud baby in the arms of handsome mother); imagine beautifu

Louis XV chairs, tables, and sofa



of the siren.

"What? A fourth time to-day?" crie

somebody. "These creatures will wear ouheir welcome if they're not careful!"

A laugh follows, to drown the bark oshrapnel, and a general shrugging of thshoulders. But suddenly comes a cry thaa petite —the baby daughter of the house

sitting up in our honour—has run into th

garden.The elder girls are not afraid fohemselves, the great bombardments hav

given them a quiet contempt of merTaubes. But for the little sister!—that idifferent. Instantly it seems that all thbombs Germany has ever made may b

falling like iron rain on that curly head ou



darkened hotel with the old couple, and urned away triumphant, with my arm i

Brian's.

The clock of the Town Hall struck tenchimed, waited for the church clock tapprove and confirm, then repeated al

hat it had said and sung a minute before.We were going to look for ghosts of kingand dukes and queens; and like ghost

ourselves, we stepped from moonlishores into pools of shadow, and back tomoonlit shores again; past the golden Arcof Triumph, which Stanislas built i

honour of his daughter's marriage witLouis XV; through the Carrière, where theops of tall copper-beeches caught thight with dull red gleams, like the glow o

a carbuncle; past the sleeping palace o



n gentler times than ours. Back into thshadows might they fade, to sleep againand take up their old dream where th

noise of twentieth-century shrapnel hasnapped its thread. Their best dream musbe, we thought, of their battle of NancyCharles the Bold on his black war-horse

surrounded by Burgundian barons iarmour, shouting, and waving theibanners with standards of ivory and goldCharles of the dark locks, and brillianeyes which all men feared and somwomen loved; Charles laughing with jon the chance of open battle at last, utterl

confident of its end, because the younduke—once his prisoner—had reinforcea small army with mercenaries, Swiss anAlsatians. At most René had 15,000

soldiers, and Charles believed his equa



band of Burgundians worth ten times thpaid northerners, as man to man.

From the church tower where Charles'men had hung—where St. Epvre standnow—René could see the enemy troopassembling, headed by the Duke o

Burgundy, in his glittering helmet adornedwith its device of an open-jawed lion. Hcould even see the gorgeous tent whosapestried magnificence spies ha

reported (a magnificence owned bancy's museum in our day!), and ther

seemed to his eyes no end to the defile ospears, of strange engines for scalin

walls, and glittering battle-axes. One lasprayer, a blessing by the pale priest, andyoung René's own turn to lead had come—a slight adversary for great Charles, bu



with a heart as bold! The trumpet blast oLa Rivière, sounding the charge oLorraine, went to his head like wine. H

aughed when Herter's mountain mebegan to sing "Le taureau d'Uri" and "Lvache d'Unterwald," to remind the prouBurgundian of his defeats at Granson an

Morat. Then came the crash of armouagainst armour, blade against blade, andhe day ended for Nancy according t

René's prayers. The southerners fled andied; and two days later, René was gazindown at the drowned body of Charles thBold, dragged out of a pond. Yes, a good

dream for ghosts of the chivalrous age tretire into, and shut the door! But for us, iour throbbing flesh and blood, this presenwas worth suffering in for the glory of th

future.



There were other ghosts to meet iancy's old town of narrow streets wher

moonlight trickled in a narrow rill. Old

old ghosts, far older than the town as wsaw it: Odebric of the eleventh centurywho owned the strongest castle in Francand the most beautiful wife, and fought th

bishops of Metz and Treves togetherbecause they did not approve of the ladyHenri VI of England riding through thwalled city with his bride, Marguerite, bhis side: ghostly funeral processions odead dukes, whose strange, Orientaobsequies were famed throughout th

world; younger and more splendid ghostsLouis XIII and Richelieu entering iriumph when France had fought and wo

Lorraine, only to give it back b

bargaining later; ghosts of stout Germa



generals who, in 1871, had "bled the towwhite"; but greater than all ghosts, thnoble reality of Foch and Castlenau, wh

saved Nancy in 1914, on the heights of LGrande Couronne.

As we walked back to the new town

dazed a little by our deep plunge into thcenturies, I heard my name called froacross the street. "Miss O'Malley—waitplease! It's Julian O'Farrell. Have yo

seen my sister?"Brian and I stopped short, and O'Farreloined us, panting and out of breath. "She'

not with you?" he exclaimed. "I hoped shwould be. I've been searching everywher—she wasn't in the hotel when I got homeand it's close to midnight."



CHAPTER XIII

felt unsympathetic, and wouldn't havcared if Miss Dierdre O'Farrell had flowoff on a broomstick, or been kidnapped ba German aviator. My heart, howeverwas sure that nothing had happened and suspected that her brother had trumped u

an excuse to join us. It vexed me thaBrian should show concern. If only hknew how the girl had looked at him a fewhours ago!

"Couldn't they tell you in the hotel at whaime she went out?" he enquired.

But no! According to O'Farrell, his siste



had not been seen. He had found her doounlocked, the room empty, and her hat andcoat missing. "She told me she was goin

o bed," he added. "But the bed hasn't beedisturbed."

"Nor need you be, I think," said I

"Perhaps your sister wants to frighten youChildren love that sort of thing. It drawattention to themselves. And sometimehey don't outgrow the fancy."

"Especially Suffragettes and SinFeiners," O'Farrell played up to meunoffended. "Still, as a brother of one, I'

bound to search, if it takes all night. Asister's a sister. And mine is quite avaluable asset." He tossed me this hinwith a Puck-like air of a privat

understanding established between us



Yes, "Puck-like" describes him: a Puck ahe same time merry and malicious, neveo be counted upon!

"I feel that Miss O'Farrell went out to taka walk because she was restless, anperhaps not very happy," Bria

reproached us both. "Something may havhappened—remember we're in the wazone."

"No one in Nancy's likely to forget that!said I, dully resenting his defence of thenemy. "Brushing bombs out of their bachair every ten minutes or so! And listen—

don't you hear big guns booming nowalong the front? The German lines are onlsixteen kilometres from here."

Brian didn't answer. His brain wa



pursuing Dierdre O'Farrell, groping afteher through the night. "If she went oubefore that air raid, while we were at th

Préfet's," he suggested, "she may have hao take refuge somewhere—she may havbeen hurt——"

"By Jove!" Puck broke in. "It scares mwhen you say that. You're a—a sort—orophet , you know! I must find out wha

hospitals there are——"

"We'll go with you to the hotel," Brianpromised. "They'll know there about thhospitals. And if the Préfet's still up, he'l

phone for us officially, I'm sure.""It's you who are the practical one, afteall!" cried O'Farrell. And I guessed from

sudden uprush of Irish accent that hi



anxiety had grown sincere.

We hurried home; Brian seeming almost t

guide us, for without his instinct for thright way we would twice have taken wrong turning. As we came into the PlacStanislas, still a pale oasis of moonlight,

saw standing in front of the hotel twfigures, black as if cut out of velvet. Onehat of a man, was singularly tall and thin

as a Mephistopheles of the stage. Th

other was that of a woman in a long cloaksmall and slight as a child of fourteenDierdre O'Farrell, of course! It could bno one else. But who was the man? A dim

mpression that the figure was vaguelfamiliar, or had been familiar long agoeased my brain. But surely I could neve

have seen it before.



"Hurrah! There she is!" cried O'Farrel"alive and on her pins!"

At the sound of his voice, the velvesilhouettes stirred. They had turned took at us, and a glint of moonlight madhe two faces white and blank as masks

O'Farrell waved his hand, and I waobliged to quicken my steps to keep pacwith Brian: "I suppose she got lost—servher right!—and the beanpole has escorte

her home," grumbled Puck; but as hspoke, the beanpole in question hurriedlmade a gesture of salute, and stalked awawith enormous strides. In an instant h

was engulfed by a shadow-wave and hicompanion was left to meet us alone. hought it would be like her to whisk inthe hotel and vanish before we coul



arrive, but she did not. She stood stilwith a fierce little air of defiance; and awe came near I saw that under the thrown

back cloak her left arm was in a whitsling.

Her brother saw it also. "Hullo, what hav

you been up to?" he wanted to know"You've given us the scare of our lives!"

"Thank you," the girl said. "Please spea

for yourself!""He may speak for us, too," Brian assureher. "We thought of the air raid. And evennow, I don't feel as if we'd been wrongYour voice sounds as if you were in painYou've been hurt!"

"It's nothing at all," she answered shortly



but her tone softened slightly for BrianEven she had her human side, it seemed"A window splintered near where I was

and I got a few bits of glass in my armThey're out now—every one. A doctocame, and looked after me. You seeJule!" and she nodded her head at th

sling. "Now I'm going in to bed. Goodnight!"

"Wait, and let my sister help you," Brian

proposed. "She's a splendid nurse. I knowshe'll be delighted."

"Sweet of her!" sneered the girl. "But I'm

a trained nurse, too, and I can take care omyself. It's only my left arm that's hurt, ana scratch at that. I don't need any help froany one."



"Was that man we saw the doctor who puyou in your sling?" asked "Jule," in thblunt way brothers have of catching u

heir sisters."Yes, he was," she grudged.

"Why did he run away? Didn't he want tbe thanked?"

"He did not. Besides——"

"Besides—what?""He particularly didn't wish to meet—onof our party. Now, I shan't say a word

more about him. So you needn't asquestions. I'm tired. I want to go to bed."

With this ultimatum, she bolted into th

hotel, leaving the three of us speechles



for a few seconds. I suppose each wawondering, "Am I the one the doctor didnwant to meet?" Then I remembered m

mpression of having known that tall, thifigure long ago, and I was seized witcertainty that the mysterious person hafled from me. At all events, I was sur

Miss O'Farrell wished me to think so bway of being as aggravating as shpossibly could.

"Well, I'm blessed !" Puck exploded."Are you?" I doubted. And I couldn't resisadding, "I thought your sister always di

what you wanted?""In the end she does," he upheld his point"But—just lately—she's bewitched! Som

saint is needed to remove the ban."



thought the saint was only too near hehand! Whether that hand would scratch ostrike I couldn't guess; but one gesture wa

as dangerous as the other.What with thinking of my own horridnesand other people's, wondering about th

shadow-man, and being roused by thusual early morning air raid, bed didnmother me with its wonted calminnfluence. Excitement was a tonic for th

next day, however; and a bath and coffebraced me for an expedition with thPréfet's wife and daughters, and thBecketts. They took us over the two hug

casernes, turned into homes of refuge fowo thousand people from the invadeowns and villages of Lorraine: ol

couples, young women (of course th



young men are fighting), and children. Wesaw the skilled embroidererembroidering, and the unskilled makin

sandbags for the trenches; we saw thschools; and the big girls at work uporousseaux for their future, or happil

cooking in the kitchens. We saw the

gardens where the refugees tended theiown growing fruit and vegetables. Wesaw the church—once a gymnasium—anan immense cinema theatre, decorated bhe ladies of Nancy, with the Préfet's wif

and daughters at their head. On the wahome we dropped into the biggest o

ancy's beautiful shops, to behold thwork of last night's bombs. The wholskylight-roof had been smashed at dawnbut the glass had been swept away, and

pretty girls were selling pretty hats an



frocks as if nothing had happened—excephat the wind of heaven was blowing thei

hair across their smiling eyes.

After luncheon at which Dierdre O'Farreldidn't appear, the Préfet took us to thstreets which had suffered most from th

big gun bombardment—fine old housedestroyed with a completeness of whiche wickedest aeroplane bombs arncapable. "Any minute they may begi

again," the Préfet said. "But sufficient fohe day! We suffered so much in a few

hours three years ago, that nothing whichas happened to us since has counted

ancy was saved for us, to have and holdWounded she might be, and we also. Bushe was saved. We could bear the rest."

We made him tell us about those "few



hours" of suffering: and this was the storyt was on the 7th of September, 1914

when the fate of Nancy hung in th

balance. An immense horde of Germancame pouring along the Seille, crossinhe river by four bridges: Chambley

Moncel, Brin, and Bioncourt. Everyon

knew that the order was to take Nancy aany price, and open the town for thKaiser to march in, triumphant, as diLouis XIII of France centuries agoWilliam was said to be waiting with10,000 men of the Prussian Guard, in thwood of Morel, ready for his momen

Furiously the Germans worked to placheir huge cannon on the hills of DoncourtBourthecourt, and Rozebois. Villageburned like card houses. Church bell

olled as their towers rocked and fel



Forests blazed, and a rain of bombpoured over the country from clouds oflame and smoke. Amance was lost, an

with it hope also; for beyond, the road laopen for a rush on Nancy, seemingly pashe power of man to defend. Still, man di

defend! If the French could hold ou

against ten times their number for a fewhours, there was one chance in a thousanhat reinforcements might arrive. Afte

Velaine fell next day, and the defilebetween the two mountain-hills oAmance swarmed with yelling Uhlans, thFrench still held. They did not hope, bu

hey fought. How they fought! And at thbreaking point, as if by miracle, appearehe reinforcing tirailleurs.

"This," said the Préfet, "was only on



episode in the greatest battle ever foughfor Nancy, but it was the episode in whichhe town was saved.

"You know," he went on, "that Lorrainershave been ardent Catholics for centuriesn the Church of Bon-Secours there's

virgin which the people credit witmiraculous power. Many soldiers in thworst of the fighting were sure of victorybecause the virgin had promised tha

never should Nancy be taken again by anenemy whatever."

t was late when we came back to th

hotel, and while I was translating thBecketts' gratitude into French for thPréfet, the O'Farrells arrived from anothedirection. The brother looked pleased t

see us; the sister looked distressed.



fancied that she had been forced opersuaded to point out the scene of lasnight's adventure, and was returnin

chastened from the visit. To introduce heo the Préfet was like introducing a dog at strains at the leash, but Puck performehe rite, and explained her sling.

"Hurt in the air raid?" the Préfet echoed"I hope, Mademoiselle, that you went to good doctor. That he——"

"The doctor came to her on the spot,replied Puck, in his perfect French. "Iseems you have doctors at Nancy wh

walk the streets, when there's a raidwandering about to pick up jobs, anrefusing payment."

The Préfet laughed. "Can it be," h



exclaimed, "that Mademoiselle has beereated by the Wandering Jew? Oh, not the

original character, but an extraordinar

fellow who has earned that name in ouneighbourhood since the war."

"Was that what he called himself?

O'Farrell turned to Dierdre. I guessed thaPuck's public revelations were vengeancupon her for unanswered questions.

"He called himself nothing at all," the girreplied.

"Ah," said the Préfet, "then he was thWandering Jew! Let me see—I think youare planning to go to Gerbéviller anLunéville and Vitrimont to-morrow. Mosikely you'll meet him at one of thos

places. And when you hear his story



you'll understand why he haunts thneighbourhood like a beneficent spirit."

"But must we wait to hear the storyPlease tell us now," I pleaded. "I'm socurious!"

This was true. I burned with curiosityAlso, fatty degeneration of the hearprompted me to annoy Dierdre O'FarrellTo spite me, she had refused to talk of th

doctor. I was determined to hear all abouhim to spite her . You see to what a lowevel I have fallen, dear Padre!

The Préfet said that if we would go homwith him and have tea in the gardeGerman aeroplanes permitting) he woulell us the tale of the Wandering Jew. We

all accepted, save Dierdre, who began t



stammer an excuse; but a look from hebrother nipped it in the bud. He certainlhas an influence over the girl, agains

which she struggles only at her strongestTo-day she looked pale and weak, and hecould do what he liked with her.

He liked to make her take tea at thPréfet's, doubtless because he'd have felbound to escort the invalid to her roomhad she insisted on going there!

The story of the Wandering Jew would bea strange one, anywhere and anyhow. But's more than strange to me, because it i

inked with my past life. Still, I won't telt from my point of view. I'll begin withe Préfet's version.

The "Wandering Jew" really is a Jew, o



he best and most intellectual type. Hiname is Paul Herter. His father was a maof Metz, who had brought to Germa

Lorraine a wife from Lunéville. Paul ihirty-five now, so you see he wasn't borwhen the Metz part of Lorraine becamGerman. His parents—French at heart—

aught him secretly to love France, anhate German domination. As he grew upPaul's ambition was to be a great surgeonHe wished to study, not in Germany, but inParis and London. These hopes, howeverwere of the "stuff that dreams are madof," for when the father died, the boy ha

o work at anything he could get for a barivelihood. It wasn't till he was ovewenty-five that he'd scraped togethe

money for the first step toward his career

He went to Paris: studied and starved



hen to London. It was there I met him, buhat bit of the story fits in later. He wahought well of at "Bart's," and everybod

who knew him was surprised whesuddenly he married one of the youngenurses, an English girl, and vanished wither from London. Presently the pai

appeared in Metz, at the mother's houseHerter seemed sad and discourageduncertain of his future, and just at thiime, through German Lorraine ra

rumours of war "to begin when thharvests should be over." Paul and himother took counsel. Both were French a

heart. They determined to leave all thehad in the world at Metz, rather than Paushould be called up to serve Prussia. Thhree contrived to cross the frontier. Pau

offered himself to the Foreign Legion; hi



who might fall into his hands.

He was fighting then in the Legion; bu

shortly after he was gravely wounded. Hieft foot had to be amputated; and froserving France as a soldier, he began toserve as a surgeon. He develope

astonishing skill in throat and chesoperations, succeeding in some whicolder and more experienced men refuseo attempt. Months passed, and into hi

busy life had never come the wished-fochance of vengeance; but all who knewhim knew that Herter's hatred oBavarians was an obsession. He was no

one who would forget; and when a lot oseriously wounded Bavarians came inthe field-hospital where he was at workhe two young doctors under him looke



one another in the eyes. Even thstretcher-bearers had heard of Herter'vow, but there was nothing to do save to

bring in the stream of wounded, and trushe calm instinct of the surgeon to controhe hot blood of the man. Still, the air wa

electric with suspense, and heavy wit

dread of some vague tragedy: disgrace fohe hospital, ruin for Herter.

But the Jewish surgeon (he wasn't calle

"the Wandering Jew" in those days) caughhe telepathic message of fear, andaughed grimly at what men were thinkin

of him. "You need not be afraid," he said

o his assistants. "These canaille arsacred for me. They do not count aBavarians."

evertheless, the young doctors woul



have tended the wounded prisonerhemselves, leaving Herter to care for hi

countrymen alone. But one of th

Bavarians was beyond their skill: a younieutenant. His wound was precisel"Herter's specialty"—a bullet lodged ihe heart, if he was to be saved, Herte

alone could save him. Would Herteoperate? He had only to say the case wahopeless, and refuse to waste upon it timneeded for others.

Perhaps he knew what suspicion wouldog him through life if he gave thiverdict. At all events, he chose to operate

"Bring me the brute," he growled: anreluctantly the brute was brought—a veryouthful brute, with a face of such angelicharm that even Herter was struck by it



He had steeled himself to get through hateful job; but for him—like most men ohis race—beauty held a strong appea

Suddenly he wished to save the boy withe fair curly hair and arched dark browsHere was a German—a Bavarian—whcould have no vileness in him yet!

The surgeon got ready his instruments fohe operation, which must be don

quickly, if at all. The boy wa

unconscious, but every moment or two hbroke out in convulsive delirium, givinanswers to questions like a man talking isleep. "Hilda! Hilda!" he cried again an

again. "My Hilda, do not ask me thaThou wouldst not love me if I told theeThou wouldst hate me forever!"

"What have you done that Hilda shoul



hate you?" Paul enquired, as he waited fohe anæsthetic. Ether was running shor

The wounded had to take their turn tha

day."Lunéville! Lunéville!" shrieked thBavarian.

Everyone heard the cry. The two youndoctors, knowing Herter's history, turnedsick. This was worse than their wors

fears! But they could do nothing. Tospeak, to try to act, would be to insult thsurgeon. They saw that he was ghastlpale. "What happened at Lunéville?" h

went on."Here is the ether," a voice spoke in hasteBut Paul heard only the Bavarian.



"Oh, God, the old woman! Her face at thwindow. I can't forget. Hilda—shwouldn't come out. It wasn't my fault. Th

Colonel's orders. An old man, too. Wesaw them in the fire. We had to pass onHilda, forgive!"

"Was it a corner house of the RuePrincesse Marie?" asked Herter.

"Yes—yes, a corner house," groaned the

boy of the beautiful face.Herter gave a sign to the man who habrought the ether. A moment more, and theravings of the Bavarian were silencedThe operation began.

The others had their hands full of theiown work, yet with a kind of agonize



clairvoyance they were conscious of alhat Herter did. The same thought was ihe minds of both young doctors. The

exchanged impressions afterward. "He'lcut the boy's heart out and tread iunderfoot!"

But never had the Jewish surgeon froMetz performed a major operation witmore coolness or more perfect skill. Hahe chosen to let his wrist tremble at th

critical second, revenge would easilhave been his. But awaiting the instanbetween one beat of the heart and anotherhe seized the shred of shrapnel lodge

here, and closed up the throbbing breasThe boy would live. He had not onlspared, but saved, the life of one who waperhaps his mother's murderer.



During the whole day he worked ountiringly and—it seemed—unmovedThen, at the end of the last operation, h

dropped as if he had been shot through thbrain.

This was the beginning of a long, peculia

llness which no doctor who attended hicould satisfactorily diagnose. He waconstantly delirious, repeating the wordof the Bavarian: "Hilda—Hilda!—th

corner house—Rue Princesse Marie—Lunéville!" and it was feared that, if hrecovered, he would be insane. Aftemany weeks, however, he came slowl

back to himself—a changed self, but sane self. Always odd in his appearanc—very tall and dark and thin—he hawasted to a walking skeleton, and hi



black hair had turned snow-white. He haost his self-confidence, and dreaded take up work again lest he should fail i

some delicate operation. Long leave wagranted, and he was advised by doctorwho were his friends to go south, tsunshine and peace. But Herter insiste

hat the one hope for ultimate cure was tstay in Lorraine. He took up his quartern what was left of a house near the ruin o

his mother's old home, in Lunéville, but hwas never there for long at a time. He waprovided with a pass to go and come as hiked, being greatly respected and pitied a

headquarters; and wherever there was aair raid, there speedily and mysteriouslappeared Paul Herter among the victims.

His artificial foot did not prevent hi



riding a motor-bicycle, and on this harrived, no matter at what hour of night oday, at any town within fifty miles o

Lunéville, when enemy airmen had been awork. He gave his services unpaid to pooand rich alike; and owing to the dearth odoctors not mobilized, the town

concerned welcomed him thankfully. Alhe surgeon's serene confidence in himsel

returned in these emergencies, and he wadoing invaluable work. People wergrateful, but the man's ways and lookwere so strange, his restlessness so tragichat they dubbed him "le Juif Errant."

ow, Padre, I have come to the righplace to bring in my part of this story.

While I was training at "Bart's," I met

doctor named Paul Herter. Some of th



girls used to call him the "German Jewbut we all knew that his Germanness waonly an accident of fate, through a wa

before he was born, and that he wapassionately French at heart. He waclever—a genius—but moody and queerand striking to look at. He would hav

been ugly but for a pair of beautiful broweyes, wistful sometimes as a dog's. One oour nurses was in love with him, but hused to keep out of her way when hcould. He was said not to care for womenand I was a little flattered that a man swell thought of "at the top" should tak

notice of me. When I look back on myselfseem to have been very young then!

Dr. Herter used to meet me, as if baccident, when I was off duty, and w



went for long walks, talking Frencogether; I enjoyed that! Besides, ther

was nothing the man didn't know. He wa

a kind of encyclopædia of all the greamusicians and artists of the world sinche Middle Ages; and was so much oldehan I, that I didn't think about his falling i

ove. I knew I was pretty, and that beautof all sorts was a cult with him. supposed that he liked looking at me—anhat his fancy would end there. But i

didn't. There came a dreadful day when haccused me of encouraging him purposelyof leading him on to believe that I cared

This was a real shock. I was sorry—sorry! But he said such horrid things that was hurt and angry, too. I said horridhings in my turn. This scene happened i

he street. I asked him to leave me, and h



did at once, without looking back. I casee him now, striding off in the twilight

o wonder the tall black silhouette in th

Place Stanislas looked familiar. But thman is thinner now, and walks with slight limp.

The next thing I heard of him after oubreak was that he'd married Nursorman (the one who was in love wit

him) and that they'd left England. Whethe

he'd married the girl in a rage against meor because he was sorry for her (she'd jushen fallen into deep disgrace, throug

giving a patient the wrong medicine),

didn't know. I can't say I didn't care, for often thought of the man and wonderewhat had become of him, though I donremember ever writing about him to you



He was but indirectly concerned with mife, and maybe it was in the back of m

mind that I might get a scolding from yo

f I told you the tale.The moment the name of "Paul Herterwas mentioned in that pleasant garden a

ancy, the whole episode of those olddays at "Bart's" came back, and I guessewhy the tall figure had darted away froDierdre O'Farrell as we came in sight. H

must have offered to see the girl safelhome, after dressing her wound (probablat some chemist's), and she had told hiabout her fellow-travellers. Naturally m

name sent him flying like a shot from seventy-five! But I can't help hoping wmay meet by accident. There's a halround the man's head for me since I'v



heard that tragic story. Before, he waonly a queer genius. Now, he's a heroWill he turn away, I wonder, if I walk up

o him and hold out my hand?am longing, for a double reason, to se

Vitrimont and Gerbéviller and Lunéville

since I've learned that at one of thosplaces Paul Herter may appear.



CHAPTER XIV

We were three automobiles strong whenwe went out of Nancy, along what thecall the "Lunéville road." That wayesterday, as I write, and already it seemong ago! The third and biggest ca

belonged to the Préfet; gray and militar

ooking, driven by a soldier in uniformand this time Dierdre O'Farrell was witus. I was wondering if she went "undeorders," or if she wished to see the sight

we were to see—among them, perhapsher elusive doctor!

We turned south, leaving town, and

presently passed—at Dombasle—



astonishingly huge salt-works, witrubble-heaps tall as minor pyramids. Oeach apex stood a thing like the form of

giant black woman in a waggling gasmask and a helmet. I could have found ouwhat these weird engines were, no doubtbut I preferred to remember them a

mysterious monsters.

At a great, strange church of St. Nicolasn the old town of St. Nicolas-du-Port, w

stopped, because the Préfet's daughterhad told us of a magic stone in thpavement which gives good fortune those who set foot on it. Only whe

several of us were huddled together, wita foot each on the sacred spot, were wold that it meant marriage before the new

year. If the spell works, Dierdr



O'Farrell, Brian, and I will all be marrien less than four months. But St. Nicolas i

a false prophet where we are concerned

Brian and I will never marry. Even if pooBrian should fall head over ears in lovehe wouldn't ask a girl to share his brokeife: he has told me this. As for me, I ca

never love any man after Jim Beckett. Theast penance I owe is to be faithfu

forever to his memory and my owfalsehood!

St. Nicolas is the patron saint of thneighbourhood, so it's right that from hiittle town and his big church all th

country round should open out to the eyeas if to do him homage.

From the hill of Léomont we could see t

he south the far-off, famous Forest o



Parroy; away to the north, the blue heightof La Grande Couronne, where the fate o

ancy was decided in 1914; to the west,

purple haze like a mourning wreath oviolets hung over the valley of thMeurthe, and the tragic little tributarriver Mortagne; beyond, we could pictur

with our mind's eyes the Moselle and thMeuse.

But Léomont was not a place where on

could stand coldly thinking of horizons. Idrew all thoughts to itself, and to thdrama played out upon its miniaturmountain. There was fought one of th

fiercest and most heroic single battles ohe war.

We had to desert the cars, and walk up a

rough track to the ruined farmhouse whic



crowned the hill; a noble, fortifiefarmhouse that must have had the dignitof a château before the great fight whic

shattered its ancient walls. Now it has thdignity of a mausoleum. Long ago, iRoman days when Diana, Goddess of thMoon, was patron of Lunéville and th

country round, a temple of stone anmarble in her honour and a soarinfountain crowned the high summit oLéomont, for all the world to see. Henfluence is said to reign over the whol

of Lorraine, from that day to this, Sticholas being her sole rival: and

prophecy has come down through thcenturies that no evil may befall Diana'citadels, save in the "dark o' the moon,when the protectress is absent. Lunévill

was overrun in the "dark o' the moon"; an



t was then also that the battle of Léomonwas fought, ending in the vast cellarswhere no man was left alive.

n these days of ours, it's a wonderful anromantic mountain, sacred as a monumenforever, to the glory of the French soldier

who did not die in vain. The scarred facof the ruined house—its stones pitted bshrapnel as if by smallpox—gazes oveLorraine as the Sphinx gazes over th

desert: calm, majestic, sad, yet triumphanAnd under the shattered walls, amonfallen buttresses and blackened stumps ooaks, are the graves of Léomont's heroes

graves everywhere, over the hillsidegraves in the open; graves in shelterecorners where wild flowers have begun tgrow; their tricolour cockades an



wooden crosses mirrored in the blue owater-filled shell-holes; graves in thhistoric cellars, covered with a pall o

darkness; graves along the slope of thhill, where old trenches have left ruts ihe rank grass.

An unseen choir of bird-voices wasinging the sweetest requiem ever sung fohe dead; yet Léomont in its majestioneliness saddened us, even th

rrepressible Puck. We were sad andrather silent all the way to Vitrimont; andVitrimont, at first glance, was a sight tomake us sadder than any we had seen

There had been a Vitrimont, a happy littlplace, built of gray and rose-red stonesnow, of those stones hardly one lies upoanother, except in rubble heaps. And yet



Vitrimont isn't sad as others of the ruinedowns are sad. It even cheered us, afte

Léomont, because a star of hope shine

over the field of desolation—a star thahas come out of the west. Some wonderfuwomen of San Francisco decided t"adopt" Vitrimont, as one of the littl

places of France which had suffered mosn the war. Two of them, Miss Polk and

Miss Crocker—girls rather than women—gave themselves as well as their money the work. In what remains of Vitrimont—

what they are making of Vitrimont—theive like two fresh roses that have take

root in a pile of ashes. With a few booksa few bowls of flowers, pictures, and bitof bright chintz they have given charm their poor rooms in the half-ruined hous

of a peasant. This has been their home fo



many months, from the time when thewere the only creatures who shareVitrimont with its ghosts: but now othe

homes are growing under their eyes anhrough their charity; thanks to them, thpeople of the destroyed village arrooping back, happy and hopeful. Th

church has been repaired (that was donfirst, "because it is God's house") witwarm-coloured pink walls and neadecoration; and plans for the restoring ohe whole village are being carried out

while the waiting inhabitants camp in village of toy-like bungalows given by th

French Government. I never saw sucooks of worshipping love cast upohuman beings as those of the people oVitrimont for these two American girls

'm sure they believe that Miss Crocke



and Miss Polk are saints incarnated foheir sakes by "la Sainte Vierge ." One ol

man said as much!

He was so old that it seemed as if hcould never have been young, yet he wawhistling a toothless but patriotic whistle

over some bit of amateur-carpenter workn front of a one-room bungalow. Insidevisible through the open door, was thparalyzed wife he had lately wheele

"home" to Vitrimont, in some kind of cart. "Oh, yes, we are happy!" he stoppewhistling to say. "We are fortunate, tooWe think we have found the place where

our street used to be, and these Angels—we do not call them Demoiselles, buAngels—from America are going to buildus a new home in it. We have seen the



plan. It is more beautiful than the old!"

Wherever we passed a house on the roa

o Lunéville, and in town itself, as wcame in, we saw notices—printed anwritten—to remind us that we were in thwar-zone, if we forgot for an instant

"Logement militaire," or "Cave voûtée200 places—400 places." Thoshospitable cellars advertising theiexistence in air raids and bombardment

must be a comforting sight for passers-bynow and then; but no siren wailed us warning. We drove on in peace; and I—disappointed at Vitrimont—quietly kep

watch for a tall, thin figure of a man with slight limp. At any moment, I thought, might see him, for at Lunéville he lives—f he lives anywhere!



was so eager and excited that I coulhardly turn my mind to other things; buBrian, not knowing why I should b

absent-minded, constantly asked questionabout what we passed. Julian O'Farrelhad exchanged his sister for Mr. and MrsBeckett, whom he had persuaded to tak

he short trip in his ramshackle taxi. Hiexcuse was that Mother Beckett wouldeal out more wisely than Dierdre his ReCross supplies to the returned refugees; swe had the girl with us; and I caughreproachful glances if I was slow ianswering my blind brother. She hersel

suspects him as a poseur , yet she judgeme careless of his needs—which I shoulfind funny, if it didn't make me furiousJust to see what Dierdre would do, an

perhaps to provoke her, sometimes I didn



answer at all, but left her to explain ousurroundings to Brian. I hardly thought shwould respond to the silent challenge, bu

almost ostentatiously she did.She cried, "There's a castle!" when wcame to the fine and rather staid châtea

which Duke Stanislas loved, and where hdied. She even tried to describe it foBrian, with faltering self-consciousnessand the old streets which once had bee

"brilliant as Versailles, full of QueenMarie's beautiful ladies." Now, they argray and sad, even those streets whicshow no scars from the three weeks

martyrdom of German rule. Soldiers passon foot and in motors, yet it's hard trealize that before the war Lunéville waone of the gayest, grandest garrison town



of France, rich and industrious, undeDiana's special protection. Just becausshe was away in her moon-chariot, on

dark and dreadful night, all has changesince then. But she'll come back, and blesher ancient place of Lunæ Villa, in goodime!

t was here, Brian reminded me, that thedrew up the treaty which gave the Rhinfrontier to France, after Napoleon won th

Battle of Marengo. I wonder if thGermans remembered this in 1914 whehey came?

We lunched at an hotel, in a restaurancrowded with French officers; and not civilian there except ourselves. I wahoping that Paul Herter might come in, fo

he tragic Rue Princesse Marie is not fa



away—and even a Wandering Jew museat! He did not come; but I almost forgomy new disappointment in hearing th

French officers talk about Lorraine.They were in the midst of a discussiowhen we came in, and when they had al

bowed politely to us, they took up ithread where it had broken off. A colone—a Lorrainer—was saying that out of thwealth of Lorraine (stolen wealth, h

called it!) Germany had built up hefortune as a united nation, in a few yearfar exceeding the indemnity received i1871. Germany had known that there wer

vast stores of iron; but the amazing richen phosphorus ores had come to her as

surprise. If she had guessed, never woulshe have agreed to leave more than hal



he deposit on the French side of thfrontier! Well enough for Prussianboasters to say that Germany's succes

was due to her own industry ansupervirtue, or that her tariff schemes haworked wonders. But take away thprovinces she tore from France, and sh

will be a Samson shorn! Take awayLorraine and the world will be rid oncand for all of the German menace!

When we left Lunéville there was stilhope from Gerbéviller. Herter is oftehere, it seems. Besides, Gerbéviller wahe principal end and aim of our day'

excursion. Once no more than a pleasanown of quiet beauty on a pretty river, nowt is a monument historique, the Pompei

of Lorraine.



As we arrived the sun clouded ovesuddenly, and the effect was almosheatrical. From gold the light had dimme

o silver. In the midst of the afternoon, wsaw Gerbéviller as if by moonlight in thstill silence of night. On the outskirts wforsook our three cars, and walked slowl

hrough the dead town, awestruck andeeply thoughtful as if in a church wherhe body of some great man lay in state.

There was not a sound except, as aLéomont, the unseen choir of bird-voicesbut their song emphasized the silence. Ihe pale light the shells of wrecked house

glimmered white, like things seen deedown under clear water. They wermysterious as daytime ghosts; and alreada heartbreaking picturesqueness had take



possession of the streets, as an artistdecorator comes into an ugly room anmellows all its crudeness with his lovin

ouch.Gerbéviller's tragic little river Mortagngleamed silver-bright beneath a torn lac

of delicate white flowers that was like veil flung off by a fugitive bride. It rasparkling under the motionless wheel of burned mill, and twinkled on—the on

iving thing the Germans left—to flowhrough the park of a ruined château.

When it was alive, that small château mus

have been gay and delightful as a castle ia fairy tale, pink and friendly among itpleasant trees; but even in its prime, ricwith tapestries and splendid old paintings

which were its treasures, never could th



place have been so beautiful as in death!

At a first glance—seen straight in front—

he face of the house seems to live stilrosy with colour, gazing with immensblue eyes through a light green veil. But second glance brings a shock to the heart

The face is a mask held up to hide a skullhe blue of the eyes is the open sky frameby glassless windows; the rosy colour istained with dark streaks of smoke an

flame; the château among its trees, and thchapel with its stopped clock and brokesaints are skeletons.

ot even O'Farrell could talk. We were asilent procession in the midst of silencuntil we came at last to the one quarter ohe town whose few houses had bee

spared to the courage of Gerbéviller'



heroine, Sœur Julie.

Her street (but for her it would not exist

has perhaps a dozen houses intact, lookinstrangely bourgeois, almost out of placeso smugly whole where all else haperished. Yet it was a comfort to see

hem, and wonderful to see Sœur Julie.We knocked at the door of the hospice, thecottage hospital which is famous becaus

of her, its head and heart; and she herselet us in, for at that instant she had been ihe act of starting out. I recognized her a

once from the photographs which were i

every illustrated paper at the time whenfor her magnificent bravery and presencof mind, she was named Chevalière of thLegion of Honour.



But with her first smile I saw that thpictures had done her crude injusticeThey made of Sœur Julie an elderl

woman in the dress of a nun; somewhastout, rather large of feature. But the figurwhich met us in the narrow corridor hadignity and a noble strength. The smile o

greeting lit deep eyes whose colour wahat of brown topaz, and showed th

kindly, humorous curves of a generoumouth. The flaring white headdress of thOrder of Saint-Charles of Nancy framed face so strong that I ceased to wonder howhis woman had cowed a German horde

and it thrilled me to think that in this verdoorway she had stood at bay, offering heblack-robed body as a shield for thwounded soldiers and poor people sh

meant to save.



Even if we had not come from the Préfetand with some of his family who were headmiring friends, I'm sure Sœur Juli

would have welcomed the strangers. As iwas she beamed with pleasure at the visitand called a young nun to help placchairs for us all in the clean, bar

reception room. By this time she musknow that she is the heroine of Lorraine—her own Lorraine!—and that those whcame to Gerbéviller come to see her; bushe talked to us with the unselfconsciousness of a child. It was only wheshe was begged to tell the tale of Augus

23, 1914, that she showed a faint sign oembarrassment. The blood flushed hebrown face, and she hesitated how tbegin, as if she would rather not begin a

all, but once launched on the tide, sh



forgot everything except her story: shived that time over again, and we lived i

with her.

"What a day it was!" she sighed. "Weknew what must happen, unless Gowilled to spare Gerbéviller by som

miracle. Our town was in the German'way. Yet we prayed—we hoped. Wehoped even after our army's defeat aMorhange. Then Lunéville was taken. Ou

urn was near. We heard how terriblewere the Bavarians under their generaClauss. Our soldiers—poor, brave boys—fought every step of the way to hol

hem back. They fought like lions. But thewere so few! The Germans came in a grawave of men. Our wounded were broughhere to the hospice, as many as we coul



ake—and more! Often there were threhundred. But when there was no hope tsave the town, quick, with haste at night

hey got the wounded away—ambulancafter ambulance, cart after cart: all but few; nineteen grands blessés, who coulnot be moved. They were here in thi

room where we sit. But ah, if you had seeus—we sisters—helping the commandanas best we could! We made ourselvecarpenters. We took wooden shutters anddoors from their hinges for stretchers. Wesplit the wood with axes. We did noremember to be tired. We tore up ou

inen, and linen which others brought usWe tied the wounded boys on to theshutters. They never groaned. Sometimehey smiled. Ah, it was we who wept, to

see them jolting off in rough countr



wagons, going we knew not where, or twhat fate! All night we worked, and adawn there were none left—except thos

nineteen I told you of. And that was thmorning of the 23rd of August, hot andheavy—a weight upon our hearts anheads.

"Not only the wounded, but our defenderhad gone. The army was in retreat. Wehad fifty-seven chasseurs left, ordered t

keep the enemy back for five hours. Thedid it for eleven! From dawn till twilighhey held the bridge outside the town, an

fought behind barriers they had flung up i

haste. Boys they were, but of a courageThey knew they were to die to save theicomrades. They asked no better than to dihard. And they fought so well, th



Germans believed there were thousandsot till our boys had nearly all fallen di

he enemy break through and swarm int

he town. That was down at the other enfrom us, below the hill, but soon we hearfearful sounds—screams and shoutingsshots and loud explosions. They wer

burning the place street by street with thamethod of theirs! They fired the housewith pastilles their chemists havnvented, and with petrol. The air wahick with smoke. We shut our windows to

save the wounded from coughing. Soowe might all die together, but we would

keep our boys from new sufferings whilwe could!

"Then at last the hour struck for us. One oour sisters, who had run to look at the re



sky to see how near the fire came, crieout that Germans were pouring up the hil—four officers on horseback heading

roop of soldiers. I knew what that meantwent quickly to the door to meet themMy knees felt as if they had broken undemy weight. My heart was a great, cold

dead thing within me. My mouth was dras if I had lost myself for days in thdesert. I am not a small woman, yet iseemed that I was no bigger than a mousunder the stare of those big men wheaped off their horses, and made as if t

pass me at the door. But I did not let the

pass. I knew I could stop them lonenough at least to kill me and then thsisters, one by one, before they reacheour wounded! We backed slowly before

hem into the hall, the sisters and I, t



stand guard before this room.

"'You are hiding Frenchmen here—French

soldiers!' a giant of a captain bawled ame. Beside him was a lieutenant evemore tall. They had swords in their handsand they both pointed their weapons at me

"'We have nineteen soldiers desperatelywounded,' I said. 'There are no other mehere.'

"'You are lying!' shouted the captain. Hehought he could frighten me with his roaike a lion: but he did not seem to me s

noble a beast.

"'You may come in and see for yourselvehat I speak the truth,' I said. And thin

what it was for me, a woman of Lorraine



o bid a German enter her house! I did noet those two pass by me into this room.

came in first. While the lieutenant stoo

hreatening our boys in their beds that hwould shoot if they moved, the captaiwent round, tearing off the sheets, lookinfor firearms. In his hand was a strang

knife, like a dagger which he had worn ihis belt. One of our soldiers, too weak topen his lips, looked at the German, wita pair of great dark eyes that spoke scornand that look maddened the man with sudden fury.

"'Coward, of a country of cowards! You

and cattle like you have cut off the earand torn out the eyes of our gloriouBavarians. I'll slit your throat to pay fohat!'



"Ah, but this was too much—more than could bear! I said 'No!' and I put my twhands—so—between the throat of that bo

and the German knife."When Sœur Julie came to this part of thale, she made a beautiful, unconsciou

gesture, re-enacting the part she haplayed. I knew then how she had lookewhen she faced the Bavarian officer, andwhy he had not hacked those two work

worn but nobly shaped hands of hers, tget at the French chasseur's throat. Shseemed the incarnate spirit of the motherwoman, whose selfless courage no brut

who had known a mother could resistAnd her "No!" rang out deep and clear aa warning tocsin. I felt that the woundeboy must have been as safe behind thos



hands and that "No!" as if a thick thougransparent wall of glass had magicall

risen to protect him.

"All this time," Sœur Julie went ongathering herself together after a moment"All this time Germans led by non

commissioned officers were searching thhospice. But they found no hiding soldiersbecause there were none such to find. Andsomehow that captain and his lieutenan

did not touch our wounded ones. They haa look of shame and sullenness on theifaces, as if they were angry withemselves for yielding their wicked wil

o an old woman. Yet they did yield, thanGod! And then I got the captain's promiso spare the hospice—got it by saying w

would care for his wounded as faithfull



as we tended our own. I said, 'If you leavhis house standing to take in your men

you must leave the whole street. If th

buildings round us burn, we shall burnoo—and with us your German woundedWill you give me your word that thiwhole quarter shall be safe?'

"The man did not answer. But he lookeddown at his boots. And I have alwaynoticed that, when men of any nation loo

at their boots, it is that they are undecidedt was so with him. A few more argument

from me, and he said: 'It shall be as yoask.'

"Soon he must have been glad of hipromise, for there were many Germawounded, and we took them all in. Ah

his room, which you see so clean an



white now, ran blood. We had to sweepblood into the hall, and so out at the frondoor, where at least it washed away th

German footprints from our floor! Fodays we worked and did our best, evewhen we knew of the murders committednnocent women with their little children

And the fifteen old men they shot fohostages. Oh, we did our best, though iwas like acid eating our hearts. But oureward came the day the Germans had tgather up their wounded in wild haste, ahe French commandant had gathered our

before the retreat. They fled, and ou

Frenchmen marched back—too late tsave the town, but not too late to redeets honour. And that is all my story."

As she finished with a smile half sad, hal



sweet, Sœur Julie looked over our headat some one who had just come in—somone who had stood listening in silence

unheard and unseen by us. I turnemechanically, and my eyes met the eyes oPaul Herter, the "Wandering Jew."



CHAPTER XV

Dierdre O'Farrell and I were sitting sidby side, our backs to the door, so it waonly as we turned that Herter could havrecognized us. He had no scruple ishowing that I was the last person hwished to meet. One look was enough fo

him! His pale face—changed and agesince London—flushed a dark and violenred. Backing out into the hall he bangehe door.

My ears tingled as if they had been boxedsuppose I've been rather spoiled by men

Anyhow, not one ever before ran away a

sight of me, as if I were Medusa. I'd bee



hoping that Doctor Paul and I might meeand make friends, so this was a blow: ant hurt a little that Dierdre O'Farrel

should see me thus snubbed. I glanced aher; and her faint smile told that shunderstood.

Sœur Julie was bewildered for a secondbut recovered herself to explain thaDoctor Herter was eccentric and shy ostrangers. He came often from Lunéville t

Gerbéviller to tend the poor, refusinpayment, and was so good at heart that wmust forgive his odd ways.

"Spurlos versnubt!" I heard Pucchuckling to himself; so he, too, was in thsecret of the situation. I half expected hio pretend ingenuousness, and spring th

ale of Dierdre's adventure with Herter o



he company. But he preserved a discreereticence, more for his own sake thamine or his sister's, of course. He's as laz

as he is impish, except when there's somspecial object to gain, and probably hwished to avoid the bother oexplanations. As for Brian, his extrem

sensitiveness is better than studied tact'm sure he felt magnetically that Dierdr

O'Farrell shrank from a reference to hepart in the night air raid. But his silencpuzzled her, and I saw her studying him—more curiously than gratefully, I thought.

We had heard the end of Sœur Julie'

story, and had no further excuse to keepher tied to the duties of hostess. When thBecketts had left something for the poor ohe hospice, we bade the heroine o



Gerbéviller farewell, and started out tregain our automobiles, Julian O'Farrelsuddenly appearing at my side.

"Don't make an excuse that you must walwith your brother," he said. "He's all righwith Dierdre; perhaps just as happy a

with you! One does want a change frohe best of sisters now and then."

"Mrs. Beckett——" I began.

"Mrs. Beckett is discussing with MrBeckett what they can do for Gerbévillerand they'll ask your advice when thewant it. No use worrying. They've boodlenough for all their charities, and for thshorn lambs, too."

"Do you call yourself a shorn lamb?"



sniffed.

"Certainly. Don't I look it? Good heavens

girl, you needn't basilisk me so, to see if do! You glare as if I were some kind oabnormal beast eating with its eyes, owinking with its mouth."

"You do wink with your mouth," I said.

You mean I lie? All romantic naturesembroider truth. I have a romantic naturet's growing more romantic every minut

since I met you. I started this adventure fowhat I could get out of it. I'm going on the end, bitter or sweet, for les beaueux of Mary O'Malley. I don't grudge yohe Becketts' blessing, but I don't know

why it shouldn't be bestowed on us both

with Dierdre and Brian in the backgroun



hrowing flowers. You didn't love JimBeckett, for the very good reason that yonever met him: so, if you owe no mor

debts than those you owe his memoryyou're luckier than——"

t was not I who cut his words short

hough I was on the point of breaking inPerhaps I should have flung at him thruth about Jim Beckett if something ha

not happened to snatch my thoughts fro

O'Farrell and his impudence. We had juspassed the quarter of the town saved bSœur Julie, when out from the gapindoorway of a ruined house stepped Pau

Herter.

He came straight to me, ignoring mcompanion.



"I was waiting for you," he said. "Wilyou walk on a little way with me? Therare things I should like to speak about."

All the hurt anger I had felt was gone likhe shadow of a flitting cloud. "Oh, yes!"

exclaimed. "I shall be very, very glad."

Whether O'Farrell had the grace to dropbehind, or whether I pushed ahead I donknow, but next moment Doctor Herter and

were pacing along, side by side, keepinwell ahead of the others, in spite of hiimp.

"I thought I never wanted to see you againMary O'Malley," he said; "but thaglimpse I had, in the hospice, showed mmy mistake. I couldn't stand it to be s

near and let you go out of my life withou



a word—not after seeing your face."

"It makes me happy to hear that,"

answered. "I was disappointed when yoavoided me the other night, and—hurt today when you slammed the door."

"How did you know I avoided you? Thgirl promised to hold her tongue."

"She kept her promise. She was pleased tkeep it, because she dislikes me. But heard your name next day and understood—I heard other things, too. If yo

wouldn't be angry, I should like to tell yohow I——"

"Don't tell me."

"I won't then. But I feel very strongly. And

you will let me tell you how grieved



should have been, if—if that slammedoor had been the end between us."

"The end between us was long ago.""Not in my thoughts, for I never meant thurt you. I never stopped being youfriend, in spite of all the unkind, unjushings you said to me. I'm proud now that

had your friendship once, even if I havent now."

"You had everything there was in me— except friendship. Now, of thaeverything, only ashes are left. The firehave burnt out. You've heard what suppose they call my story, so you knowwhy. If those fires weren't dead, shouldn't have dared trust myself to ris

his talk with you. As it is—I let your eye



call me back. Not that they calleconsciously. It was the past that called——"

"They would have called consciously iyou'd given them time!" I ventured tsmile at him, with a look that asked fo

kindness. He did not smile back, but hdid not frown. His deep-set eyes, in theihollow sockets, gazed at me as if thewere memorizing each feature.

"You're lovelier than ever, Mary," hesaid. "There's something different abouyour face. You've suffered."

"My brother is blind."

"Ah! There's more than that."

"Yes."



"Indeed I do! I almost envy her that bravdeath."

"We won't talk of her any more now,Herter said with a sigh. "I've a feeling shwouldn't like us to discuss her, togetherShe used to be—jealous of you, poor girl

There are other things I wanted to say. Thfirst—but you've guessed it already!—ihis: the minute I looked into your facehere in the hospice, I forgave you the pai

you made me suffer. In the first shock omeeting your eyes, I didn't realize that I'forgiven. It wasn't till I'd slammed thdoor that I knew."

didn't repeat that I had not purposeldone anything which needed forgiveness. only looked at him with all the kindnes

and pity in my heart, and waited until h



should go on.

"The second thing I wanted to say is, tha

ust the one look told me you werenhappy and gay as you used to be. When I'shut the door, I could still see you clearlyas if I had the power to look through th

wood. I said to myself, that girl's eyehave got the sadness of the whole world ihem. They seem as if they were beggin

for help, and didn't know where on earth i

was coming from. Was that a truempression? I waited to ask you this, eve

more than to see you again."

"It is true," I confessed. "There's only thidifference between my feelings and youmpression of them. I know there's no hel

on earth for me. Such help as there is, I ge

from another place. Do you remembe



how I used to talk about the dear Padrwho was our guardian—my brother's anmine—and how I told him nearl

everything good and bad that I thought odid? Well, he went to the front as achaplain and he has been killed. But I gon writing him letters, exactly as if h

could give me advice and comfort, oscold me in the old way."

"What about your brother? The girl—Mis

O'Farrell she called herself, I think—saihe was with you on this journey. And today I recognized him at Sœur Julie's, frohis likeness to you. I shouldn't hav

guessed he was blind. He has a beautifuface. Do you get no comfort from him?"

"Much comfort from his presence an

ove," I said. "But I try to keep him happy



don't bother him with my troubles. won't even let him talk of them. They'raboo."

"I wish I could help you!" Herteexclaimed.

"Your wish is a help."

"Ah, but I'd like to give more than that! I'going away—that's the third thing I wanteo tell you. A little while ago I was glad to

be going (so far as it's in me, nowadays, tbe glad of anything) because I—I've beegiven a sort of—mission. Since we've hahis talk, I'd put off going if I could. But

can't. Is your brother's case past cure?"

"It's not absolutely hopeless. Doctor Pauhis is a confidence! It's to try and cur



him that I'm with the Becketts. He doesnknow—and I can't explain more to youBut a specialist in Paris ordered Brian

ife in the open air, and as much pleasurand interest as possible. You see, it's theoptic nerve that was paralyzed in a strangway by shell shock. Some day Brian'

sight may—just possibly may—come bacall of a sudden."

"Ah, that's interesting. I'm not an oculis

but I know one or two of the best menwho have made great reputations sinchis war. Who was your specialist i

Paris?"

told him.

"A good man," he pronounced, "but I hav

a friend who is better. I'll write you



etter to him. You can send it if youchoose. That's one service I can do foyou, Mary. It may prove a big one. But

wish there were something else—something for you, yourself. Maybe therwill be one day. Who can tell? If that dacomes, I shan't be found wanting o

forgetful."

"It's worth a lot to have met you and hahis talk," I said. "It's been like a war

fire to cold hands. I do hope, dear DoctoPaul, that you're not going on a dangeroumission?"

He laughed—the quaint laugh remembered, like a crackling of drbrushwood. "No more danger for me in ihan there is for a bit of toasted cheese i

a rat-trap."



"What a queer comparison!" I said. "Isounds as if you were going to be a bait tdeceive a rat."

"Multiply the singular into the plural, anyour quick wit has deciphered mparable."

"I'm afraid my wit doesn't deserve thcompliment. I can't imagine what youmission really is. Unless——"

"Unless—what? No! Don't let us go anfurther. Because I mustn't tell you moreeven if you should happen to guess. I'vold you almost too much already. Bu

confidence for confidence. You gave meone. Consider that I've confided somethino you in return. There's just a milliont

chance that my mission—whatever it is—



"Good-bye—and good luck in thmission," I echoed.

He pressed my hand so hard that it hurtand with one last look turned away. Hdid not go far, however, but stopped onhis way back to ask Dierdre O'Farrel

about her arm. She and Brian (Puck haoined the Becketts) were only a fewpaces behind me, and pausinnvoluntarily I heard what was said. I

was easy to see that Dierdre wished me thear her part.

"My arm is going on very well," sh

nformed her benefactor. "I thank youagain for your kindness in attending to iBut I don't think it was kind to order me tkeep a secret, and then give it awa

yourself. You made me seem an—



ungracious pig and a fool. I shouldn't minhat, if it did you good, in return for th

good you've done me. But since it was fo

nothing——""I apologize," Herter broke in. "I meanwhat I said then. But a power outsid

myself was too strong for me. Maybe iwill be the same for you some dayMeanwhile, don't make the mistake made: don't do other people an injustice."

Leaving Dierdre at bay between anger anamazement, he stared with professionaeagerness into Brian's sightless eyes, an

stalked off toward the hospice.



CHAPTER XVI

Since I wrote you last, Padre, I have been the trenches—real, live trenches, nohe faded, half-filled-up ghosts of trenche

where men fought long ago. I had to givmy word not to tell or write any one juswhere these trenches are, so I won't pu

details in black and white, even in pagewhich are only for you and me. I keep thibook that you gave me in my hand-bagand no eyes but mine see it—unless, dea

Padre, you come and look over mshoulder while I scribble, as I often feeyou do! Still—something might happen: aautomobile accident; or the bag might b

ost or stolen, though it's not a gorgeousl



attractive one, like that in which MotheBeckett carries Jim's letters.

t was the day after Lunéville anGerbéviller. We started out once againfrom Nancy, no matter in which directionbut along a wonderful road. Not that th

scenery was beautiful. We didn't so muchas think of scenery. The thrill was in thpassing show, and later in th"camouflage." We were going to be given

a glimpse of the Front which thcommuniqués (when they mention it at alnowadays) speak of as calm. Its allege"calmness" gave us non-combatants ou

chance to pay it a visit; but many wirehad been pulled to get us there, and whad dwindled to a trio, consisting oFather Beckett, Brian, and me. Mothe



Beckett is not made for trenches, even thcalmest, and there was no permission fohe occupants of the Red Cross taxi, wh

are not officially of our party. They havheir own police pass for the war-zonebut all special plums are for the Beckettsshared by the O'Malleys; and this visit t

he trenches was an extra-speciasuperplum.

All along the way, coming and going

earing to meet us, or leaving us behindsplashed with gray mud after a night orain, motor-lorries sped. They carriemunitions or food to the front, or brough

back tired soldiers bound for a place orest, and their roofs were marvellousl"camouflaged" in a blend of blue angreen paint splotched with red. Fo



aeroplanes they must have looked, in theiprocessions, like drifting mist ovemeadowland. Shooting in and out amon

hem, like slim gray swordfish in a schooof porpoise, were military cars crowdewith smart officers who saluted thieutenant escorting us, and stared i

surprise at sight of a woman. A sprinklingof these officers were Americans, andhey would have astonished us more tha

we astonished them had we not known thawe should see Americans. They were tobe, indeed, the "feature" of the great showand though Mr. Beckett was calm i

manner to match the Front, I knew from hiface that he was deeply moved by thhought of seeing "boys from home

fighting for France as his dead son ha

fought.



At each small village we saw soldierwho had been sent to the "back of thFront" for a few days' change from th

renches. They lounged on long woodebenches before humble houses where thehad logement ; they sat at tables borrowefrom kitchens, earnestly engaged a

dominoes or manille, or they playeboules in narrow grass alleys beside thmuddy road. For them we had packed alvacant space in the auto with a cargo ocigarettes; and white teeth flashed anblue arms waved in gratitude as we wenby. I think Father Beckett was happier tha

he had been since we left Paris.At last we came to a part of the road thawas "camouflaged" with a screen obranches fixed into wire. There was n



great need of it in these days, ouieutenant explained, but Heaven knew

when it might be urgently wanted again

perhaps to-morrow! And this was wherwe said "au revoir " to our car. She wawheeled out of the way on to a strip odamp grass, under a convenient group o

rees where no prowling enemy planmight "spot" her; and we set out to walfor a short distance to what had once beea farmhouse. Now, what was left of it hadanother use. A board walk (well abovehe mud), which led to the new, unpainted

door, was guarded by sentinels, and

explanations were given and papershown before a rather elderly Frenccaptain appeared to greet usArrangements had been made for ou

reception, but we had to be identified; an



when all was done we were given a goowelcome. Also we were given helmetsand I was vain enough to fancy I had neve

worn a more becoming hat.Besides our own escort—the lieutenanwho had brought us from Nancy—we ha

a captain and a lieutenant to guide us inthe "calmness" of the trenches (the captaiand a lieutenant for Mr. Beckett and Brianhe other lieutenant for me) and one woul

have thought that they had never beforseen a woman in or out of a helmet! Down a deep cellar-like hole, which the

called "l'anti-chambre," all three officer

coached Father Beckett and me in trencmanners. As for Brian, it was clear tohem that he was no stranger to trench life

and their treatment of him was perfect



They made no fuss, as tactless folk dover blind men; but, while feigning tregard him as one of themselves, they slil

watched and protected his movements as proud mother might the first steps of child.

On we went from the antichambre into ong mouldy passage dug deep into thearth. It was the link between trenchesand now and then a sentinel popped ou

from behind a queer barrier built up as protection against "les éclats d'obus."This is the way the wounded come back,said one of the lieutenants, "when ther

are any wounded. Just now (or you woulnot be here, Mademoiselle) there is"—hfinished in English—"nothing doing."

laughed. "Who taught you that?"



"You will see," he replied, making a niceittle mystery. "You will see who taught io me—and then some!"

That was a beautiful ending for thsentence, and his American accent waperfect, even if the meaning of the poo

man's quotation was a little uncertain!We turned several times, and I had beguno think of the Minotaur's labyrinth, whe

he passage knotted itself into a lowroofed room, open at both ends, save fobomb screens, with a trench leadindismally off from an opposite doorway

"When is a door not a door?" was conundrum of my childhood, and I thinhe answer was: "When it's ajar." Bu

nowadays there is a better réplique: A

door is not a door when it's a dug-out. It i



hen a hole, kept from falling in upon itselby a log of wood or anything handy. Thiime, the "anything handy" seemed to b

part of an old wheelbarrow, and on topwere some sandbags. In the room, whicwas four times as long as it was broadand twelve times longer than high, a few

vague soldier-forms crouched over a meaon the floor, their tablecloth being a Parinewspaper. They scrambled to their feetbut could not stand upright, and to seheir stooping salute to stooping officern the smoky twilight, was like a vision i

a dark, convex mirror.

As we wound our way past the screen ahe far end of the cellar dining-room, mieutenant explained the method in placin

each pare-éclat , as he called the screen



"It is different on different days. If you hacome yesterday, you could have had good long promenade. Indeed that wa

what we hoped, when we arranged tentertain your party. But unfortunately thgentlemen in the opposing trenchediscovered that Les Sammies had arrive

on our secteur . They wanted to give thea reception, and so—your walk has to bshortened, Mademoiselle."

Suddenly I felt sick. I had the sensatioSœur Julie described herself as feelinwhen she met the giant German officersBut it was not fear. "Do you mean—whil

we're here, safe—like tourists on pleasure jaunt," I stammered, "thaAmerican soldiers are being killed —ihe trenches close by? It's horrible! I can



——"

"Il ne faut pas se faire de la bile, as ou

oilus say, when they mean 'Don't worryMademoiselle," the lieutenant soothed me"If there were any killing along thisecteur you would hear the guns boom

n'est-ce-pas? You had not stopped tohink of that. There was a little affair adawn, I don't conceal it from you. Asurprise—a coup de main against th

Americans the Boches intended. Thehought, as all has been quiet on our Fron

for so long, we should expect nothing. Buhe surprise didn't work. They got as goo

as they sent, and no one on our side wakilled. That I swear to youMademoiselle! There were a fewwounded, yes, but no fatalities. Th



rouble is that now things have begun tmove, they may not sit still for long, anwe cannot take risks with our visitors. Th

mountain must come to Mahomet. That ises Sammies must call upon you, insteaof you upon them. The reception room ichez nous Français. It is ready, and yo

will see it in a moment."

Almost as he spoke we came to a dug-ouof far more imposing architecture than th

hole between trenches which we had seenWe had to stoop to go in, but once in wcould stand upright, even Brian, whowered several inches above the othe

men. The place was lighted with manguttering candles, and tears sprang to meyes at the pathos of the decorations

eedless to explain that the French an



American flags which draped the darwalls were there in our honour! Also therwere a Colonel, a table, benches, chairs

some glasses, and one precious bottle ochampagne, enough for a large company tsip, if not to drink, each other's healthHardly had we been introduced to th

decorations, including the Colonel, whehe Americans began to arrive, thre

young officers and two who had hardenento warlike middle age. It was heart

warming to see them meet Mr. Beckettand their chivalric niceness to Brian anme was somehow different from any othe

niceness I remember—except Jim's.ot that one of the men looked like Jim, o

had a voice like his: yet, when they spokeand smiled, and shook hands, I seemed t



see Jim standing behind them, smiling ahe had smiled at me on our one daogether. I seemed to hear his voice in an

undertone, as if it mingled with theirs, anwondered if Jim's father had the samalmost supernatural impression that hison had come into the dug-out room wit

hat little band of his countrymen.

t is strange how a woman can bhomesick for a man she has known onl

one day; but she can—she can —for a JiBeckett! He was so vital, so central iife, known even for a day, that after hi

going the world is a background fro

which his figure has been cut out, leavina blank place. These jolly, bravAmerican soldier-men made me want sdesperately to see Jim that I wished



bomb would drop in—just a small bombouching only me, and whisking me awao the place where he is. In body he coul

not forgive me, of course, for what I'vdone; but in spirit he might forgive mspirit if it travelled a long way to see his!

am almost sure that the Americans didbring Jim back to Father Beckett, as to mefor though he was cheerful, and even madokes to show that he mustn't be treated a

a mourner, there was one piteous sign oemotion which no self-control could hide

saw his throat work—the throat of an olman—his "Adam's apple" goin

convulsively up and down like a tosseball in a fountain jet. Then, lest I shoulsob while his eyes were dry, I lookedaway.



We all had champagne out of themarvellous bottle which had been hoardeduring long months in case of "a grea

occasion," and we economized sips bunot healths. We drank to each one of theAllies in turn, and to a victorious peaceThen the officers—French and America

—began telling us trench tales—no gristories, only those at which we coulaugh. One was what an American captain

called a "peach"; but it was a Frenchmawho told it: the American contingent havhad no such adventures yet.

The thing happened some time ago, befor

he "liveliness" died down along thisecteur . One spring day, in a rainy foike a gray curtain, a strange pair of leg

appeared, prowling alongside a Frenc



rench. They were not French legs; bunstantly two pairs of French arms darte

out under the stage-drop of fog to jer

hem in. Down came a feldwebel on top ohem, squealing desolately "Kamerad!" Hsquealed many more guttural utterancesbut not one of the soldiers in blue helmets

who soon swarmed round him, coulunderstand a word he said. "Why thcrowd?" wondered the Captain of thcompany, appearing from a near-by dugout. The queer quarry was dragged to thofficer's feet, and fortunately the Captainan Alsatian, had enough German for

catechism."What were you doing close to our lines?he demanded.

"Oh, Herr Captain, I did not know the



were your lines. I thought they were oursn our trench we are hungry, very hungry. hought in the mist I could safely go a littl

way and seek for some potatoes. Wherwe are they say there was once a finpotato field. Not long ago, one of our mecame back with half a dozen beauties. Ah

hey were good! I was empty enough trisk anything, Herr Captain. But I had nuck. And, worse still, the fog led m

astray. Spare my life, sir!"

"We will spare you what is worth morehan a little thing like your life," said th

Captain. "We'll spare you some of ou

good food, to show you that we French dnot have to gnaw our finger-nails, like yomiserable Boches. Men, take this animaaway and feed it!"



The men obeyed, enjoying the joke. Thdazed Kamerad was stuffed with sardinesmeat, bread, and butter (of which he ha

forgotten the existence), delicious cheeseand chocolates. At last the magic meawas topped off with smoking hot blaccoffee, a thimbleful of brandy, and—

cigar ! Tobacco and cognac may havebeen cheap, but they made the feldwebefeel as if he had died and gone to heaven.

When he had eaten till his belt was tighfor the first time in many moons, back hwas hustled to the Captain.

"Well—you have had something bettehan potatoes? Bon! Now, out of thisquicker than you came! Your mother mayadmire your face, but we others, we hav

seen enough of it."



"But, Herr Captain," pleaded the poowretch, loth to be banished from Paradise"I am your prisoner."

"Not at all," coolly replied the officer"We can't be bothered with a singleprisoner. What is one flea on a blanket

Another time, if we come across you agaiwith enough of your comrades to make thgame worth while, why then, perhaps wmay give ourselves the pain of keepin

you. You've seen that we have enoughfood to feed your whole trench, and nevemiss it."

Away flew the German over the top, headover heels, not unassisted: and after thehad laughed awhile, his hosts and foeforgot him. But not so could he forge

hem. That night, after dark, he cam



rotting back with fifteen friends, alcrying "Kamerad!" eager to delivehemselves up to captivity for the flesh

pots of Egypt."But—we're not to go without a glimpsof the Sammies, are we?" I asked, whe

stories and champagne were finished.The "Sammies'" officers laughed. "Thboys don't love that name, you know! Bu

t sticks like a burr. It's harder to get rid ohan the Boches. As for seeing them—(thboys, not the Boches!) well ——" And consultation followed.

The trenches beyond our dug-out drawinroom could not be guaranteed "safe as thBank of England" for non-combatants tha

day, and no one wanted to be responsibl



for our venturing farther. Still, if wcouldn't go to the boys, a "bunch" of thboys could come to us. A lieutenan

dashed away, and presently returned witsix of the tallest, brownest, best-lookinyoung men I ever saw. Their khaki andheir beautiful new helmets were so lik

British khaki and helmets that I shouldnhave been expert enough to recognize theas American. But somehow the meresamateur would never have mistaken thosboys for their British brothers. I can't telwhere the difference lay. All I can say ihat it was there. Were their jaws squarer?

o, it couldn't have been that, for Britisaws are firm enough, and have need tbe, Heaven knows! Were their chins moreprominent? But millions of British chin

are prominent. My brain collapsed in th



strain after comparisons, abandoned theffort and drank in a draught of rich, ripAmerican slang as a glorious pick-me-up

o wonder the French officers in liaisohave caught the new "code." The cominof those brown boys with their bright anglittering teeth and witty words made u

o us for miles of trenches we hadn't seenGee, but they were bully! Oh, boy! Gehep to that!



CHAPTER XVII

Father Beckett must have suffered darhours of reaction after seeing thossoldier-sons of American fathers, if therhad been time to think. But we flasheback to Nancy in haste, for a late dinneand adieux to our friends. Brian and

snatched the story of our day's adventurfrom his mouth for Mother Beckett; anuckily he was too tired to give her a new

version. I heard in the morning that he ha

slept through an air raid!, too, was tired, and for the same reason

but I could not sleep. Waking dream

marched through my mind—dreams of Ji



as he must have looked in khaki, dreamwhich made an air raid more or less seeunimportant. As the clocks of Nancy told

he hours, I was in a mood for the firsime since Gerbéviller to puzzle out thmeaning of Paul Herter's parable.

What had he meant by saying that himission would be no more dangerous thaa rat-trap for a bit of toasted cheese?

had exclaimed, "That sounds as if yowere to bait the trap!" but he had noencouraged me to guess. And there hadbeen so much else to think of, just then

His offer of introductions to specialistfor Brian had appealed to me more than vague suggestion of service to mysel"some day."



But now, through the darkness of night, ray like a searchlight struck clear upon hicryptic hint.

Somehow, Herter hoped to get across thfrontier into Germany! His questionwhether I had loved Jim Beckett, was no

an idle one. He had not asked it througmere curiosity, or because he was jealouof the dead. His idea was that, if I hadeeply cared for Jim, I should be glad t

know how he had died, and where hibody lay. Germany was the one placwhere the mystery could be solved. realized suddenly that Doctor Pau

expected "some day" to be in a position tsolve it.

"He's going into Germany as a spy," I said

o myself. "He's a man of Germa



Lorraine. German is his native languageLegally he's a German subject. He'll onlhave to pretend that he was caught b

accident in France when the war broke ou—and that at last he has escaped. All thamay be easy if there are no spies to givhim away—to tell what he's been doing i

France since 1914. The trouble will bwhen he wants to come back."

wished that I could have seen the ma

again, to have bidden him a bettefarewell, to have told him I'd pray for hisuccess. But now it was too late. Alreadhe must have set off on his "mission," an

we were to start in the morning foVerdun.

The thought of Verdun alone was enough

o keep me awake for the rest of the night



o say nothing of air raids anspeculations about Doctor Paul. It seemealmost too strange to be true that we wer

o see Verdun—Verdun, where monthafter month beat the heart of the world.

The O'Farrells had not got permission fo

Verdun, nor for Rheims, where we of thegreat gray car were going next. Still morhan our glimpse of the trenches werhese two places "extra special." Th

brother and sister were to start with ufrom Nancy, but we (the Becketts, Brianand I) were to part from them at Bar-leDuc, where we would be met by a

officer from Verdun. Two days later, wewere to meet again at Paris, and continu—as Puck impudently put it—"our rôle oministering angels," along the Noyon fron



and beyond.

This programme was settled when—

hrough influence at Nancy—FatheBeckett's passes for four had beeextended to Verdun and Rheims. breathed a sigh of relief at the prospect o

wo more days without the O'Farrells; anall that's Irish in me trusted to luck tha"something might happen" to part uforever. Why not? The Red Cross tax

might break down (it looked ready tshake to pieces any minute!). Dierdrmight be taken ill (no marble statue coulbe paler!). Or the pair might be arreste

by the military police as dangerous spiesReally, I wouldn't "put it past" them!)

But my secret hopes were rudely janglewith my first sight of Brian on the Verdun



morning.

"Molly, I hope you won't mind," he said

"but I've promised O'Farrell to go withem and meet you in Paris to-morrownight. I've already spoken to Mr. Becketand he approves."

"This comes of my being ten minutes late!almost—not quite—cried aloud. I'

hardly closed my eyes all night, but ha

fallen into a doze at dawn and overslepmyself. Meanwhile the O'Farrell factiohad got in its deadly work!

was angry and disgusted, yet—as usuawhere that devil of a Puck was concerne—I had the impulse to laugh. It was as ihe'd put his finger to his nose an

chuckled in impish glee: "You hope to ge



rid of us, do you, you minx? Well, I'lshow you!" But I should be playing higame if I lost my temper.

"Why do the O'Farrells want you to gwith them?" I "camouflaged" my rage.

"It's Julian who wants me," explained thdear boy. (Oh, it had come to Christianames!) "It seems Miss O'Farrell haaken it into her head that none of us like

her, and that we've arranged this way toget rid of them both—letting them doweasily and making some excuse not to staragain together from Paris. O'Farrel

hought if I'd offer to go with them and sin the back of the car while he drove could persuade her——"

"Well, I don't envy any one the task o



persuading that girl to believe a thing shdoesn't wish to believe," I exploded. "Mprivate opinion is, though, that he

brother's sister needs no persuading. Thwo of them want to show me that thehave power——"

Brian broke in with a laugh. "My childyou see things through a magnifying glasss your blind brother a prize wort

squabbling over? I can be of use to th

Becketts, it's true, when we travel withoua military escort, or with one younofficer who knows more about seventyfives than about the romance of history.

can tell them what I've read and what I'vseen. But at Verdun you'll be in the societyof generals; and at Rheims of as mandignitaries as haven't been bombarded ou



of town. The Becketts don't need mePerhaps Miss O'Farrell does."

"Perhaps!" I repeated.Brian can see twice as much as those whhave eyes, but he would not see msarcasm. Just then, however, Mrs. Becketoined us in the hall of the hotel, where w

stood ready to start—all havinbreakfasted in our own rooms. Sh

guessed from my face that I was nopleased with Brian's plan.

"My dear, I'd go myself with poor littlDierdre O'Farrell instead of Brian!" shsaid. "Verdun isn't one of Jim's townsRheims is—but I'd have sacrificed itThere can't be much left there to see. Onl

— two whole days! Father and I haven



been parted so long in our lives since wwere married. I thought yesterday, wheyou were away in those trenches, what

coward I'd been not to insist on going, anwhat if I never saw Father again! I hopyou don't think I'm too selfish!"

Poor darling, selfish to travel in her owcar with her own husband! I just gave hea look to show what I felt; but after that could no longer object to parting wit

Brian. Puck had got his way, and I couldsee by the light in his annoyingly beautifueyes how exquisitely he enjoyed thsituation. Brian and Brian's kitbag wer

ransferred to the Red Cross taxi, therand then, to save delay for us and thofficer who would meet us, in case thwretched car should get a panne, en rout



o Bar-le-Duc. As a matter of fact, that iwhat happened; or at all events when oubig, reliable motor purred with us int

Bar-le-Duc, the O'Farrells were nowhero be seen.

Our officer—another lieutenant—ha

arrived in a little Ford; and as we wernvited to lunch in the citadel of Verdunwe could not wait. I felt sure the demoPuck had managed to be late on purpose

so that my Verdun day might be spoiled byanxiety for Brian. Thus he would kill twbirds with one stone: show how little gained by the enemy's absence, and punis

me for not letting him make love!

The road to Verdun was a wonderfuprelude. After three years' Titanic battling

how could there be a road at all? I ha



had vague visions of an earthly turmoil, wilderness of shell-holes where once hagleamed rich meadows and vineyards

with little villages set jewel-like amonhem, and the visions were true. Buhrough the war-worn desert always th

road unrolled—the brave white road

Heaven alone could tell the deeds ovalour which had achieved thmpossible, making and remaking tha

road! It should have some great poem alo itself, I thought; a poem called "Th

Road to Verdun." And the poem should beset to music. I could almost hear the lilt o

he verses as our car slipped through thangle of motor camions and gun-carriageon the way thither. As for the music, could really hear that without flight o

fancy: a deep, rolling undertone of heav



wheels, of jolting guns, of pulsing enginesike a million beating hearts; and out of it

muffled bass rising the lighter music o

men's voices: soldiers singing; soldiergoing to the front, who shouted gaily tsoldiers going to repose; soldieraughing; soldier-music that no hardship

or suffering could subdue.

We had seen such processions before, bunone so endless as this, going both ways

as far as the eye could reach. We had seenno such tremendous parks of artillery anaviation by the roadside, no such store oshells for big guns and little guns, no suc

pyramids of grenades for trenches anaeroplanes. We were engulfed in warswallowed up in war. It was thrillinbeyond words.



But all the road flashed bright with thrillsThere was a thrill at "le Bois de Regrets,forest of dark regret for the Prussians o

1792, where the French turned them bac—the forest which Goethe saw: a thrilmore keen for the pointing sign, "Metz, 4kilomètres," which reminded us that les

han thirty miles separated us from thgreat German stronghold, yet—"on nassera pas!" And the deepest thrill of al

at the words of our guide: "Voilà la portede Verdun! Nous y sommes."

Turning off the road, we stopped our caand the little Ford to look up and worship

There it rose before us, ancient pile ogray stones, altar of history and triumphVerodunum of Rome, city of warlikealmost royal bishops and rich burghers



own of treaties, sacked by Barbariansowned and given up by Germans; seizeby Prussians when the French had spike

heir guns in 1870; and now forever monument to the immortal manhood oFrance!

Perhaps it was the mist in my eyes, but afirst sight Verdun did not look ruined, as saw it towering up to its citadel imassive strength and stern dignity. The ol

houses on the slope stood shoulder tshoulder and back to back, like massemen fighting their last stand. It was onlwhen we had started on again, and passin

hrough the gate had slipped into thsorrowful intimacy of the streets, thaVerdun let us see her glorious rags andscars.



You would think that one devastated townwould be much like another to look asave for size. But no! I am learning tha

each has some arresting claim of its owo sacred remembrance. Nancy has habig buildings knocked down like carhouses by occasional bombardment o

great guns. Sermaize, GerbévillerVitrimont and twenty other places whave seen were thoroughly looted by thGermans and then burned, street by streeBut Verdun has been bombarded everyday for weeks and months and years. Thown is a royal skeleton, erect and on it

feet, its jewelled sceptre damaged, bustill grasped in a fleshless hand. ThGermans have never got near enough tsteal!



"You see," said the smart young captainwho had come out to meet us at the gatand take us to the citadel, "you see

nothing has been touched in these housesince the owners had to go. When thereturn from their places of refuge faaway, they will find everything as they lef

t—that is, as the Boche guns have left it."

Only too easy was it to see! In some of thstreets whole rows of houses had had thei

fronts torn off. The rooms within werike stage-settings for some tragic play

Sheets and blankets trailed from bedwhere sleepers had waked in fright. Door

of wardrobes gaped to show dressedangling forlornly, like Bluebeard'murdered brides. Dinner-tables were seout for meals never to be finished, save b



rats. Family portraits of comfortable olfaces smiling under broken glass hunawry on pink or blue papered walls. Half

made shirts and petticoats were stilcaught by the needle in broken sewingmachines. Dropped books and baskets oknitting lay on bright carpets snowe

under by fallen plaster. Vases of deadflowers stood on mantelpieces, ghostlstems and shrivelled brown leavereflected in gilt-framed mirrors. I coulhardly bear to look! It was like beinshown by a hard-hearted surgeon thbeating of a brain through the sawed hol

n a man's skull. If one could havcrawled through the crust of lava aPompeii, a year after the eruption, onmight have felt somewhat as at Verdun

now!



On a broken terrace, once a beloveevening promenade, our two cars pausedWe got out and gazed down, down ove

he River Meuse, from a high vantagepoint where a few months ago, we shoulhave been blown to bits, in five minutesOur two officers pointed out in the mist

autumn landscape spots where some of thfiercest and most famous fights had beenHow the names they rattled off broughback anxious nights and mornings wheour first and only thoughts had been thcommuniqués! "Desperate battle on thMeuse." "Splendid stand at Douaumont.

"New attack on Morthomme." But nothinwe saw helped out our imaginings. Therwas just a vast stretch of desolation whervinelands once had poured their perfum

o the sun. The forts protecting Verdun



were as invisible as fairyland, I said. "Anvisible as hell!" one of our guide

amended. And then to me, in a low voic

unheard by pale and trembling MotheBeckett, he added, "If Nature did not woro make ugly things invisible, we coul

not let you come here, Mademoiselle. Se

how high the grass has grown in the plaidown there! In summer it is full opoppies, red as the blood that feeds theiroots. And it is only the grasses and thpoppies that hide the bones of men we'vnever yet put underground. Nature habeen one of our chief sextons, here a

Verdun. I wish you could have seen thpoppies a few months ago, mixed witblue marguerites and cornflowers—thawe call 'bluets.' We used to say that ou

dead were lying in state under th



ricolour flag of France. But I have madyou sad, Mademoiselle. Je regrette! Wemust take you quickly to the citadel. Ou

general will not let you be sad there."We turned from the view over the Meuseand walked away in silence. I thought

had never heard so loud, so thunderouslechoing, a silence in my life.

Oh, no, it was not sad in the citadel! I

was, on the contrary, very gay, of a gaietyso gallant and so pathetic that it brought ump to the throat when there should hav

been a laugh on the lips. But the lump ha

o be swallowed, or our hosts' feelingwould be hurt. They didn't want wateryeyed, full-throated guests at a luncheoworthy of bright smiles and kee

appetites!



King of Prussia to spare Verdun.

The lieutenant who met us at Bar-le-Du

had rushed there in advance of us, in ordeo shop with frantic haste. A long list mushave been compiled after "maturdeliberation"—as they say in courts

martial—otherwise any normal young mawould have missed out something. In thiny, subterranean room (not much largehan a cell) a stick of incense burned. Th

cot-bed of some hospitable captain omajor disguised itself as a couch, under brand-new silk table-cover with the pricemark still attached, and several small sof

cushions, also ticketed. A deal table hadbeen painted green and spread with ace-edged tea-cloth, on which wer

proudly displayed a galaxy of fittings fro



a dressing-bag, the best, no doubt, thapoor bombarded Bar-le-Duc coulproduce in war time. There were ivory

backed hair and clothes brushes; a combbottles filled with white face-wash anperfume; a manicure-set, with pink salvand nail-powder; a tray decked out wit

every size of hairpin; a cushion bristlinwith pins of many-coloured heads; boxeof rouge, a hare's-foot to put it on withface-powder in several tints; swan's-dowpuffs; black pencils for the eyebrows anblue for the eyelids; sweet-smelling soa—a dazzling and heavily fragran

collection."Oh, my dear, what did they think of us?gasped Mother Beckett. "What a shame thpoor lambs should have wasted all thei



money and trouble!"

"It mustn't be wasted!" said I. "Think how

disappointed they'd be if they came in herafterward and found we hadn't touched hing!"

"But——" she protested.

"You wouldn't hurt the feelings of thesaviours of France? I'm going to make uboth up! And there's no time to wasteThey've given us fifteen minutes' gracbefore lunch. For the honour owomanhood we mustn't be late!"

sat her down in the only chair. I dustedher pure little face with pearl-powder anhe faintest soupçon of rouge. I rubbed o

her sweet lips just the suspicion of pink



iked by an elderly grande damrançaise, who has not yet "abdicated." hen made myself up more seriously:

blue shadow on the lids, a raven touch ohe lashes; a flick of the hare's-foot undemy eyes and on my ear-tips: an extra coaof pink and a brilliant (most injurious!

varnish on the nails. Then, with a dash oose Ambrée for my companion's blous

and Nuits d'Orient for mine, we sallieforth scented like a harem, to do honour tour hosts.

Luncheon was in a vast cavern of vaulted banqueting-hall, in the deepes

heart of that citadel, where for eleveyears Napoleon kept his weary Englisprisoners. Electric lights showed us able adorned with fresh flowers (wher



hey'd come from was a miracle, but soowe were to see other miracles still mormiraculous), French, British, an

American flags, and pyramids of fruit. Those Ambrée and Nuits d'Orient filled thwhole vast salle, and pleased the officers

was sure. They bowed and smiled an

paid us compliments, their many medalglittered in the light, and their uniformwere resplendent against the colbackground of the walls. I wished thanstead of one girl, I had been a dozen

But I did my best and so did MotheBeckett, who brightened into a charmin

second youth, the youth of a happy mothesurrounded by a band of sons.

The lumps that had been in our throats hao be choked sternly down, for not to d



ustice to that meal would be worse thaeaving the rouge and powder boxe

unopened! The menu need not have put

palace to shame. In the citadel of Verdunt seemed as if it must have been evolveby rubbing Aladdin's lamp, and I said soas I read it over:

Huîtres d'OstendeBisque d'ÉcrevissesSanglier rôti

Purée de Pommes de TerreSoufflée de Chocolat

FruitsBonbons

"Oh, we've never been hungry at Verduneven when things were at their liveliest,said the officer sitting next to me

"Providence provided for us in a strang



way. I will tell you how. Before the civipopulation went away, or expected to gohere was talk of a long siege. Th

shopkeepers thought they would bntelligent and sent to Paris for all sorts ofood. Oh, not only the grocers anbutchers! Everyone. You would have

aughed to see the jewellers showing hamn their windows instead of diamonds an

pearls and gold purses, and the piles opreserved meat and fruit tins at thperfumers! The confectioners orderestores of sugar and the wine merchantrestocked their cellars. Then things bega

o happen. Houses were bombed, anpeople hustled out in a hurry. You haveseen some of those houses! The place wagetting too hot; and the order came fo

evacuation. Not much could be take



away. Transport was difficult in thosdays! All the good food had to be lefbehind, and we thought it would be a pit

o waste it. Our chief bought the lot at reasonable price—merchants werhankful to sell. So you see we did no

need Aladdin's lamp."

"I don't quite see!" I confessed. "Becausehat's a long time ago, and these oysters o

Ostende——"

"Never saw Ostende!" he laughed. "Theare a big bluff! We always have themwhen"—he bowed—"we entertai

distinguished guests. The Germans used tprint in their papers that we at Verduncould not hold out long, because we wereating rats. So we took to cutting a das

with our menus. We do not go into



particulars and say that our oysters havkept themselves fresh in tins!"

"But the wild boar?" I persisted. "Doeone tin wild boar?"

"One does not! One goes out and shoots itMa foi, it's a good adventure when thGerman guns are not asleep! The fruitAh, that is easy! It comes as the air wbreathe. And for our bonbons, the famou

sugared almonds of Verdun were not aldestroyed when the factory blew up."

With this he handed me a dish of thdelicious things. "The story is," he said"that a certain Abbess brought the secreof making these almonds to Verdun. Wehave to thank Henry of Navarre for her

He had a pleasant way, when he wished to



be rid of an old love with a complimenof turning her into an Abbess. That time hmade a lucky stroke for us."

At the end of luncheon we all dranhealths, and nearly everyone made speech except Mrs. Beckett. She onl

nodded and smiled, looking so ideal ittle mother that she must have made evehe highest officers homesick for thei

mamans.

Then we were led through a mysteriounetwork of narrow passages and vaulterooms, all lit with electric lamps, an

striking cold and cellary. We saw the bighospital, not very busy just then, and thclean, empty operating theatre, angnome-caverns where munitions wer

stored in vast, black pyramids. When ther



was nothing left to see in the citadel, ouhosts asked if we would like to pay a visio the trenches—old trenches which ha

once defended Thiaumont."I don't think my wife had better——" MrBeckett began; but the little old lady cu

him short. "Yes, Father, I just had betterTo-day, being among all these splendidbrave soldiers has shown me that I'weak—a spoiled child. I felt yesterday I'

been a coward. Now I know it! And I'oing to see those trenches."

believe it was partly the powder and lip

salve that made her so desperate!Her husband yielded, meek as a lamb. Bimen like Mr. Beckett always do to littl

women like Mrs. Beckett. But she bore i



well. And when at last we bade good-byo our glorious hosts, she said to me

"Molly, you tell them in French, that now

've met them I understand why thGermans could never pass!"



CHAPTER XVIII

Almost any place on earth would be aanti-climax the day after Verdun—but noRheims!

Just at this moment (it mayn't be mucmore) Rheims is resting, like a bravvictim on the rack who has tired hiorturers by an obstinate silence. Only

few people are allowed to enter the townsave those who have lived there all alongand learned to think no more of Germabombs than German sausages; and thosfavoured few must slip in and out almosbetween breaths. Any instant the torturin

may begin again, when the Boches hav



bombs to spare for what they call "targepractice"; for think, how near is Laon!—and we'd been warned that, even at th

portals of the town, we might be turneback.

We had still another new French officer to

ake us to Rheims. (I am getting their facea little mixed, like a composite picturebut I keep sacredly all their dear visitingcards!) He was a captain, with a scarre

but handsome face, and he complimenteMother Beckett and me on our "courage.This made Father Beckett visibly regrehat he had brought us, though he had bee

assured that it was a "safe time.However, his was not the kind of regrewhich tempts a man to turn back: it onlmakes his upper lip look long.



never saw Rheims in palmy days opeace. Now I wish I had seen it! But therwas that lithograph of the cathedral b

Gustave Simonau, the great Belgian artisthanging above your desk, in the denPadre. I used to study it when I shoulhave been studying my lessons, fascinate

by the splendid façade, the twin towershe three "portals of the Trinity," the rose

window, the gallery of kings, the angelshe saints, the gargoyles and all the carve

stone lace-work which the picture swonderfully shows.

On the opposite side of the room wa

Simonau's Cathedral of Chartres, in a darframe to match, and I remember yousaying that Chartres was considered bsome critics even finer than Rheims. Th



Cathedral of Chartres seemed a romantimonument of history to me, because it wabuilt as a shrine for the "tunic of th

Virgin"; but the Gothic Notre-Dame oRheims appealed to my—perhapprophetic—soul. Maybe I had a latenpresentiment of how I should see the rea

cathedral, as la grande blessée of thgreatest war of the world.

Anyhow, I always took a deep interest in

Rheims from the day I first gaped, aopen-mouthed child, at that beautifudrawing, and I was glad I'd forgotten nonof its details, as we motored toward th

martyr town. Usually there's Brian, whcan tell the dear Becketts all they donknow and want to know, but this timhey'd only me to depend upon. And whe



think what a cruel fraud I am at hearthere's some consolation in serving them

even in small ways.

There's a wide plain that knowdesolately what German bombardmenmeans: there are gentle hills rising out o

t, south and west (will grapes ever bsweet on those sad hillsides again?) anhere's the little river Vesle that runs intohe Aisne. There's the Canal of the Aisne

and the Marne, too—oh, many widwaters and little streams, to breathe oumist, for Rheims is on the pleasant Île-deFrance. There was so much mist thi

autumn day that it hid from our eyes for ong time the tall form of the Cathedra

which should dominate the plain for manmiles; a thick, white mist like the shee



with which a sculptor veils himasterpiece until it's ready to face thworld. As we drove on, and still saw no

ooming bulk, frozen fear pinched mheart, like horrid, ice-cold fingers. What ihere'd been some new bombardment w

hadn't had time to hear of, and th

Cathedral were gone?

But I didn't speak my fear. I tried to covet up by chattering about Rheims

Goodness knows there's a lot to chatteabout! All that wonderful history, sinceClovis was baptized by Saint Remi; anCharlemagne crowned, and Charles th

VII, with Jeanne d'Arc looking on in brigharmour, and various Capets, and enougother kings to name Notre-Dame oRheims the "Cathedral of Coronations."



remembered something about the Gate oMars, too—the oldest thing of all—whiche Remi people put up in praise o

Augustus Cæsar when Agrippa brought higreat new roads close to their capital. hink it had been called Durocoroturum upo that time—or some equally awful name

which you remember only because yoexpect to forget! I hardly dared tell thBecketts about the celebratearchiepiscopal palace where the kingused to be entertained by the archbishopsuccessors of Saint Remi) while th

coronation ceremonies were going on: an

h e Salle du Tau with its wonderfuhangings, its velvet-cushioned stone seatand carved, upright furniture, where throyal guests—in robes stiff with jewelle

embroidery—had their banquets fro



plates of solid silver and gold. It seemecruel to speak of splendours vanisheforever, vanished like the holy oil of th

sacred phial brought from heaven by dove for the baptism of Clovis, and kepfor the anointing of all those dead kings!

But it was just the time and place to talabout Attila—Attila the First, I mean, owhom, as I told you, I firmly believe thpresent "incumbent" to be th

reincarnation. As Attila I. thought fit to puRheims to the sword, Atilla II. is naturallympelled by the "spiral" to do his bes

from a distance, by destroying th

Cathedral which wasn't begun in hipredecessor's day. But what does he think

wonder, about the prophecy? That iRheims—scene of the first German defea



on the soil of Gaul—Germany's last defeawill be celebrated, with great rejoicing ihe Cathedral she has tried to ruin?

Those words, "tried to ruin," I uttererather feebly, holding forth to the Beckettsbecause we had passed a long dark line o

rees before which—we'd been told—wought to see the Cathedral rise triumphanagainst an empty background of sky. Andstill there was nothing!

Of course, I told myself, it must be thmist. But could mist be thick enougentirely to hide a great mountain of

cathedral from eyes drawing nearer everminute? Then, suddenly, my question waanswered by the mist itself. I must havhypnotized it! A light wind, which we had

hought was made by the motor, cut lik



he shears of Lachesis through the woollwhite web. A gash of blue appeared ann the midst, floating as if it had died an

gone to heaven, the Cathedral.Yes, "died and gone to heaven!" That iust what has happened to Notre-Dame o

Rheims. The body has been martyred, buhe soul is left alive—beautiful, bravsoul of the old stones of France!

"Oh!" went up from three voices in thmotor-car. I think even our one-leggedsoldier-chauffeur emitted a grunt of joyand Mother Beckett clasped her hands o

her little thin breast, as if she werpraying, such a wonderful sight it waswith the golden coronation of the noonday sun on the towers. Our officer-guide

n his car ahead, looked back as if to say



"I told you so! They can't kill France, anRheims is the very spirit and youth oFrance."

ot one of us spoke another word until wdrove into the town, and began exclaiminwith horror and rage at what Attila II ha

done to the streets.The mist had fallen again, not white in thown, but a pale, sad gray, like a mantle o

half-mourning. It hung over the spaciouavenues and the once fine, now desolatestreets, which had been the pride oRheims; it slipped serpent-like throug

what remained of old arcades: it drapehe ancient Gate of Mars in the Place de lRépublique as if to hide the cruel scars ohe bombardment; it lay like soiled snow

on the mountain of tumbled stone whic



had been the Rue St. Jacques; it curtainehe "show street" of Rheims, the Rue de l

Grue, almost as old as the Cathedral itself

which a Sieur de Coucy began in 1212rickling gray as glacier waters over thfallen walls which artists had loved. Imarbled with pale streaks the burned

black corpse of the once famous Maisodes Laines; it clouded the marvellous olchurch of St. Remi, and when we came the Cathedral—kept for the climax—i

floated past the wounded statues on thgreat western façade like an army ospirits—spirits of all those watchin

saints whom the statues honoured.The crowns of the broken towers wcould not see, but at that height the miswas gilded by the sun which sifted throug



so that each tower seemed to have its owfaint golden halo.

"This effect comes often on these foggautumn days, when the sun is high, abounoontime," said our guide. "It's rathewonderful, isn't it? We have a priest

soldier invalided here now, who used tobe of the service in the Cathedral, beforhe volunteered to fight. He has writtesome verses, which it seems came to hi

n a dream one night. Whether the worlwould think them fine I do not know, but aRheims we like them. The idea is thaJeanne d'Arc has mobilized the souls o

he saints who protect Rheims, to blesand console the Cathedral, which thewere not permitted to save from outwarruin. It is she who gilds the mist on th



owers with a prophecy of hope. As fohe mist itself, according to the poet, it i

no common fog. It is but the cloak worn b

his army of saints to visit their cathedraand bathe its wounds with their cool whithands, so that at last, when peace dawnshere shall be a spiritual beauty found i

he old marred stones—a beauty thenever had in their prime."

"I should like to see that soldier-priest!

said Father Beckett, when I had translatefor him the officer's description of thpoem. "Couldn't we meet him? What's hiname?"

passed on the questions to our captain ohe scarred face. "The man's name is St

Pol," he told us. "You can see from that he

comes of an old family. If it had been thi



day last week you could have met him. Hwould have been pleased. But—since the—alas! Mademoiselle, it is impossibl

hat he should be seen. It would be too safor you and your friends."

"He has been wounded in som

bombardment?" I exclaimed."Not wounded—no. We don't think muchof wounds. What has happened is sadde

han wounds. Some day the man marecover. We hope so. But at present he—s out of everything, dead in life."

"What happened?" I gasped.

"Oh, it is quite a history!" said thCaptain. "But it begins a long time agowhen the Germans came to Rheims i



1914. Perhaps it would fatigue youBesides, you have to translate, whicakes double the time. I might write out th

story and send it, Mademoiselle, if yoike. You and your friends are not as safehere as in your own houses, I do nodisguise that from you! The Germans hav

et us rest these last few days. Yet whocan tell when they may choose to wake uup with a bomb or two?"

"I don't think we're afraid," I said, anconsulted the Becketts. The little old ladanswered for both. She was stoutly surhey were not afraid! "We shouldn

deserve to be Jim's parents if we were—of a thing like that ! You tell the CaptainMolly, we're getting used to bombs, andwe want the story right here, on the spot!"



"C'est très chic, ça!" remarked thCaptain, eyeing the mite of a woman. Hstood for a minute, his scarred face pale i

he mist, his eyes fixed thoughtfully on headless stone king. Then he began history of the soldier-priest.

Monsieur le Curé de St. Pol was veryoung when the war began—almost ayoung as a curé can be. He did not thinkat first, to become a soldier, for he hated

war. But, indeed, in those early days hhad no time to think at all. He only worke—worked, to help care for the woundewho were pouring into Rheims, towar

he last of August, 1914. Many werbrought into the Cathedral, where they laon the floor, on beds of straw. The Curé'duty was among these. He had relations i



Rheims—a family of cousins of the samname as his. They lived in a beautiful olhouse, one of the best in Rheims, with a

ancient chapel in the garden. There was anvalid father, whose wife devoted heife to him, and a daughter—a ver

beautiful young girl just home from

convent-school the spring before the wabroke out. There was a son, too—bunaturally, he was away fighting.

This young girl, Liane de St. Pol, was onof many in Rheims who volunteered thelp nurse the wounded. All girls broughup in convents have some skill in nursing

you know!

While she and the Curé were at work ihe Cathedral, among the wounded me

who came in were her own brother,



ieutenant, and his best friend, a captain ohis regiment. Both were badly hurt—thSt. Pol boy worse than his friend. Ye

even for him there was hope—if he coulhave had the best of care—if he coulhave been taken home and lovingly nursehere. That was not possible. The surgeon

had no time for house-to-house visits. Hwas operated on in the Cathedral, and ahe lay between life and death, news camhat the Germans were close to Rheims.

n haste the wounded were sent to Éperna—to save them from being madprisoners. But some could not go: Loui

de St. Pol and his friend Captain Jean dVisgnes. De Visgnes might have beenhidden in the St. Pol house but he woulnot leave the boy, who could not b



moved so far. The Curé vowed to hidboth, and he did hide them in a chapel ohe Cathedral itself. On September 3, a

evening, the first Germans rode into thown and took up their quarters in thMunicipal Palace, where they forced thMayor, a very old man, to live with them

t was a changed Rheims since the dabefore. The troops of the garrison hagone in the direction of Épernay, sinchere was no hope of defence. Many ric

people had fled, taking what they coulcarry in automobiles or cabs. The poofeared a siege—or worse: they knew no

what. The St. Pol family received intheir house a number of women whoshusbands were at the Front, and theibabies. No one ventured out who coul

stay indoors. The city filled up wit



German soldiers, with the Kaiser's sonPrince August Wilhelm, at their headThey, too, had wounded. The Cathedra

was put to use for them, and the Curcared for the Boches as he had cared fohe French. This gave him a chance, a

night, to nurse his two friends. So dragge

on seven days, which seemed seven yearsand then rumours drifted in of a greaGerman retreat, a mysterious failure in thmidst of seeming victory. The Battle of thMarne was making itself felt. In rage anbewilderment the Germans poured out oRheims, leaving only their wounde

behind. The townspeople praised Godand thought their trial was over. But it waonly just begun! On the 16th thbombardment opened. The Germans knew

hat their wounded still lay in th



Cathedral, but they did not seem to carfor men out of the fighting line. A rain obombs fell in the town—one of the firs

wrecked the Red Cross ambulance—anmany struck the Cathedral. Then came thnight when the straw bedding blazed, anfire poured through the long naves, risin

o the roof.

The Curé told afterward how wonderfuhe sight was with the jewelled window

ighting up for the last time, before the olglass burst with the shrill tinkle of million crystal bells. He and Jean dVisgnes carried Louis de St. Pol out into

he street, but the boy died before thereached his father's house, and De Visgnehad a dangerous relapse. It was on thinight that the Curé made up his mind t



volunteer, and soon he was at the Frontearly three years passed before he an

De Visgnes met again, both e

ermission, travelling back to Rheims tpass their "perm." Jean was now engageo Liane de St. Pol who, with her parents

had remained in the bombarded town

refusing to desert their poor protegéesThe two planned to marry, after the warbut Liane had been struck by a flyinfragment of shell, and wounded in thhead. De Visgnes could bear thseparation no longer. He made the girpromise to marry him at once—in th

chapel of the old house, as she was stilsuffering, and forbidden to go out. Hieave had been granted for the wedding

and the moment Liane was strong enoug

she and the old people would leav



Rheims. Jean was to take them himself this own home in Provence. The Curé wao marry his cousin to the man whose lif

he had saved.Many children of the poor whom Lianhad helped decorated the chapel wit

flowers, and though the wedding-day waone of fierce bombardment, no ondreamed of putting off the ceremony. Nofine shops for women's dress were ope

n Rheims, but the bride wore her mother'wedding-gown and veil of old lace. Nonsave the family were asked to thmarriage, because it was dangerous to g

from house to house; yet all Rheims loveLiane, and meant to wish happiness fobride and bridegroom as the chapel-bellchimed for their union. But the bells bega



and never finished. At the instant wheLiane de St. Pol and Jean de Visgnebecame man and wife a bomb fell on th

chapel roof. The tiles collapsed likcards, and all the bridal party was killeas by a lightning stroke. Only the soldierpriest was spared. Strangely, he was no

even touched. But horror had driven himad. Since then he spoke only to rave oLiane and Jean; how beautiful they haooked, lying dead before the wrecke

altar.

"The doctors say it is like a case of shellshock," the Captain finished. "They thin

he'll recover. But at present, as I said—is a sad affair. Sad for him —not for thos

who died together, suffering no pain. Onof the Curé's favourite sayings used to be



hey tell me, 'Death is not an end, but beginning.'"

"You know him well?" I asked."Yes. I was stationed in Rheims before thwar. I used to dance with Liane when shcame home from school."

"Ah, if only her family hadn't stayed herill too late!" I cried.

The captain with the scarred facshrugged his shoulders. "Destiny!" hsaid. "Besides, the best people do not ruaway easily from the homes they love

Perhaps they have the feeling that, in home which has always meant peacenothing terrible can happen. Yet there'more in it than that—something mor



subtle which keeps them in the placwhere they have always lived: something

think, that binds the spirits of u

Frenchmen and women to the spirit oheir own hearths—their own soil. Havenyou found that already, in other places youhave visited in this journey of yours?"

"Yes," I answered, thinking of the oldpeople I had seen at Vitrimont living in thgranaries of their ruined houses, an

strangely, unbelievably happy becaushey were "at home." "Yes, we have seenhat in little villages of Lorraine."

"Then how much more at Rheims, undehe shadow of Notre-Dame!" The scarrecaptain still gazed at the headless kingand faintly smiled.



CHAPTER XIX

Of course nothing did happen in Paris tbreak up the party. I might have knowhat nothing would. Nothing happened a

all, except that I received a letter froDoctor Herter with the promisentroduction to an oculist just now at th

Front, and that I realized, after three daysabsence, how Brian is improving. He haess the air of a beautiful soul, whosncarnation in a body is a mere accident

and more the look of a happy, handsomyoung man, with a certain spirituaradiance which makes him remarkable ansomehow "disturbing," as the French say

f anything could stop the rats gnawing m



conscience, it would be this blessechange. Brian is getting back health anstrength. When I think what a short tim

ago it is that his life hung in the balancehis seems a miracle. I'm afraid I am gla—glad that I did the thing which has givehim his chance. Besides, I love th

Becketts. So does Brian. And they love ust's difficult to remember that I've stoleheir love. Surely, they're happier with uhan they could have been without us

Brian's scheme for their visits to thiberated towns is doing good to them ano hundreds—even thousands—of peopl

whom they intend to help.All this is sophistry, no doubt, but oh, it'beguiling sophistry! It's so perfectldisguised that I seldom recognize it excep



at night when I lie awake, and it sits on mbed, without its becoming mask.

Being the Becketts' adviser-in-chief, anhaving his lungs full of ozone every dashould be enough to account for Brian'mprovement. Yet—well, I can't help

hinking that he takes a lot more troublhan he need for Dierdre O'Farrell. Ohnot that he's in love! Such an idea iridiculous, but he's interested and sorr

for the girl, because she goes about with chip on her shoulder, defying the world toknock it off. He won't admit that it's thfault of her outlook on the world, and tha

he poor old world isn't to blame at all.

What if he knew the truth about thabrother and sister? Naturally I can't tel

him, of all people on earth, and they tak



advantage of my handicap. They've useheir time well, in my absence, when the

had Brian to themselves. He had hi

doubts of Julian, but the creature has sunhimself into my blind brother's heartFrom what I hear, the three have spenmost of their time at the piano in th

private salon which the Becketts invitehe O'Farrells to engage.

ow, as I write, we are making ou

headquarters in Compiègne, sleepinhere, and sightseeing by day on what the

call the "Noyon Front."

After Rheims and before Noyon wstopped three days in Paris instead of oneas we'd planned, for Mother Beckett waired. She wouldn't confess it, but "Father

hought she looked pale. Strange if she ha



not, after such experiences and emotionsSometimes, when I study the delicate olface, with blue hollows under kind, swee

eyes, I ask myself: "Will she be able to gehrough the task she's set herself?" But shs so quietly brave, not only in fatigue, bun danger, that I answer my own question

"Yes, she will do it somehow, on thereserve force that kept her up when Jidied."

The road from Paris, past Senlis, tCompiègne, was even more thrilling thahe road to Nancy and beyond, for thi

was the way the Germans took i

September, 1914, when they thought thcapital was theirs to have and hold: "lroute de l'Allemagne" it used to be calledbut never will French lips give it tha



name again.

Just at first, running out of the city in earl

morning, things looked much the same awhen starting for Nancy: the unnaturaquiet of streets once crammed with busraffic for feeding gay Paris; militar

motors of all sorts and sizes, instead omilk wagons and cartloads of colourfufruits; women working instead of menchildren on their way to school, sedatel

alking of " papa au Front ," instead oplaying games. But outside the suburbs threal thrills began.

There were the toy-like fortifications owhich Paris was proud in the 'fifties; therwas the black tangle of barbed wire, anhe trace of trenches (a mere depressio

on the earth's surface, as if a serpent ha



aid its heavy length on a great, greevelvet cushion) with which Paris hahoped to delay the German wave. Only

ittle way on, we shot through the sleepyooking village of Bourget wherapoleon stopped a few hours afte

Waterloo, rather than enter Paris by

daylight; and Brian had a story of thplace. A French soldier, a friend of hinearly everyone he meets is Brian'

friend!) who was born there, told him thaon each anniversary the ghost of the "LittlCorporal" appears, travel-stained anworn, on the road leading to Bourget. Fo

many years his custom was to showhimself for a second to some seeing eyehen vanish like a mirage of the desert. Bu

since 1914 his way is different. He doe

not confine his visit to the hamlet of sa



memories. He walks the country side, hihands behind him, his head bent as of oldor he rides a horse that is slightly lame

nspecting with thoughtful gaze thfrenzied industries of war, war such as h—the war-genius—never saw in hivisions of the future: the immens

aerodromes, the bomb sheds, the wirelesstations and observation towers, the gian"saucisses" resting under green canvasready to rise at dawn; and all the otheastounding features of the landscape speaceful in his day.

Even now parts of it are peaceful, ofte

he very spots marked by history, where iseems as if each tree should be decorateby a Croix de Guerre. For instance, therwas the place—a junction of roads—



where the Uhlans with a glitter of helmetcame proudly galloping toward Paris, ano their blank amazement and rage had t

urn back. As we halted to take in thscene, it was mysterious as dreamland ihe morning mist. Nothing moved save tweams of cream-coloured oxen, thei

moon-white sides dazzling behind a silveveil. The pale road stretched before us sstraight and far that it seemed to descenfrom the sky like a waterfall. Only threes had a martial look, like tall, dar

soldiers drawn up in line for parade.

t was not till we plunged into fores

depths that I said to myself: "We must becoming near Senlis!" For the very nam"Senlis" fills the mind with forespictures. No wonder, since it lies walled



away from the outer world—like thSleeping Beauty—by woods, and woodsand woods: the forests of Hallette

Chantilly, and Ermenonville, each as fulof history as it is now of aromatic scentsand used to be of wild boars for kings tkill!

think the best of the forest pictures haHenri de Navarre for its principal figureBrian and I turned over the pages of ou

memory for the Becketts, who listeneike children to fairy tales—or as wistened when you used to embroide

history for us in those evening causerie

n the dear old "den," Padre.

dug up the story about Henri at twentyone, married more than a year to beautifu

ively Marguerite de Valois, and enduring



azily the despotism of his mother-in-lawThere in the old palace of the Louvre, hoitered the time away, practically

prisoner until the only friend he had witcourage to speak out (Agrippa d'Aubignygave him a lecture. Agrippa lashed himaster with the words "coward" an

"sluggard," letting his faithful servantwork for his interests while he remainehe slave of a "wicked old witch." Th

Béarnais had been biding his tim—"crouching to spring": but that slap ihe face set him on fire. He could nonger wait for the right moment. H

decided to make the first moment the righone. His quick brain mapped out a plan oescape in which the sole flaw was that hmust leave behind his brilliant bride. Wit

eight or ten of his greatest, most loya



gentlemen, he arranged to hunt in the foresof Senlis; and he had shown himself sbiddable, so boyish, that at first eve

Catherine de Medicis did not suspect himt was only when the party had set forthat the plot burst like a bomb, i

Catherine's own boudoir, where she sa

with her favourite son, vile Henri III oFrance.

Fervacques, one of the plotters, ha

stopped in Paris, feigning illness. Thplan had been concocted in his rooms, anhe but waited for Navarre's back to burned to betray him. Marguerite laughe

when she heard (perhaps she was in thsecret), but Catherine said evil words, owhich she knew a great many—especialln Italian. Orders were given for the gate



of Paris to be shut (gates that in those daybarred the road along which we nowmotored), but they were too late. Navarr

and his hunters had passed throughAgrippa d'Aubigny was not among themHis part had been to watch the happeningof the Court, and join Navarre later in hi

own kingdom, but that hope was brokenDisguised as a mignon of Henri III, hslipped out of Paris on a fast horse, torafter the Béarnais and his equerries, ancaught the cavalcade in the forest. "Thoart betrayed!" he cried.

"But not captured!" laughed Navarre.

n haste they substituted a new plot for thold. The young king was to pretengnorance of the betrayal. He installe

himself accordingly in the best lodgings o



Senlis, talking loudly about huntinprospects, arranged to see a performancby travelling actors, and sent such

message back to Catherine and Henri thahey believed Fervacques had foolehem.

By the time they'd waked to the truthavarre had ridden safely out of Senliwith his friends, bound for the kingdom ohe Spanish border. Even then he was

man of big ambitions; so maybe he said thimself, looking back at Senlis: "I shalravel this road again, as king of Franceo enter Paris in triumph." Anyhow, he

was grateful to Senlis for saving him, anstayed there often, as Henri Quatreflirting with pretty ladies, and invitinhem to become abbesses when he tired o



hem.

Lots of things have happened in Senlis

because it's on the road to Paris, and focenturies has been getting into someone'way. Why, if it hadn't been for SenlisWilliam the Conqueror might never hav

conquered! You see, before William'sday, Count Bernard of Senlis (whoboasted himself a forty-second grandsoor something of Charlemagne) quarrelle

with King Louis IV of France. To spitehim, Bernard adopted the baby son oWilliam Longsword, Duke of Normandykilled in battle; for Normandy was

"thorn in the eye" of France. Thanks tBernard's help Normandy gained in richeand importance. By the time William, sonof Robert the Devil and Arlette of Falaise



appeared on the scene, the dukedom was power in the world, and William was ablo dare his great enterprise.

But that was only one incident. Senlis waalready an old, old town, and as mucentitled to call itself a capital of France a

was Paris. Not for nothing had the GalloRomans given it walls twenty feet higand thirteen feet thick! They could nohave builded better had they meant t

attract posterity's attention, and win foheir strong city the admiration of kings

Clovis was the first king who fancied itand settled there. But not a king wh

followed, till after the day of HenrQuatre, failed to live in the castle whicClovis began. Henry V of Englanmarried Bonny Kate in the château



Charles VIII of France and Maximilian oAustria signed a treaty within its wallsFrancis I finished Notre-Dame of Senlis

The Duke of Bedford fought Joan of Arhere, and she was helped by the MaréchaRais, no other than Bluebeard; so "SisteAnne" must have gazed out from som

neighbouring tower for the "cloud of dusn the distance." Somewhere in the vas

encircling forests the Babes in the Woodwere buried by the birds, while thwicked uncle reigned in their father'place at Senlis. In 1814 Prussian, Russianand British soldiers marched through th

own on their tramp to Paris. Cossackand Highlanders were the "strangest sightSenlis had ever seen, though it had seemany; but a hundred years later it was t

see a stranger one yet.



f ever a place looked made for peacehat place is Senlis, on its bright littl

river Nonette—child of the Oise—and i

ts lovely valley. That was what I said awe slowed down on the outskirts: but ahhow the thought of peace broke as wdrove along the "kings' highway"—th

broad Rue de la République! In an instanhe drama of September 2nd—eve of th

Marne battle—sprang to our eyes anknocked at our hearts. We could smell thesmoke, and see the flames, and hear thshots, the cries of grief and rage, the faroff thunder of bridges blown up by th

retreating French army. Suddenly wknew how the people of Senlis hasuffered that day, and—strangely, horribly—how the Germans had felt.



Senlis hadn't realized—wouldn't let itselrealize—even during bombardment, whats fate might be. It had been spared, as a

open town, in 1870; and since thenhrough long, prosperous years of peace comfortable conviction had grown thaonly pleasant things could happen. Why, i

was the place of pleasure, reaping harvest of fame and money from itadventurous past! Tourists came from alhe world over to put up at the Hôtel d

Grand Cerf, once the hunting lodge okings. They came to loiter in narrow olstreets whose very names were echoes o

history; to study the ruins of the Romaarena and the ancient walls; to hunt in thforest, as royal men and ladies had huntewhen stags and wild boar had bee

plentiful as foxes and rabbits; or to moto



from one neighbouring château to anotherSurely even Germans could not doom suca town to destruction. To be sure, some

people did fly when a rabble of refugeefrom Compiègne poured past, hurryinsouth; and others fled from thbombardment when big guns, fired fro

Lucien Bonaparte's old village oChamant, struck the cathedral. But manstayed for duty's sake, or because thebelieved obstinately that to their bit of thle-de-France no tragedy could come.

They didn't know yet that Von Kluck andhis men were drunk with victory, and tha

flaming towns were for the German armbonfires of triumph. They didn't know thahe Kaiser's dinner was ordered in Pari

for a certain date, and that at all cost



Paris must be cowed to a speedy peaceest the dinner be delayed. "Frightfulness

was the word of command, and famou

old Senlis was to serve as a lesson tParis.

But somehow the German master o

Senlis's heart weakened when the cruciamoment came. He was at the Hôtel dGrand Cerf, where a dinner was beinprepared by scared servants for thirt

German officers. The order was about tbe signed when suddenly a curé, smaland pale, but lion-brave, entered the roomHow he got in no one knew! Surprise hel

he general tongue-tied for three secondsand a French curé is capable of muceloquence in three seconds.

He gambled—if a curé may gamble!—o



he chance of his man being Catholic—anhe won. That is why (so they told us in thsame room three years later) Senlis wa

struck with many sore wounds, but noexterminated; that is why only the Mairand a few citizens were murdered insteaof all; that is why in some quarters o

Senlis the people who have come baccan still dream that nothing happened their dear haunt of peace on September 2

1914.

Even if Senlis had fallen utterly, beforhe Germans turned in their tracks, Pari

would not have been "cowed." As it was

Paris and all France were roused to redoubled fury of resistance by the fate ohe Senlis "hostages." So these men di

not die in vain.



The scars of Senlis are still unhealedWhole streets are blackened heaps of ruinand there are things that "make you se

red," as Father Beckett growled. But thhing which left the clearest picture in mbrain was a sight sweet as well as sad: charming little château, ruined by fire, ye

pathetically lovely in martyrdom; thgreen trellis still ornamenting its stainefaçade, a few autumn roses peeping witchildlike curiosity into gaping windoweyes; a silent old gardener raking the onpatch of lawn buried under blackened tileand tumbled bricks. The man's figure wa

bent, yet I felt that there was hope as welas loyalty in his work. "They will comback home some day," was the expressioof that faithful back.



n the exquisite beauty of the forest beyonSenlis there was still—for me—this notof hope. "Where beauty is, sadness canno

dwell for ever!" As we rushed along ihe big car, the delicate gray trunks oclustering trees seemed to whirl round anround before our eyes, as in a votiv

dance of young priestesses. We saw bandof German prisoners toiling gnome-like idim glades, but they didn't make us saagain. Au contraire! We found poeticaustice in the thought that they, the crue

destroyers of trees, must chop wood anpile faggots from dawn to dusk.

So we came to Compiègne, where thFrench army has its headquarters in one ohe most famous châteaux in the world.



CHAPTER XX

t took a mere glance (even if we hadnknown beforehand) to see that noblCompiègne craved no Beckett charity, noAmerican adoption.

True, German officers lived for twelvriotous days in the palace, in 1914selecting for home use many of itreasures, and German "non-coms." fille

vans with rare antiques from the richesmansions; still, they had no time, or elsno inclination, to disfigure the town. Thmost sensational souvenir of those daybefore the Marne battle is a couple o

broken bridges across the Oise and Aisne



blown up by the French in the hour of theiretreat. But that strange sight didn't breaon our eyes as we entered Compiègne. We

seemed to have been transported by whitmagic from mystic forest depths to bplumped down suddenly in a city squaren front of a large, classical palace. It'

only the genie of motoring who caarrange these startling contrasts!

f we took Brian's advice, and "played

hat our autos were old-fashionecoaches; if we looked through, instead oat, the dozen military cars lined up at thpalace gates; if we changed a few detail

of the soldiers' uniforms, the gray châteaneed not have been Army Headquarters iour fancy. For us, the Germans mighcease from troubling and the war-wear



be at rest, while we skipped back to ancentury we fancied.

Of course, Louis XV, son-in-law of ouold friend Stanislas of Lorraine, built thchâteau; and Napoleon the Great added wing in honour of his second bride, Mari

Louise. But why be hampered by detailike that? Charles V built a castle at thiold Roman Compendium, on the very spowhere all those centuries later Louis X

erected his Grecian façades; and Henri oavarre often came there, in his day. On

of Henri's best romances he owed tCompiègne; and while we were havin

what was meant to be a hurried luncheonMother Beckett made Brian tell the storyYou know Brian came to Compiègnebefore the war and painted in the palac



park, where Napoleon I and Napoleon IIused to give their fêtes-champêtres; anhe says that the picture is clear as eve

"behind his eyes."Once upon a time, Henri was staying ihe château, very bored because weathe

had spoiled the hunting. Suddenlappeared the "handsomest young man oPrance," the Duc de Bellegarde, Henri'equerry, who had been away on a

adventure of love. Somehow, he'dcontrived to meet Gabrielle d'Estréesalmost a child, but of dazzling beauty. Shhid him for three days, and then, alas,

reacherous maid threatened to telGabrielle's father. Bellegarde had to bsmuggled out of the family castle—a ropand a high window. The tale amused



bundle of straw on his head, his darincaptured the girl's fancy. She was his; andhe was hers, writing sonnets t

"Charmante Gabrielle," makinMarguerite furious by giving to the newove his wife's own Abbey of St

Corneille, at Compiègne. (One can stil

see its ruins!)

said we meant to eat quickly and go foan afternoon of sightseeing—for early to

morrow (I'm writing late at night) we'rdue at Noyon. But Brian remembered smany bits about Compiègne, that by taciconsent we lingered and listened. When h

was here last, he did a sketch of Henri anGabrielle hunting in the forest; "Gabypearl-fair in green satin, embroiderewith silver; on her head the famous hat o



velvet-like red taffetas, which cost Henrwo hundred crowns. Perhaps she carrien her hand one of the handkerchiefs fo

which she paid what other women pay fodresses; but Brian's sketches are to"impressionist" to show handkerchiefsAnyhow, her hand was in the king's, fo

hat was her way of riding with her grayclad lover; though when she went alonshe rode boldly astride. Poor Henrcouldn't say nay to the becoming greesatin and red hat, though he was hard up ihose days. After paying a bill of Gaby's

he asked his valet how many shirts an

handkerchiefs he had. "A dozen shirtsorn," was the answer. "Handkerchiefsfive."

On the walls of the room where we at



hung beautiful old engravings of Napoleoin his daily life at the Château o

Compiègne. Napoleon receiving honoure

guests in the vast Galerie des Fêtes, witts polished floor and long line ommense windows; Napoleon and hi

bride in the Salon des Dames d'Honneur

among the ladies of Marie Louiseapoleon listening wistfully—thinkin

maybe of lost Joséphine—to a damsel ahe harp, in the Salon de Musique; Mari

Louise smirking against a background oeinture chinoise; Napoleon observing apestry battle of stags in the Salle de

Cerfs; Napoleon on the magnificenerrasse giving a garden party; Napoleowalking with his generals along thAvenue des Beaux Monts, in the park. Bu

hese pictures rather teased than please



us, because in war days only the armenters palace or park.

Brian was luckier than the rest of us! Hhad been through the château and forgottenothing. Best of all he had liked thbedchamber of Marie Antoinette, said to

be haunted by her ghost, in hunting dreswith a large hat and drooping plume. ThEmpress Eugénie, it seemed, had lovehis room, and often entered it alone t

dream of the past. Little could she havguessed then how near she would come tsome such end as that fatal queen, seconn beauty only to herself.

Even if Julian O'Farrell's significanglance hadn't called my attention to hisister, I should have noticed how Dierdr

ost her sulky look in listening to Brian.



"He has something to say to me abouhose two when he gets a chance, and h

wants me to know it now," I thought. But

pretended to be absorbed in stories of thSecond Empire. For we sat on and on ahe table, putting off our visit to th

ancient timbered houses and the monumen

of Jeanne d'Arc, and all the other thingwhich called us away from those hotewindows. It seemed as if the heart oCompiègne, past and present, were hiddeust behind that gray façade of the palac

across the square!

Of course, Jeanne was the "star" heroin

of Compiègne, where she fought sbravely and was taken prisoner, and soldo the English by John of Luxembourg at

very cheap price. But, you know, she i



he heroine of such lots of other places whave seen or will see, that we let hemage fade for us behind the brillian

visions of Compiègne's pleasures.As a rule, old history has the lure oromance in it, and makes modern histor

seem dull in contrast. But such a gorgeounovel could be written about SeconEmpire days of Compiègne (if only therwere a Dumas to write it) that I do thin

his town is an exception.Even "The Queen's Necklace" couldn't bmore exciting than a story of Eugénie, wit

hat "divinest beauty of all ages," thCastiglione, as her rival! I don't knowhow Dumas would begin it, but I woulhave the first scene at a house party o

Louis Napoleon's, in the palace a



Compiègne, after he had revived the olcustom of the Royal Hunt: Napoleonalready falling in love, but hesitating

anxious to see how the Spanish girl woulbear herself among the aristocraticharmers of the Court, whether she coulhold her own as a huntress, as in

ballroom. I'd show her making a sensatioby her horsemanship and beauty. Then I'dake her through the years, till the dazzlin

Florentine came to trouble her peace, thadored, yet disappointed divinity whcried, "If my mother had brought me tFrance instead of marrying me t

Castiglione, an Italian, not a Spaniardwould have shared the throne witapoleon, and there would have been n

Franco-Prussian War!"



What a brilliant background Compiègne ohose days would make for that pair, th

beautiful young Empress and the mor

beautiful Countess!—Compiègne when thpalace was crowded with the flower oEurope, when great princes and bravsoldiers romped through children's game

with lovely ladies, if rain spoiled thhunting; when Highland nobles broughheir pipers, and everyone danced th

wildest reels, if there were time to sparfrom private theatricals and tableauvivants! I think I would make my storend, though, not there, but far away; th

Castiglione lying dead, with youth anbeauty gone, dressed by her last request ia certain gown she had worn on a certainight at Compiègne, never to be forgotten.



When at last we did go out to walk ansee the wonderful timbered houses and thblown-up bridges, what I had expected t

happen did happen: Julian O'Farrelcontrived to separate me from the others.

"Haven't I been clever?" he asked, wit

his smile of a naughty child."So far as I know of you," I answered"you are always clever."

"That's the first compliment you've evepaid me! Thanks all the same, though I'be the opposite of clever if I thought yowanted me to be flattered. You're cleveroo, so of course you know what I mean a

well as I know myself. Perhaps yohought I was being clever on the sly. Bu

'm above that. Haven't I always showe



you my cards, trumps and joker and all?"

"You've shown me how the knave can take

a trick!"He laughed. "History repeating itself! ThQueen of Hearts, you remember—and thKnave of—Spades, wasn't it? I wish iwere diamonds instead: but maybe hispade will dig up a few sparklers in thend. I've got a splendid plan brewing. Bu

hat isn't what I want to talk about jusnow. In fact, I don't want to talk about it—yet! You're not going to admit that you seehe results of my cleverness, or that you'

understand them if you did see. So I'll juswave them under your darling nose."

t would have been absurd to say: "How

dare you call my nose a darling?" so I sai



nothing at all.

"You saw it was a plot, getting Brian to g

o Paris with us," he went on. "I saw thayou saw it. But I wasn't sure and I'm nosure now, if you realized its design, as thvillain of the piece would remark."

"You ought to know what he'd remark."

"I do, dear villainess! I was going to saySister Villainess,' but I wouldn't have youfor a sister at any price. I've cast you for different part. You may have imagined thaDare and I were just grabbing youbrother to spite you, and show what wcould do with him."

"I did imagine that!"

"Wrong! Guess again. Or no—you needn't



We may be interrupted any minute. Tosave time I'll explain my bag of tricksDare wasn't in on that hand of mine."

"Indeed?"

"You don't believe me? That shows you'reno judge of character. Dare adores heJule, and what he wants her to do shdoes; but I told you she was no actressShe can't act much better off the stage tha

on. I wouldn't trust her to create the part ohe White Cat, let alone that of WilVivien. She gets along all right if she caust keep still and sulk and act the Storm

Petrel. I should have pulled her through ohose lines if she'd been obliged to plaJim Beckett's broken-hearted fiancée. Buo do the siren with your brother—no, sh

wouldn't be equal to that, even to pleas



me: couldn't get it across the footlights. had to win her to Brian as well as wiBrian to me. I hope you don't mind m

calling him by his Christian name? Hsays I may."

"Why did you want to win Miss O'Farrel

o my brother?""You don't know? You'll have to go downa place lower in this class! She couldn

make Brian really like her, unless shiked him. At first—though I knew bette—she stuck it out that Brian was only kind of decoy duck for you with th

Becketts——""Oh!"

"Please don't look at me as if you wer



biting a lemon. I didn't think so. And Dardoesn't now."

"How sweet of her!""She's turning sweet. That's partly what was after. I wormed myself into youbrother's affections, to entice him to Paris

wanted Dare to learn that her instincabout him was right; her instinct waalways defending him against what sh

hought was her reason and commosense. Now, she sees that he's genuineand she's secretly letting herself go—admiring him and wondering at him t

make up for her injustice.""Are you telling all this to disarm me?"

"Not exactly. I'm telling you because I wa



sure you'd find out soon what's going onand because I thought an open policy besAs it is, you can't say I haven't played fai

from the word go.""I wish," I cried out, "that the word wago'!"

"You're not very kind, my dear."

"Why should I be kind?"

"Because I'm the stick of your rocket. Youcan't soar without me. And because I lovyou such a lot."

"You!""Yes, I, me, Julian O'Farrell: Giulio d

apoli. Haven't I sacrificed my prospect

and my sister's prospects rather than throw



you to the lions? Didn't I waste thosperfectly good snapshots? Didn't I sit tighprotecting you silently, letting you have al

'd expected to have for myself and Dare?gasped. To speak was beyond my

powers just then.

"I know what you'd like to say," Juliaexplained me to myself. "You'd love tosay: 'The d—d cheek of the man! It's rich

Well, it is rich. And I mean to be rich tmatch. That's in my plan. And so are youn it. Practically you are the plan. To

carry it out calmly, without ructions and

feathers flying, I put your brother and msister in the way of falling in love. Dardidn't want to join the Beckett party andidn't want to stay with it. Now, she doe

want to stay. Brian distrusted me and wa



ntrigued by Dare. Now, he gives me thbenefit of the doubt. And he has no doubtof her—— That's a beautiful timbere

house, isn't it, Mr. Beckett? Yes, I wasust telling Miss O'Malley that this placseems to me the best one we've visiteyet. I shall never forget it, or th

circumstances of seeing it, shall you, MisO'Malley? Don't you think, sir, she mighet me call her 'Mary,' now we all know

each other so well? I'm 'Julian' to hebrother and he's 'Brian' to me."

"I certainly do think she might," saiFather Beckett, with that slow, pleasan

smile which Jim inherited from him.



CHAPTER XXI

t's late at night again—no, early tomorrow morning, just about the hour wheo-morrow's war-bread is being baked bo-night's war-bakers. But it's good to burhe midnight electricity, because my bod

and brain are feeling electric.

We have had the most astonishing day!

Of course, I expected that, because wwere going to Noyon, and I evacuated al

unneeded thoughts and impressions (fonstance, those concerning the O'Farrellso make room for a crowd of new ones, a

we did at the Hôpital des Épidémies wit



convalescents, for an incoming batch opatients. But I didn't count on privatepersonal emotions—unless we blundere

nto an air raid somewhere!You remember those authors we met oncewho write together—the Sandersons—an

how they said if they ever dared put a reancident in a book, people picked out thaone as impossible? Well, this evening juspast reminded me of the Sandersons. We

spent it at the War CorrespondentsChâteau, not far out of Compiègne: that iswe spent it there if it was real , and not dream.

am the only one in Mother Beckett'



confidence—I mean, about her healthEven her husband doesn't know how thirip strains her endurance, physical an

mental. Indeed, he's the very one whmustn't know. It's agreed between us thatf she feels hopelessly unfit for an

excursion, I shall put on invalid airs an

she will stop at home to keep mcompany. Thus will be avoided all dangeof Father Beckett suspecting the weaknesshe hides. But you can imagine, Padreknowing me as you do, how frightened was to-day—our morning for Noyon—lesshe should give the signal. I felt I simpl

couldn't bear to miss Noyon. No uselling myself I shall feel exactly the samabout Soissons to-morrow, and Roye andHam and Chauny and various others th

day after. My reason couldn't detach itsel



at that instant from Noyon.

Our daily programme as now arranged is

Me to knock at Mother Beckett's door halan hour before starting-time. If she'fearing a collapse, she is to exclaim: "Mchild, how pale you are!" or some othe

criticism of my complexion. Then I'm tplay up, replying: "I do feel under thweather." Whereupon it's easy for her tosay: "You must stop in the hotel and rest

'll stay with you."To my joy, the greeting this morning was"My dear, you look fresh as a rose!"

didn't feel it; for you know I wrote late tyou. And at last in bed, I disobeyed youadvice about never worrying: I worrie

quite a lot over Brian and Dierdr



O'Farrell; my having led him into a trapwhen above all things I wanted hihappiness and health. I could well hav

passed as pale: but I was so pleased withe secret signal that I braced up anbloomed again.

We had to start early, because there was agood deal to do in the day; and we wersupposed to return early, too, for a rest, ahere's the great adventure of Soisson

before us to-morrow. The CorrespondentsChâteau wasn't on our list: that was aaccident, though now it seems as if thwhole trip would have been worth whil

f only to lead up to that "accident!"

There were several ways we could havaken to Noyon, but we took the way b

Dives and Lassigny. We shall have



chances for other roads, because, to sevarious places we mean to visit, we shalgo through Noyon again.

Once upon a time, before the Germancame, Dives had a lovely château, part ot very old, with a round turret under a tal

pointed hat; the other part comparativelyoung—as young as the Renaissance—anall built of that pale, rose-pink colouwhich most châteaux of this forestland

and this Île-de-France used to wear ihappy days before they put on smokestained mourning.

ow, instead of its proud château, Divehas a ruin even more lovely, thougnfinitely sad.

As for Lassigny, it was battered to death



yet I think it was glad to die, because thGermans had turned it into a fortress, anhey had to be shelled out by the French

Poor little Lassigny! It must have had whahe French call "une beauté coquette,and the Germans, it seemed, were loth teave. When they found that they must go

and in haste, they boiled with rage. Noonly did they blow up all that was left ihe village, but they blew up the trees ohe surrounding orchards. They had not th

excuse for this that they needed the trees tbar the way of the pursuing French armySuch trees as they felled across the roa

were the big trees of the forest. Theidestruction of the young fruit trees waust a slaughter of innocents; and I'v

never hated war, Padre, as I hated it to

day—above all, German methods o



making war. Even the countless graves ohe battlefields do not look so sad as thos

acres of murdered trees: blown-up trees

chopped-down trees, trees gashed to deatwith axes, trees that strove with all thstrength of Nature to live, putting forteaves and blossoms as their life bloo

emptied from their veins.

The graves of dead soldiers do notsomehow, look utterly sad. Their littl

flags stir triumphantly in the breeze, as iwaved by unseen hands. The caps thamark the mounds seem to be on the headof men invisible, under the earth, standin

at the salute, saying to those who pass"There is no death! Keep up your heartsand follow the example we have set." Thsouls of those who left their bodies o



hese battlefields march on, bearinorches that have lit the courage of th

world, with a light that can never fail. Bu

he poor trees, so dear to France, givinife as a mother gives milk to her child!—hey died to serve no end save cruelty.

The sight of them made me furious, and glared like a basilisk at any Germaprisoners we saw working along the goodnewly made white road. On their gree

rousers were large letters, "P. G." fo"Prisonnier de Guerre"; and I snapped ouas we passed a group, "It needs only an between the P and the G to make i

erfect!"

One man must have heard, and understooEnglish, for he glanced up with a start.

was sorry then, for it was like hitting



fallen enemy. As he had what would haveseemed a good face if he'd been British oFrench, perhaps he was one of those wh

wrote home that the killing of trees iFrance "will be a shame to Germany tilhe end of time."

Only a few days ago Brian learned bheart a poem I read aloud, a poem calle"Les Arbres Coupés," by EdmondRostand. Teaching Brian, I found I had

earned it myself.



Chacun de nos soldats eut son cride souffrance

Devant ces arbres morts qui

jonchaient les terrains:"Les pêchers!" criaient ceux del'Île-de-France;

"Et les mirabelliers!" crièrent les

Lorrains.

Soldats bleus demeures paysanssous vos casques,

Quels poings noueux et noirs versle nord vous tendiez!

"Les cerisiers!" criaient avecfureur les Basques;

Et ceux du Rousillon criaient:"Les amandiers!"

Devant les arbres morts de



l'Aisne ou de la Somme,Chacun se retrouva Breton ou

Limousin.

"Les pommiers!" criaient ceux du pays de la pomme;"Les vignes!" criaient ceux du

pays raisin.

Ainsi vous disiez tous le climatdont vous êtes,

Devant ces arbres morts que vous

consideriez, —Et moi, voyant tomber tant de

jeunes poètes,Hélas, combien de fois j'ai crié:

"Les lauriers!"

love it. Yet I don't quite agree with thebeautiful turning at the end, because th



aurels of the soldier-poets aren't realldead, nor can they ever die. Even some ohe trees which the Boches meant to kil

would not be conquered by Germans odeath. Many of them, cut almost level withe ground, continued to live, spoutineaves close to earth as a fountain spout

water when its jet has been turned lowAll the victims that could be saved havbeen saved by the French, carefullyscientifically bandaged like woundesoldiers: and the Becketts talked eagerlof giving money—much money—tAmerican societies that, with the British

are aiding France to make her fair lanbloom again. Mother Beckett becamquite inventive and excited, planning tstart "instruction farms," with a fund i

honour of Jim. Seeds and slips and tool



and teachers should all be imported froCalifornia. Oh, it would be wonderfulAnd how thankful she and Father were tha

hey had Brian and Molly to help make thplan come true! I shouldn't have liked tcatch Julian O'Farrell's eye just then.

All the way was haunted by the tragedy orees, not only the tragedy of orchards, anof the roadside giants that once hashaded the straight avenues, but th

martyrdom of trees in the great darforests—oaks and elms and beeches. Afirst glance these woods, France's shielagainst her enemies—rose still an

beautiful, like mystic abodes of peaceagainst the pale horizon. But a searchingaze showed how they had suffered. Foevery trio of living trees there seemed t



be one corpse, shattered by bombs, oblasted by evil gas. The sight of thestruck at the heart: yet they were heroes

as well as martyrs, I said to myself. Thehad truly died for France, to save FranceAnd as I thought this, I knew that if I wera poet, beautiful words would come at m

call, to clothe my fancy about the forests.

wanted the right words so much that iwas pain when they wouldn't answer m

wish, for I seemed to hear only a faintfar-off echo of some fine strain of musicwhose real notes I failed to catch.

Always forests have fascinated me; sweetfairy-peopled groves of my native islandand emerald-lit beech woods of EnglandBut I never felt the grand meaning o

forests as I felt them to-day, in thi



ravaged and tortured land. I could havcried out to them: "Oh, you forests oFrance, what a part you've played in th

history of wars! How wise and brave oyou to stand in unbroken line, a ramparprotecting your country's frontiers, throughe ages. Forests, you are bands o

soldiers, in armour of wood, and you, tooike your human brothers, have hearts tha

beat and veins that bleed for France! Youare soldiers, and you are fortresses—

ature's fortresses stronger than almodern inventions. You are fortresses tofight in; you are shelters from air-pirates

you hide cannon; you give shelter to youfighting countrymen from rain and heaYou delay the enemy; you mislead himyou drive him back. When you die

deserted by the birds and all your hidde



furred and feathered children, you givyourselves—give, give to the last! Youwood strengthens the trenches, or burns t

warm the freezing poilus. Brave forestspathetic forests! I hear you defy the enemn your hour of death: "Strike us, kill us

Still you shall never pass!"

We had felt that we knew something of thewar-zone after Lorraine; but there thgreat battles had all been fought in 1914

when the world was young. Here, iseemed as if the earth must still be hofrom the feet of retreating Germans.

The whole landscape was pitted witshell-holes, and spider-webbed witbarbed wire. The three lines of Frencrenches we passed might, from their look

have been manned yesterday. Piled alon



he neat new road were bombs foaviators to drop; queer, fish-shapedhings, and still queerer cages they ha

been in. There were long, low sheds fofodder. At each turn was the warningword, "Convois." The poor houses of sucvillages as continued to exist wer

numbered, for the first time in theihumble lives, because they were needefor military lodgings. Notices in thGerman language were hardly effacefrom walls of half-ruined buildings. Thehad been partly rubbed out, one could seebut the ugly German words survived

strong and black as a stain on one's pasHuge rounds of barbed wire which habeen brought, and never used, werstacked by the roadside, and there wer

ong lines of trench-furniture the enem



had had to abandon in flight, or leave idug-outs: rough tables, chairs, rustcooking-stoves, pots, pans, petrol tins, an

broken dishes: even lamps, torn booksand a few particularly ugly blue vases foflowers. They must have been made iGermany, I knew!

Wattled screens against enemy fire stilprotected the road, and here and there waa "camouflage" canopy for a big gun. Th

roofs of beautiful old farmhouses wercrushed in, as if tons of rock had fallen ohem: and the moss which once ha

decked their ancient tiles with velvet ha

withered, turning a curious rust colourike dried blood. Young trees with theihroats cut were bandaged up with torinen and bagging on which Germa



printed words were dimly legible. Iwould have been a scene of unmitigategrimness, save for last summer'

enterprising grass and flowers, whicautumn, kinder than war, had not killed.

Late roses and early chrysanthemum

grew in the gardens of broken, desertecottages, as if the flowers yearned tcomfort the wounded walls with sofcaresses, innocent as the touch of children

On the burned façades of houses, trellisefruit-trees clung, some dead—mere blacpencillings sketched on brick or plaster—but now and then one was living still, lik

a beautiful young Mazeppa, bound to dead steed.

So we arrived at Noyon, less than tw

hours by car from Compiègne. Th



nearness of it to the heart of France strucme suddenly. I could hear the echo of sadvoices curbing the optimists: "Th

Germans are still at Noyon!"Well—they are not at Noyon nowThey've been gone for many moons. Ye

here's a look on the faces of the people ihe town—a look when they come to thwindows or doors of their houses, owhen they hear a sudden noise in the stree

—which makes those moons seem neveo have waned.

Washington has adopted Noyon, so the

Becketts could not offer any great publicharity, but they could sprinkle about few private good deeds, in remembrancof Jim, who loved the place, as he love

all the Île-de-France. One of Mothe



Beckett's most valued letters from "Jimon-his-travels" (as she always says) ifrom Noyon, and she was so bent o

reading it aloud to us, as we drove slowl—almost reverently—into the town, thashe wouldn't look (I believe she evegrudged our looking!) at the façade of th

far-famed Hôtel de Ville, until she'd como the end of the last page. She seemed think that to look up prematurely would bike wanting to see the stage before th

curtain rose on the play!

loved her for it—we all loved her—anobeyed as far as possible. But on

couldn't shut one's eyes to the Stars anStripes that flapped on the marvellouslornate front of the old building—flappeike the wings of the American Eagle tha



has flown across the Atlantic to help savFrance.

Jim—a son of the Eagle—who gave hiife for this land and for liberty, wouldhave felt proud of that flag, I think, if hcould have seen it to-day: for because sh

s the adopted child of Washington, Noyon"stars" the emblem of her Americamother. She hangs out no other flag—noeven that of France—on the Hôtel d

Ville. Maybe she'll give her own coloura place there later, but at this moment thStar Spangled Banner floats alone in itglory.

o nice, normal-minded person coulremember, or morbidly want to rememberhe name unkindly given by Julius Cæsa

o Noyon, when he had besieged it. I ca



magine even Charlemagne waving thacumbrous label impatiently aside, thoug

oyon mixed with Laon was his firs

capital. "Noviodunum Belgarum it mahave been" (I dare say he said). "But I'mgoing to call it Noyon!"

He was crowned king of Austria in Noyocathedral—an even older one than thcathedral of to-day, which the Germanhave generously omitted to destroy

merely stealing all its treasures! But I feesure he doesn't feel Austrian in these daysf he is looking down over the "Blesse

Damosel's" shoulder, to see what's goin

on here below. He belonged really to thwhole world. Why, didn't that fairy-storking, Haroun al Raschid, send him froBagdad the "keys of the tomb of Christ,



as Chief of the Christian World? They sayhis ghost haunts Noyon, and was alwayhere whenever a king was crowned, o

elected—as Hugh Capet was. Perhaps imay have been Charlemagne in the spiriwho persuaded the Germans to their grearetreat from the Noyon front this las

spring of 1917!"

Coming into the Place, and stopping ifront of the Hôtel de Ville, gave me th

oddest sense of unreality, because, whewe were in Paris the other day, I saw thscene in a moving picture: the first joyfuentry of the French soldiers into the town

when the Germans had cleared out. I coulhardly believe that I wasn't just a figurflickering across a screen, and that thfilm wouldn't hurry me along somewher



else, whether I wanted to go or not.

There were the venerable houses with th

steep slate roofs, and singularlntelligent-looking windows, whose brighpanes seemed to twinkle with knowledgof what they had seen during thes

dreadful eighteen months of Germaoccupation. There were the oddunfinished towers of the crucifor cathedral—quaint towers, topped wit

wood and pointed spirelets—soaring inthe sky above the gray colony of clustere

roofs. There was the cobbled pavementglittering like masses of broken glass

after a shower of rain just past; and evemore interesting than any of these was thfantastically carved façade of the Hôtel dVille, which has lured thousands o



ourists to Noyon in days of peace. Whknows but they have been coming evesince 1532, when it was finished?

At first sight, we should never havguessed what Noyon had suffered from thGermans. It was only after wanderin

hrough the splendid old cathedral ootre-Dame, stripped of everything wortstealing, and going from street to streewe paused a long time in the one wher

Calvin was born, a disagreeable, but suppose useful, man!) that we began trealize the slow torture inflicted by thGermans. Of course, "lessons" had to b

aught. Rebellious persons had to b"punished." Nothing but justice had beedone upon the unjust by their jusconquerors. And oh, how thorough and



painstaking they were in its execution!

As they'd destroyed all surrounding citie

and villages, they had to put th"evacuated" inhabitants somewhere (thoshey couldn't use as slaves to work i

Germany), so they herded the people b

he thousand into Noyon. That place had tbe spared for the Germans themselves tive in, being bigger and mor

comfortable than others in th

neighbourhood; so it was well to have amany of the conquered as possiblnterned under their own sharp eyesoyon was "home" to six thousand soul

before the war. After the Germanmarched in, it had to hold ten thousandBut a little more room in the houses wahriftily obtained by annexing all th



furniture, even beds. Tables and chairhey took, too, and stoves, and cookin

utensils, which left the house

conveniently empty, to be shared bfamilies from Roye, and Nesle, and Hamand Chauny—oh, so many other towns anhamlets, that one loses count in trying t

remember!

How the people lived, they hardly knownow, in looking back, some of them told

us, as we walked about with a Frencofficer who was our guide. Eighteemonths of it! Summer wasn't quite so badOne can always bear hardships whe

weather, at least, is kind. But the winterst is those winters that scarcely beahinking of, even now.

o lights were allowed after dark. Al



doors must be left open, for the Germamilitary police to walk in at any hour ohe night, to see what mischief wa

brewing in the happy families cageogether. There was no heating, and ofteno fire for cooking, consequently sucfood as there was had to be eaten cold. N

nose must be shown out of doors unleswith a special permit, so to speakdisplayed on the end of it. Not that therwas much incentive to go out, as albusiness was stopped, and all shopclosed. Without "le Comité Américain,housands would have starved, so it wa

ucky for Noyon that the United States waneutral then!

We spent hours seeing things, and talkingo people—old people, and children, an



soldiers—each one with a new side of thgreat story to tell, as if each had beeweaving a few inches of some wonderfu

historic piece of tapestry, small in itselfbut essential to the pattern. Then wstarted for home—I mean Compiègne—ba different way; the way of Carlepon

named after Charlemagne, because it isupposed that he was born there.

The forest was even more lovable tha

before, a younger forest: fairy-like ibeauty as a rainbow, in its splashed goldand red, and green and violet and orangof autumn. The violet was "atmosphere,

but it was as much a part of the forest ahe leaves, or the delicate trunks dim a

ghosts in shadow, bright as organ-pipewhere sun touched them. Out from th



depths came sweet, mysterious breathsand whispers like prophecies of peaceBut to this region of romance there wer

sharp contrasts. Not even dreams havsharper ones! German trenches, choppento blackened wastes that once wer

farmlands, and barbed wire wriggling lik

snake-skeletons across dreary fields.

We got out of our cars, and went into therenches, thinking thoughts unspeakable

Long ago as the Germans had vanishedand every corner had been searched, ouofficer warned us not to pick up"souvenirs." Some infernal machine migh

have been missed in the search annothing was to be trusted—no, not even bit of innocent-looking lead pencil.

They were trenches made to live in, these



They had been walled with stones froruined farmhouses. The "dug-outs" wersuper-dug-outs. We saw concealed

cupolas for machine-guns, and "leofficiers boches" had had a neat system odouches.

There was no need to worry that Briamight stumble or fall in the slipperabyrinths we travelled, for he ha

Dierdre O'Farrell as guide. I'm afraid

knew what it was to be jealous: and thinew gnawing pain is perhaps meant to bone of my punishments. Of course it's nmore than I deserve. But that Brian shoul

be chosen as the instrument, alunknowingly, and happily—that hurts!

t was just as we were close t

Compiègne, not twenty minutes (in moto



alk) outside the town, that the "accidenthappened.



me, deserted the cars. Brian was witDierdre. He had no need of his sister; so was free to stop with the little old lady

who whispered in my ear that she waired.

Father Beckett and Julian watched More

giving him a word or a hand now and thenDierdre and Brian sauntered away, deepn argument over Irish politics (it's como that between them: and Dierdre actuall

istens to Brian!). Mother Beckett driftento talk of Jim, as she loves to do wit

me, and I wandered, hand in hand wither, back into his childhood. Blue dus

was falling like a rain of dead violets—ust that peculiar, faded blue; and as I wa

absorbed in the tale of a nursery fire (Jimat six, playing the hero) I had no eyes fo



scenery. I was but vaguely aware that nofar off loomed a gateway, adorned with figure of the Virgin. A curving avenue led

o shadowy, neglected lawns, dimlsuggesting some faded romance of history

Presently, from between the open gate

came a man in khaki, accompanied by all, slim, and graceful dog. It was he, nohe man, that caught my eye and for anstant snatched my thought from Littl

Boy Jim rescuing a rocking-horse at thrisk of his life. He was a police dog withe dignity of a prince and the lightness o

a plume.

"Lovely creature!" I said to myself, as hand the khaki man swung toward us dowhe road. And I wished that Brian could

see him, for the dog Brian loved and los



at the Front was a Belgian police dog.

Perhaps, Padre, Brian wrote you about hi

wonderful pet, that he thought worthy tname after the dog-star Sirius. I'vforgotten to ask if he did write; but seldom had a letter from him from th

renches that didn't mention SiriusEveryone seemed to adore the dog, whicdeveloped into a regimental mascot. Whahis early history was can never be known

but Brian rescued him from a burninchâteau in Belgium, just as Jim rescuehe rocking-horse of Mother Beckett'

nursery story, though with rather mor

risk! It was a château where some hidderagedy must have been enacted, becaushe Germans took possession of it with th

family still there—such of the family a



wasn't fighting: two young marriewomen, sisters, wives of brothers. Buwhen the Germans ran before the British

and fired the château as they went, not creature living or dead was left in thhouse—except the dog—and nothing haever been heard of the sisters.

The fire was raging so fiercely wheBrian's regiment arrived that no onwould have ventured into the house if

dog hadn't been heard to howl. You knowhow Brian loves dogs. When he found thahe sound came from a certain room on th

ground floor, he determined to get i

somehow. Masses of ivy cloaked that sidof the château. It was beginning to cracklwith fire that flamed out from othewindows, but Brian climbed the thick



rope-like stems, hundreds of years oldand smashed his way through the windowThe room was filling with smoke. Th

dog's voice was choked. Brian's eyestreamed, but he wouldn't give up. Only bcrawling along the floor under the smokcurtain could he get at the dog. Somebod

had meant to murder the animal, for he habeen chained to the leg of a table.

Brian wrote that the dog realized hi

danger, and was grateful as a human beino his rescuer. His worship of Brian wa

pathetic. He seemed to care for no onelse, though he was too fine a gentlema

not to be polite to all—all, that is, excepGermans. They never dared let him looswhen prisoners were about. The sight of gray-green uniform was to that dog what



red rag is to a bull. For him some horrowas associated with it—a horror whicmust remain a mystery for us.

The day Brian lost his eyesight he losSirius. When he came back tconsciousness, only to learn that he wa

blind, his first thought was of his friendo one knew what had happened to thdog. The chances seemed to be that thshell which had buried Brian had burie

Sirius, too; but Brian wouldn't believhis. Somehow the dog would hav

contrived to escape. I had to promise thatwhenever I happened to see a dark gray

almost black Belgian police dog obeautiful shape, I would call "Sirius" tsee if he answered.

More than once since this trip began I'v



called "Sirius!" to police dogs, noknowing whether they were BelgianGerman, or Dutch, and they hav

answered only with glances of superscorn. This time I hesitated. The mentapicture I saw of myself—a vague younwoman, seated in an automobile strande

by the roadside, trying to lure away thdog of a strange man—was disconcertingWhile I debated whether to break mpromise or behave like a wild school girlhe animal paused in his listless trot. H

stopped, as if he'd been struck by aunseen bullet, quivered all over, and sho

past us like a torpedo. A minute later heard a tumultuous barking—a barking af the gates of a dog's heaven had suddenl

opened.



sprang up in the car, and turning roundknelt on the seat to see what was going obehind us. Far away were Brian an

Dierdre. And oh, Padre, I can nevedislike that girl again! I apologize foeverything I ever said against her. Shsaw that great police dog making for blin

Brian. And you know, a police dog canook formidable as a panther. She took noime to think, though the idea might hav

sprung to her mind that the creature wamad. She simply threw herself in front oBrian. It was an offer of her life for his.

could do nothing, of course. I was too fa

off. I'm not a screaming girl, but I'm afraidid give a shriek, for Mother Becke

started up, and cried out: "What's thmatter?"



didn't answer her. I hardly heard. I forgoeveryone except Brian and that girl. It waonly when the thing was over, and w

were all talking at once, that I realizehow the others had shared my fright.

Perhaps Brian recognized the dog's bark a

a distance, for he says a dog's voice individual as a man's. Or his instinct—made magically keen by his blindness—old him in a flash of inspiration what hi

eyes couldn't see. Anyhow, he knew thaDierdre was in danger, and almost flunher behind him. He was just in time tsave her from being thrown down by th

dog, who hurled himself like a younavalanche at Brian. To those who had noclue to the truth, it must have seemed thahe animal was mad. Julian, and Fathe



Beckett, and the khaki man rushed to threscue, only to see the dog and Brian ieach other's arms, the creature lickin

Brian's face, laughing and crying at thsame time—which you know, Padre, dog frantic with joy at sight of a long-losmaster can do perfectly well! It seems to

melodramatic to be true, but it is true: thdog was Sirius.

You'll think now that this is the

"astonishing thing" which would—I sai—have made this whole trip worth whileBut no: the thing I meant has little onothing to do with the finding of Sirius.

Even Mother Beckett could sit still nonger. She had to be helped out of the ca

by me to join the group round Brian an

he dog. She took my arm, and I matche



my steps to her tiny trot, though I pined tsprint! We met Father Beckett comingback with apologies for his one minute o

forgetfulness. The first time in years, should think, that he had forgotten his wiffor sixty whole seconds!

"It's like something in a story or a play,he panted, out of breath. "This is Brian'ost dog. You've heard him talk of Sirius

my dear. There can be no doubt it's th

same animal! The man who thought he wats master admits that. And guess who hs—the man, not the dog."

Mother Beckett reminded her husband thanever had she succeeded in a guess. Bushe was saved trying by the arrival of thman in khaki who, having abandoned hi

dog—or being abandoned by it—ha



followed Mr. Beckett.

"Why, Jack Curtis!" gasped the little ol

ady. "It can't be you!""I guess it's nobody else," laughed soldierly fellow, with the blackest eyeand whitest teeth imaginable. "I'm doinhe war for the New York Record —

staying here at the château of Royaliewith the British correspondents for th

French front."longed to get to Brian and be introduce

o Sirius, but Mother Beckett caught marm. "Mary, dear," she cooed, "I'd likeyou and Mr. Curtis to meet. Jack, this iMiss O'Malley, who would have been ouJim's wife if he'd lived. And Mary, this i

one of Jim's classmates at college; a ver



good friend."

The khaki young man (American khaki

held out his hand and I put mine into it. Hstared at me—a pleasant, sympathetic, annot unadmiring stare—peerinnearsightedly through the twilight.

"So Jim found you again, after all?" hasked, in a quiet, low voice, not utterlunlike Jim's own. Men of the sam

university do speak alike all over thworld.

"I—don't quite understand," I stammeredWhen any sudden question about Jim iflung at me before his parents, I'm alwaya little scared!

"Jim and I had a bet," Mr. Curti



rand chien policier , late "Sherlock."

Matching the new history on to the earl

mystery was like fitting in the lost bits of igsaw puzzle—bits which, when missingeft the picture void. Between Brian anhe war correspondent the pattern came t

ife: but there's one piece in the middlwhich can never be restored. Only onperson could supply that: a Germaofficer, and he is no longer in this world.

Jack Curtis found the police dog, badlwounded, at a place near Paschendaelewhere the Germans had temporar

headquarters and had been driven out aftea fierce struggle. One of the dog's legwas broken, and blood had dried on higlossy coat, but he "registered delight" (a

moving picture people say) when h



imped out of a half-ruined house twelcome the rush of British khaki. Thfew inhabitants who had lived in th

village through the German occupationknew the dog as "Siegfried," to whicname he had obstinately refused tanswer. His German master, a captain

whom he obeyed sullenly, always draggedhim about in leash, as he never willinglkept at heel. Everyone wondered why thofficer, who was far from lenient with himen, showed patience with the dog. Buhis orderly explained that Captain voBusche had picked up the starving anima

weeks before, wandering about No Man'Land. The creature was valuable, and hidislike of the gray-green uniform hapuzzled Von Busche. His failure to win

he dog's affection piqued him, and in hi



blundering way he persevered. Thpeople of the village were morsuccessful. They made friends wit

"Siegfried," to Von Busche's annoyanceand a day or two before the hurrieGerman retreat under bombardment, thdog was beaten for deserting his master t

follow a little boy. The boy, too, wapunished for his "impudence" in callinhe dog. People were indignant, and ther

were secret murmurings about revenge.

That night, however, Fate took the matten hand. Precisely what happened is th

bit that must remain missing in the puzzle

The dog slept in the room with his mastern a house where several young officerived close to headquarters. All of the

had been out playing cards at a tavern



Von Busche returned earlier than the restHe was seen in the street the worse fodrink. He went into the house, and mus

have gone to his room, where the policdog had been shut up for hours idisgrace. A moment later there was a yellhen a gurgling shriek. The neighbour

istened—and shrugged their shouldersThe parents of the child who had beebeaten by Von Busche lived next doorThey heard sounds of a scuffle; furniturfalling; faint groans and deep growls. Lipdared not speak, but eyes met and said"The dog's done what we couldn't do."

Silence had fallen long before VonBusche's fellow officers came home; sucsilence as that town knew, wherbombardment ceased not by day or nigh



Before dawn, a bomb fell on the roof ohe house, which till then had never beeouched, and the officers all scuttled out t

save themselves; all but Von BuscheWhether in the confusion he was forgottenor whether it was thought he had not comhome, no one could tell. He was not see

again till after the Germans had packed un haste and decamped, which they did

few hours later, leaving the townsfolk toshelter in cellars. It was only when thBritish arrived, and Siegfried limped oufrom the battered house, that the dog'existence was recalled—and the sounds i

he night. Then the house was searchedand Von Busche's body found, half buriedunder fallen tiles and plaster. There werwounds in his throat, however, not to b

accounted for by the accident. The dog'



broken leg was also a mystery. "I had thpoor boy mended up by a jolly goosurgeon," Jack Curtis finished his story

"He's as sound as ever now. He attachedhimself to me from the first, as if he knewhe had to thank me for his cure, but hwasn't enthusiastic. I couldn't flatte

myself that I was loved! I had the idea wasn't what he wanted—that he'd like tell me what he did want, and politely bi

me good-bye forever."

"You don't know where Von Busche gohold of the dog, do you?" Brian asked.

"Only what his orderly told people, that iwas in Flanders, close to some ruinedburnt-up château that he could hardly bforced to leave, though he was starving."



"I thought he'd get back there!" Brian said"As for Von Busche—I wonder—but nof it had been he the first time, would th

dog have waited all those weeks for hirevenge?"

"I don't understand," said the wa

correspondent."I don't myself," answered Brian. "Bumaybe the dog will manage to make me

some day. I was thinking—how I foundhim, tied to a table in a burning room. IVon Busche—— But anyhow, Siriusyou're no assassin! At worst, you're an

avenger."The dog leaped upon Brian at sound of thremembered name. Odd that three of hi

names, chosen by different men, shoul



ever was a dinner so good, it seemedand never was talk so absorbing. Some ot concerned an arch of honour or a statu

o be placed over the spot where the firsmen of the American army fell in Franceat Bethelmont; some concerned a roawhose construction is being planned—

sacred road through Belgium and Francefrom the North Sea to Alsace; a road toead pilgrims past villages and town

destroyed by Germany. This, according tohe correspondents who were full of thdea, doesn't mean that the devastatiosn't ultimately to be repaired. Th

proposal is, to leave in each martyreplace a memorial for the eyes of comingenerations: a ruined church; a burnechâteau; the skeleton of an hôtel de ville

or a wrecked factory; a mute appeal to al



he world: "This was war, as the Germanmade it. In the midst of peaceRemember!"

Beneath my interest in the talk ran aundercurrent of my own private thoughwhich was not of the future, but of th

past. I'd begun to wonder why I had beeafraid of Jack Curtis. Instead of dreadinwords with him alone, I wished for thenow.

After dinner I had but a few minutes twait. When I'd refused coffee, he, toorefused, and made an excuse to show me

room of which the correspondents werfond—a room full of old trophies of thforest hunt.

"Did you notice at dinner how I kept tryin



o get a good look at your left hand?Curtis asked.

"No," I answered, "I didn't notice that.""I'm glad. I was scared you'd think mcheeky. Yet I couldn't resist. I wanted tosee whether Jim had given you the ring."

"The ring?" I echoed.

"The ring of our bet, the year before th

war: the bet you knew about, that kept yowo apart till Jim came over to France thisecond time."

"Yes—I knew about the bet," I said, "bunot the ring. I—I haven't an engagemenring."

"Queer!" Jack Curtis puzzled out aloud. "I



was a race between Jim and me whicshould get that ring at an antique shopwhen we both heard of its history. H

could afford to bid higher, so he securedt. Not that he was selfish! But he said hwanted the ring in case he met his ideaand got engaged to her. If he'd lost the be

he ring would have been mine. If he didngive it to you, I wonder what's become ohe thing? Perhaps his mother knows. Di

she ever speak to you about Jim bringinhome a quaint old ring from France, thaime after his fever—a ring supposed t

have belonged to the most beautifu

woman of her day, the Italian CountesCastiglione, whom Louis Napoleooved?"

"No," I said. "He can't have given the rin



o his mother, or she would have told mabout it, I'm sure. She's always talking ohim."

"Perhaps it was stolen or lost," Curtireflected. "Yet I don't feel as if that hadhappened, somehow! I trust my feelings

good deal—especially since this warhat's made us all a bit psychic—donyou?"

"I have too many feelings to trust half ohem!" I tried to laugh.

"Have you ever had one, I wonder, likmine, about Jim? Dare I speak to you ohis?"

"Why not?"

"Well—I wouldn't dare to his mother. O



even to the old man."

"You must speak now, please, Mr. Curtis

o me!""It's this; have you ever had the feelinhat Jim may be alive?"

We were standing. I caught at the back oa chair. Things whirled for an instantThen I gathered my wits together. "haven't let myself feel it," I said. "And yetn a way, I always feel it. I mean, I seeo feel—his thoughts round us. But that'

because we speak and think of him almosevery moment of the day, his father andmother and I. There can be no doubt—cahere?"

"Others have come back from the dea



since this war. Why not Jim Beckett?"

"They said they had—found his body."

"Oh, they said ! Germans say a lot ohings. But for the Lord's sake, Mis

O'Malley, don't let's upset those poor oldpeople with any such hope. I've only mfeeling—and other people's stories oescape—to go upon. I spoke to youbecause I guess you've got a strong soul

and can stand shocks. Besides, you tolme I must speak. I had to obey."

"Thank you for obeying," I said. And jushen someone came into the room.



ow, Padre, I have told you the greahing . What does it matter what happeno me, if only Jack Curtis's "feeling

comes true?



CHAPTER XXIII

t is two days since I wrote, Padre; and have come back to Compiègne from world of unnatural silence and desolationDay before yesterday it was Roye an

esle; the Château of Ham; Jussy, Chaunand Prince Eitel Friedrich's pavilion. To

morrow we hope to start for Soissons.Yesterday we rested, because MotheBeckett had a shocking headache. (Oh, iwas pathetic and funny, too, what she saidwhen we slipped back into Compiègne anight! "Isn't it a comfort, Molly, to see place again where there are whol

houses?") After Soissons we shall retur



o Compiègne and then go to Amiens witseveral of the war correspondents, whhave their own car. Women aren'

allowed, as a rule, to see anything of thBritish front, but it's just possible thaFather Beckett can get permission for hiwife to venture within gazing distance. O

course, she can't—or thinks she can't—stiwithout me!

We took still another road to Noyon (one

must pass through Noyon going toward thfront, if one keeps Compiègne for one'headquarters) and the slaughter of treewas the wickedest we'd seen: a lon

avenue of kind giants murdered, anorchards on both sides of it. The Germanst seems, had circular saws, worked b

motors, on purpose to destroy the larg



rees in a hurry. They didn't protect theiretreat by barring the road with the fellerunks. They left most of the martyr

standing, their trunks so nearly sawehrough that a wind would have blowhem down. The pursuing armies had t

finish the destruction to protec

hemselves. Farms were exterminated alalong the way; and little hamlets—nameless for us—were heaps oblackened brick and stone, mercifullstrewn with flowers like old altars to aunforgotten god.

Roye was the first big place on our road

t used to be rich, and its 4,000 inhabitantraded in grain and sugar. How the ver

name brought back our last spring joy ireading news of the recapture! "Importan



Victory. Roye Retaken." It was grandlympressive in ruin, especially the ol

church of St. Pierre, whose immense

graceful windows used to be jewellewith ancient glass that people came frofar away to see.

Jim had written his mother about thaglass, consequently she would get out ohe car to climb (with my help and he

husband's) over a pile of fallen stones lik

a petrified cataract, which leads painfullup to the desecrated and pillaged higaltar. I nearly sprained my ankle in gettino one of the windows, under which m

eyes had caught the glint of a smalsparkling thing: but I had my reward, fohe sparkling thing was a lovely bit o

sapphire-blue glass from the robe of som



saint, and the little lady was grateful fohe gift as if it had been a real jewel—ndeed, more grateful. "I'll keep it with m

souvenirs of Jim," she said, "for his eyehave looked on it: and it's just the colouof yours which he loved. He'd be pleasehat you found it for me." (Ah, if she knew

can't help praying that she never maknow, though such prayers from me aralmost sacrilege.)

A little farther on—as the motor, not thecrow, flies—we came to Nesle, or whaonce was Nesle. The ghost of the twelfthcentury church looms in skeleton for

above one more Pompeii among the manforced by the Germans upon France: busave for that towering relic of the pashere's little left of this brave town of th



Somme, which was historic before thhirteenth century. It gave its name to

famous fighting family of feudal days: an

hrough the last heiress of the line—beauty and a "catch"—a certain Seigneude Nesle became Regent of France, in thsecond Crusade of Louis XII—"Sain

Louis." Later ladies of the line becamdear friends of another Louis, fifteenth ohe name, who was never called saint. No

far from Nesle, Henry V of Englancrossed the Somme and won the Battle oAgincourt. But now, the greatest dramatinterest is concentrated in the cemetery!

We had heard of it at Compiègne and thewild things that had happened there: safter a look at the ruined church, and thonce charming Place, we went straight t



he town burial-place, and our unofficiaguide was the oldest man I ever saw. Hhad lurked rather than lived, throug

months of German barbarity at Nesleguarding a bag of money he'd hiddeunderground. An officer from Noyon wawith us; but he had knowledge of th

ancient man—a great character—and badhim tell us the tale of the graveyard. Hobeyed with unction and with gestures likightning as it flashes across a night sky

The looks his old eyes darted forth as halked might have struck a live Germa

dead.

"The animals! What do you think they diwhen they were masters here?" he snarled"Ah, you do not know the Boches as wearned to know them, so you would neve



guess. They opened our tombs, the vaultof distinguished families of France. Thebroke the coffins and stole the rings fro

skeleton fingers. They left the bones of ouancestors, and of our friends whose livinfaces we could remember, scattered ovehe ground, as if to feed the dogs. In ou

empty coffins they placed their own deadOn the stone or marble of monuments thecut away the names of those whose sacresleep they had disturbed. Instead, thenscribed the disgusting names of thei

Boche generals and colonels. Where thecould not change the inscriptions the

destroyed the tombstones and set upothers. You will see them now. But wai—you have not heard all yet. Far frohat! When the Tommies came to Nesle—

your English Tommies—they did not like



what the Boches had done to oucemetery. They said things—strong thingsAnd while they were hot with anger the

knocked the hideous new monumentabout. They could not bear to see themark the stolen graves. The little crossehat showed where simple soldiers lay

hose they did not touch. It was only thofficers' tombs they spoiled. I will showyou what they did."

We let him hobble ahead of us into thegraveyard. He led us past the long rows oow wooden crosses with German name

on them, the crosses with British names—

good, sturdy British names: "Hardy,"Kemp," "Logan," "Wilding," plantedamong flowers of France)—and paused ihe aristocratic corner of the city of th



dead. Once, this had been the last earthlresting-place of old French families, or ohe rich whose relatives could affor

expensive monuments. But the war hachanged all that. German names hareplaced the ancient French ones on thvaults, as German corpses had replace

French bodies in the coffins. Stone anmarble monuments had been recarved, onew ones raised. There were roughly cufigures of German colonels and majorand captains. This rearrangement wawhat the "Tommies" had "not liked." Theyiked it so little that they chopped off ston

noses and faces; they threw red inkbrighter than blood, over carved Germauniforms, and neatly chipped away thcounterfeit presentment of iron crosses. I

some cases, also, they purified the vault



of German bones and gave back iexchange such French ones as they founscattered. They wrote in large letters o

ombstones, " Boch no bon," and othelliterate comments unflattering to the deausurpers; all of which, our old maexplained, mightily endeared the Atkinse

o the returning inhabitants of Nesle.

"Those brave Tommies are gone now," hesighed, "but they left their dead in ou

care. You see those flowers on theigraves? It is we who put them there, anhe children tend them every day. If you

come back next year, it will be the same

We shall not forget."

"A great statesman paid us a visit not lonafter Nesle was liberated," our office

guide took up the story. "He had heard



what the Tommies did, and he was noquite sure if they were justified. 'After alGerman or not German, a tomb is a tomb

and the dead are dead,' he argued. Buwhen he saw the cemetery of anotheplace not far away, where the bodies oFrenchmen—yes, and women and littl

babies!—still lay where Germans hahrown them in stealing their graves, th

grand old man's blood rushed to his headHe was no longer uncertain if thTommies were right. He was certain theyhad done well; and in his red rage he, withis own hands, tore down thirty of th

ying tombstones."Oh, the silence of these dead towns thahe Germans have killed with bombs an

burning! You know what it is like, Padre



because you have passed behind the veiand have knowledge beyond oudreaming: but to me it is a trist

révélation. I never realized before whahe words "dead silence" could mean. It ia silence you hear . It cries out as thoudest voice could not cry. It makes yo

isten—listen for the pleasant, homelsounds you've always associated withuman habitations: the laughter of girlshe shouts of schoolboys, the friendl

barking of dogs. But you listen in vainYou wonder if you are deaf—if othepeople are hearing what you cannot hear

and then you see on each face the samblank, listening look that must be on youown. I think a night at Chauny, or Jussymight drive a weak woman mad. But—

haven't come to Chauny or Jussy yet! Afte



esle we arrived at Ham, with its canaand its green, surrounding marshes.

Ham has ceased to be silent. There arsome houses left, and to those housepeople have come back. Shops havreopened, as at Noyon, where the Frenc

Government has advanced money to thbusiness men. We drove into the town oHam (what is left of it!) just as we werhating ourselves for being hungry. It i

sordid and dreadful to be hungry in thmidst of one's rage and grief and pity—twant to eat in a place like Ham, wherone should wish to absorb nothing bu

history; yet our officer guide, who hahelped make a good deal of history sinc1914, seemed to think lunching quite amportant as sightseeing. In a somewha



battered square, busy with reopeninshops (some of them most quaint shopswith false hair as a favourite display!

was a hotel. The Germans had lived in ifor months. They had bullied the very oldvery vital landlady who welcomed usTheir boots had worn holes in the stai

carpet, going up and down in a goosestep. Their elbows had polished the lonable in the dining room, and—oh, horror

—their mouths had drunk beer froglasses in which the good wine of Francwas offered to us!

"Ah, but I have scrubbed the goblets sinc

with a fortune's worth of soda," thwoman volubly explained. "They arpurified. If I could wash away as easilhe memories behind my eyes and in m



ears! Of them I cannot get rid. Whenever see an automobile, yes, even the mosnnocent automobile, I live again through

certain scene! We had here at Ham annvalid woman, whose husband thBoches took out and shot. When she hearhe news, she threw herself under one o

heir military cars and was killed. If young girl passes my windows (alas, it iseldom! the Germans know why) I seonce more a procession of girls lined uo send into slavery. God knows wherhey are now, those children! All we knows, that in this country there is not a gir

eft of an age between twelve and twentyunless she was hidden or disguised whehe Boches took their toll. If I hear a soun

of bells, I see our people being herde

nto church—our old, old church, with it



proud monuments!—so their houses mighbe burned before the Germans had to runThey stayed in the church for days an

nights, waiting for the château to be blowup. What a suspense! No one knew if thgreat shock, when it came, might not kileveryone!"

As she exploded reminiscences, the olady fed us with ham and omelette salte

with tears. We had to eat, or hurt he

feelings, but it was as if we swallowehe poor creature's emotion with our food

and the effect within was dynamic. I nevehad such a volcanic meal! Our Frenc

officer was the only calm one among usbut—he had been stationed in thiiberated region for months. It's an ol

story for him.



After luncheon we staggered away to sehe great sight of Ham, the fortress-châtea

which has given it history and fame fo

centuries. The Germans blew up thcitadel out of sheer spite, as the vast pinpile long ago ceased to be of militarvalue. They wished to show their powe

by ruining the future of the town, whicived on its monument historique: but (a

often happens with their "frightfulness"hat object was just the one they failed incan't believe that the castle of Ham wa

as striking in its untouched magnificencas now in the rose-red splendour of it

ruin!To be sure, the guardians can never againshow precisely where Joan of Arc wamprisoned, or the rooms where Loui



apoleon lived through his six years ocaptivity, or the little garden he used tocultivate, or the way he passed to escap

over the drawbridge, dressed as a masonwith a plank on his shoulder. But thglorious old tower or donjon still standsone hundred feet high and one hundred fee

wide. German gunpowder was too weao bring it down, and so perhaps th

prophecy of the Comte de St. Pol, buildeof the fortress, may be fulfilled—thawhile France stands, the tower of Ham'citadel will stand. Thousands morpilgrims will come in a year, after th

war, to see what the Germans did andwhat they failed to do, than ever came ihe mild, prosperous days before 1914

when Ham's best history was old. The

will come and gaze at the massive bulk—



red always as if reflecting sunset light—ooming against the blue; they will pee

down into dusky dungeons underground

and the new guardian (a mutilated soldiehe'll be, perhaps, decorated with the croide guerre) will tell them about the girl oHam who lured a German officer to

death-trap in a secret oubliette, "whertis said his body lies to-day." Then thewill stand under the celebrated old tree ihe courtyard, unhurt by the explosion, anake photographs of the château th

Germans have unwittingly made morbeautiful than before.

"Mon mieux" was the motto St. Pocarved over the gateway; "Our worst" ihe taunt the Germans have flung. But th

combination of that best and worst i



glorious to the eye.

From Ham we spun on to Jussy, along th

new white road which is so amazing wheone thinks that every yard of it had to bcreated out of chaos a few months agoThey say that some sort of surface wa

given for the army to pass over in thredays' work!) At Jussy we came close tohe real front—closer than we've been yet

except when we went to the America

renches. The first line was only thremiles away, and the place is undebombardment, but this was what our guidcalled a "quiet day," so there was only a

occasional mumble and boom. The towwas destroyed, wiped almost out oexistence, save for heaps of rubble whicmight have been houses or hills. But ther



were things to be seen which would havmade Jussy worth a long journey. It hadbeen a prosperous place, with one of th

biggest sugar refineries in France, and thwrecked usine was as terrible anhrilling as the moon seen through th

biggest telescope in the world.

ot that it looked like the moon. It lookemore like a futurist sketch, in red anbrown, of the heart of a cyclone; or of th

nside of a submarine that has rammed skeleton ship on the stocks. But the sighgave me the same kind of icy shock I hawhen I first saw the moon's ravaged fac

hrough a huge telescope. You took mePadre, so you'll remember.

f you came to Jussy, and didn't know

about the war, you'd think you had



stumbled into hell—or else that you werhaving a nightmare and couldn't wake up. shall never forget a brobdingnagian boile

as big as a battle tank, that had rearetself on its hind-legs to peer through cheval de frise of writhing girders—ortured girders like a vast wilderness o

mmense thorn bushes in a hopelesangle, or a pit of bloodstained snakes

The walls of the usine have simplmelted, and it's hard to realize that it as building, put up by human hands for humauses, ever existed. There is a new Jussyhough, created since the German retrea

and seeing it, you couldn't help knowinhat there was a war! The wholandscape is full of cannon, big and littl

and middle-sized. Queer mushroo

buildings have sprung up, for officers' an



soldiers' barracks and canteens. Narrowplank walks built high above mud-leve—"duck boards," I think they're called—

ead to the corrugated iron, tin, anwooden huts. There are aerodromes anaerodromes like a vast circuencampment, where there are not cannon

and the greenish canvas roofs give thonly bit of colour, as far as the eye can se—unless one counts the soldiersuniforms. All the rest is gray as the deserbefore a dust-storm. Even the sky, whichad been blue and bright, was gray oveJussy, and the grayest of gray things wer

he immense " saucisses"—three or four ohem—hanging low under the clouds likadvertisements of titanic potatoeshaughtiest of war-time vegetables.



Dierdre O'Farrell inadvertently called thbig bulks " saucissons," which amused ouofficer guide so much that he laughed t

ears. The rest of us were able to raisonly a faint smile, and we felt hidisappointment at our lack of humour.

"Ah, but it is most funny!" he said. "I wilell everyone. In future they shall for us bsaucissons' forever. I suppose it is not sofunny for you, because the sight of thes

dead towns has made you sad. I am almosafraid to take you on to Chauny. You wilbe much sadder there. Chauny is the sighmost pitiful of all. Would you perhap

wish to avoid it?"

"What about you, Mother?" Father Beckewanted to know.



But Mother had no wish to avoid ChaunyShe was not able to believe that anythincould be sadder than Roye, or Nesle, o

Ham, or more grim than Jussy."He doesn't want to take us to Chauny,Brian whispered to me. We were al

grouped together near the cars, witSirius, a quiet, happy dog. "He's trying think up a new excuse to get out of it."

glanced at our guide. It was like Brian thave guessed what we hadn't seen! Now was on the alert, the clear-cut French facdid look nonplussed; and a nervous brow

hand was tugging at a smart blacmoustache.

"Is there any reason why you think i

would be better for us not to go there?"



decided to ask frankly.

"It's getting rather late," he suggested, i

his precise English. "You have also thePavilion of Prince Eitel Fritz before youf it grows too dark, you cannot see St

Quentin well, in the distance, and th

glasses will be of no use for Soissons.""But we're going to Soissons day after tomorrow!" said Father Beckett.

"And there'll be a moon presently," addedDierdre. She had heard of the ruineconvent at Chauny and was determined noo miss it.

"Yes, there'll be a moon," reluctantlyadmitted Monsieur le Lieutenant.

"Is there still another reason?" I tried t



help him.

"Well, yes, there is one, Mademoiselle,

he blurted out. "I had meant not to mentiot. But perhaps it is best to tell, and theyou may all choose whether you go tChauny or not. There is a certain risk a

his time of day, or a little later. You knowwe are close to the front here, and enemaeroplanes fly nearly every afternoon oveChauny toward dusk. They hope to catc

some important personage, and they comexpressly to 'spot' automobiles. The roahrough the ruined town is white and new

and the gray military cars in which w

bring visitors to the front stand out clearlyespecially as twilight falls. I'm afraid whave lingered too long in some of thesplaces. If we were a party of men,



should say nothing, but with three ladie——"

"I can answer for all three, Monsieur,said Mother Beckett, with a patheticalldefiant tilt of her small chin.

"My son, you know, was a soldier. Wehave come to this part of the world to sewhat we can do for the people in honouof his memory. So we mustn't leav

Chauny out.""Madame, there are no people there, fohere are no houses. There are but a few

soldiers with an anti-aircraft gun."

"We must see what can be done aboubuilding up some of the houses so thpeople can come back," persisted the ol



ady, with that gentle obstinacy of hers.

The French officer made no mor

objections; and knowing his wife, suppose Father Beckett felt it useless toffer any. We started at once for Chaunyn fact, we flew along the road almost a

fast—it seemed—as enemy aeroplanecould fly along the sky if they pursued. Buwe had a long respite still before twilight



CHAPTER XXIV

Our guide was right. Chauny was saddehan the rest, because there had been mor

of beauty to ruin. And it was ruinedcruelly, completely! Even Gerbéviller, inLorraine, had been less sad than this—ess sad because of Sœur Julie, and th

quarter on the hill which her devotiosaved; less sad, because of the AmericaRed Cross reconstruction centre, for thfruit trees. Here there had been no Sœu

Julie, no reconstruction centre yet. ThGermans, when they knew they had to gogave three weeks to their wrecking workThey sent off, neatly packed, all that wa

worth sending to Germany. They measure



he cellars to see what quantity oexplosives would be needed to blow uphe houses. Then they blew them up

making their quarters meanwhile at a safdistance, in the convent. As for thaconvent—you will see what happenehere when the Boches had no further us

for it!

n happy days before the war, whose joywe took comfortably for granted, Chaun

had several châteaux of beauty and charmt had pretty houses and lots of fine shop

and a park. It was proud of its mairie anchurch and great usine (now a sight o

horror), and the newer parts of the towdid honour to their architects. But—Chauny was on the direct road betweeCologne and Paris. Nobody thought muc



about this fact then, except that it helperavel and so was good for the country. Is only now that one knows what a pric

Chauny paid for the advantage. Instead oa beautiful town there remains a heap ocinders, with here and there a wreckefaçade of pitiful grace or broken dignity t

ell where stood the proudest buildings.

The sky was empty of enemy 'planes; buour guide hurried us through the town

where the new road shone white icontrast with our cars; and having hiddehe autos under a group of trees outsideed us on foot toward the convent. Th

approach was exquisite: a long, lonavenue of architectural elms, arbour-likn shade, once the favourite evenin

promenade of Chauny. That tunnel o



emerald and gold would have been anterlude of peace between two tragedie

—tragedy of the town, tragedy of th

convent—if the ground hadn't been strewwith torn papers, like leaves scattered bhe wind: official records flung out o

strong boxes by ruthless German hands

poor remnants no longer of value, ansaved from destruction only by the kindlrees, friends of happy memories. "Th

Boches didn't take time to spoil thiavenue," said our officer. "They liked iwhile they lived in the convent; and theeft in a hurry."

Just beyond the avenue lies the convengarden; and though it is autumn, when wstepped into that garden we stepped intan oasis of old-fashioned, fragran



flowers, guarded by delicate trees, gentlas the vanished Sisters and their flock oyoung girl pupils; sweet, small trees

bending low as if to shield the garden'breast from harm.

wish when Chauny is rebuilt this conven

might be left as a monument historiquefor, ringed by its perfumed pleasance, it ia glimpse of "fairylands forlorn."

One half believes there must have beesome fairy charm at work which kept thfire-breathing German dragon from layinhis garden waste when he was forced ou

of his stolen lair in the convent! Littlremains of the house, and in the rubbisheap of fallen walls and beams anplaster, narrow iron bedsteads, wher

nuns slept or young girls dreamed, perc



imidly among stones and blackenebricks. But in the garden all is flowerpeace: and the chapel, though ruined, is

strange vision of beauty framed in horror.ot that the Germans were merciful there

They burned and blew up all that woul

burn or blow up. The roof fell, and heapehe floor with wreckage; but out of thawreckage, as out of a troubled sea, riswo figures: St. Joseph, and an almos

ife-size, painted statue of the VirginThere the two stand firmly on theipedestals, their faces raised to God's rooof blue, which never fails. Because thei

eyes are lifted, they do not see the flotsaand jetsam of shattered stained glassburnt woodwork, smashed benchesbroken picture-frames and torn, rain



blurred portraits of lesser saints. Theseem to think only of heaven.

Though I'm not a Catholic, the chapel gavme such a sense of sacredness anbenediction that I felt I must be theralone, if only for a moment. So when ou

officer led the others out I stayed behindA clear ray of late sunshine slantedhrough a broken window set high in

side wall, to stream full upon the face o

he Virgin. Someone had crowned hewith a wreath of fresh flowers, and hahrust a few white roses under the folde

hands which seemed to clasp the

ovingly, with a prayer for the peace of thworld. The dazzling radiance brought facand figure to life; and it was as if a livinwoman had taken the statue's place on th



pedestal. The effect was so startling thaf I were a Catholic, I might have believen a miracle. Protestant as I am, I had th

mpulse to pray: but—(I don't knowPadre, if I have ever told you this)—I'vnot dared to pray properly since I firsstole the Becketts' love for Brian and me

've not dared, though never in my lifhave I so needed and longed for prayer.

This time I couldn't resist, unworthy as

am. The smile of peace and pardon on thstatue's illumined face seemed to make alsin forgivable in this haunt of holy dreams"God forgive me, and show me how t

atone," I sent my plea skyward. Suddenlhe conviction came that I should b

shown a way of atonement, though it mighbe hard. I felt lighter of heart, and went o



o pray that Jack Curtis's hope might bustified: that, no matter what happened t

me, or even to Brian, Jim Beckett might b

alive, in this world, and come back safelo his parents.

While I prayed, a sound disturbed th

deep silence. It was a far-away sound, buquickly it grew louder and drew nearer: afirst a buzzing as of all the bees in Francmobilized in a bee-barrage. Then th

buzzing became a roar. I knew directlwhat it was: enemy aeroplanes.

could not see them yet, but they must b

close. If they were flying very low, tosearch Chauny for visitors, I might be seef I moved. Those in the garden wer

better off than I, for they were screened b

he trees, but trying to join them I migh



attract attention to myself.

As I thought this, I wondered why I didn

decide upon the thing most likely to solvall my problems at once. If I were killedBrian would grieve: but he had thBecketts to love and care for him, and—

he had Dierdre: no use disguising that facfrom my intelligence, after the episode ohe dog! What a chance for me t

disappear, having done for Brian all

could do! Oh, why didn't I add anotheprayer to my last, and beg God to let mdie that minute?

'll tell you why I did not pray this, Padreand why, instead of trying to expose myife, I wished—almost unconsciously—t

save it. I hardly realized why then, but

do realize now. It is different in these day



from that night in Paris, when I wished might be run over by a motor-car. At thaime I should have been glad to die. Now

cling to life—not just because I'm younand strong, and people call me beautifubut because I feel I must stay in the worlo see what happens next.

kept as still as a frightened mouse. didn't move. I scarcely breathed. Presentlan aeroplane sailed into sight directl

overhead, and flying so low that I coulmake out its iron cross, exactly likphotographs I'd seen. Whether the men it could see me or not I can't tell; but i

hey could, perhaps they mistook me foone of the statues they knew existed in thruined chapel, and thought I wasn't wortbombing.



n that case it was St. Joseph and thVirgin who protected me!

n a second the big bird of prey had swepon. I was sick with fear for a moment lest should drop an "egg" on to the garden

and kill Brian or the Becketts, or th

ieutenant who had wished to spare us thidanger. Even the O'Farrells I didn't wanhurt; and I was pleased to find out thaabout myself, because they are a far mor

constant danger for me than all thaeroplanes along the German front; anwhen I came face to face with realities imy own soul, I might have discovered

wicked desire for them to be out of thway at any price. But since Dierdrproved herself ready to die for Brian, I dadmire if I don't like her. As for Julian—



would it be possible, Padre, to miss person you almost hate? Anyhow, when ried to imagine how I should feel if

went back to the garden and saw hidead, I grew quite giddy and ill. Howqueer we are, we human things!

But no one was hurt. The whole party hiunder the trees; and as the cars were alshidden at a distance, the German flierurned tail, disappointed; besides, the anti

aircraft gun which we'd been told aboutand had seen on our way to the conventwas potting away like mad, so it wasnhealthful for aeroplanes to linger merel

"on spec."

Mother Beckett was pale and trembling ittle, but she said that she had been to

anxious about me, in my absence, to thin



of herself, which was perhaps a goohing. I noticed, when I joined them in th

garden, after the roar had changed again t

a buzz, that Dierdre stood close to Brianand that his hand was on her shoulder, hehand on Sirius's beautiful head. Yet I feloo strangely happy to be jealous.

suppose it must have been through mprayer—or the answer to it.

When all was clear and the danger oveour guide said that the "birds" neve

made more than one tour of inspection ian afternoon) we started off again. FatheBeckett suggested that his wife had bettego home and rest, but she wouldn't hear o



t. And when we reached a turning of throad which would lead us to Coucy-lChâteau, it was she who begged ou

ieutenant to let us run along that way"just far enough for a glimpse, a tinyglimpse."

"My son wrote me it was the moswonderful old château in France," shpleaded. "I've got in my pocket now snapshot he sent me."

The Frenchman couldn't resist. You knowhow charming the French are to oladies. "It isn't as safe as—as the Bank o

England!" he laughed. "Sometimes thekeep this road rather hot. But to-day, have told you, things are quiet all alongWe will take what Madame calls a tiny

glimpse."



Orders were given to our chauffeur. Briawas with the O'Farrells, coming obehind, and of course the Red Cross tax

followed at our heels like a faithfudachshund. Our big car flew swiftly, andhe little one did its jolting best to keep uhe pace, for time wouldn't wait for us—

and these autumn days are cuttinhemselves short.

Presently we saw a thing which prove

hat the road was indeed "hot" sometimesa neat, round shell-hole, which lookeominously new! We swung past it with abump, and flashed into sight of a rui

which dwarfed all others we had seen—yes, dwarfed even cathedrals! A long lineof ramparts rising from a high headland ogray-white chalk-ramparts crowned wit



broken, round towers, which the sun wapainting with heraldic gold: the stump of remendous keep that reared its bulk like

giant in his death struggle, for a last looover his shield of shattered walls. Thiwas what German malice had made oCoucy, pride of France, architectura

masterpiece of feudal times!

"This is as far as I dare go!" our lieutenansaid, with a brusque gesture which bad

he chauffeur stop. But before the caurned, he gave us a moment to take in th

picture of grandeur and unforgivablcruelty. Yes, unforgivable! for you know

Padre, there was no military motive in thdestruction. The only object was tdeprive France forever of the noblest oher castles, which has helped in th



making of her history since a bishop oRheims began to build it in 920.

"Roi ne suis Ne prince, ne duc, ne comtaussy. Je suys le Sire de Coucy."

The beautiful old boast in beautiful olFrench sang in my head as I gazed througears at the new ruin of ancient grandeur.

Some of those haughty Sires de Coucmay have deserved to have theistronghold destroyed, for they seem—most of them—to have been as bad as thewere vain. I remember there was one, ihe days of Louis XII, who punished threittle boys for killing a few rabbits in hi

park, by ordering the children to bhanged on the spot; and St. Louis was s

angry on hearing of the crime that h



wished to hang the Sire de Coucy on thsame tree. There were others I've read ofust as wicked and high-handed: but thei

castle was not to blame for its master'crimes! Besides, the last of the prouEnguerrands and Thomases and RaoulsSeigneurs of the line, was son-in-law t

Edward III of England; so all their sinwere expiated long ago.

"The Boches were jealous of our Coucy,

said the Frenchman, with a sigh. "Thehave nothing to compare with it on theiside of the Rhine. If they could havpacked up the château and carted it acros

he frontier they would—if it had takehree years. As they couldn't do that, the

did what Cardinal Mazarin wasn't able tdo with his picked engineers; they blew i



up with high explosives. But all they coulsteal they stole: carvings and historifurniture. You know there was a room the

guardian used to show before the war—he room where César de Bourbon waborn, the son of Henri Quatre of Navarrand Gabrielle d'Estrées? That room th

Boches emptied when they first came iAugust, 1914. Not a piece of rich tapestrynot a suit of armour, not even a chair, or aable, or lamp did they leave. Everythin

was sent to Germany. But we believe wshall get it all again some day. And nowwe must go, for the Boches shell this roa

whenever they think of it, or have nothinbetter to do!"

The signal was given. We turned and torealong the road by which we'd come, ou



backs feeling rather sensitive and exposeo chance German bombs, until we'd go

round the corner to a "safe section." Ou

way led through a pitiful country ocrippled trees to a curious round hill. Aittle castle or miniature fortress mus

have crowned it once, for the height wa

entirely circled by an ancient moat. On topof this green mound Prince Eitel Fritz builfor himself the imitation shooting-lodgwhich was our goal and viewpoint. AndPadre, there can't be another sucGerman-looking spot in martyred Francas he has made of the insulted hillock!

don't know how many fair young bircrees he sacrificed to build a summer

house for himself and his staff to drinbeer in, and gaze over the country, at St



Quentin, at Soissons and a hundreconquered towns and villages! Now he'obliged to look from St. Quentin at th

summer-house—and how we pray that imay not be for long!

Over one door of the building a pair o

crossed swords carved heavily in wooform a stolid German decoration; and stilmore maddeningly German are the seatoutside the house, made of cement an

shaped like toadstools. In the sitting rooare rough chairs, and a big table sstained with wine and beer that I coulalmost see the fat figures of the prince an

his friends grouped round it, with cheerfor "Wein, Weib, und Gesang ."

Close down below us, in sloping gree

meadows, a lot of war-worn horses e



ermission were grazing peacefully. Ouguide said that some were "Americans,and I fancied them dreaming of Kentuck

grasslands, or the desert herbs of the FaWest, which they will never taste againAlso I yearned sorrowfully over thweary creatures that had done their "bit

without any incentive, without mucpraise or glory, and that would presentlgo back to do it all over again, until thedied or were finally disabled. remembered a cavalry-man I nursed in ou

ôpital des Épidémies telling me howbrave horses are. "The only trouble wit

hem in battle," he said, "is when theiriders are killed, to make them fall out oine. They will keep their places!"

Both Father Beckett and the French office



had field-glasses, but we hardly needehem for St. Quentin. Far away across

plain slowly turning from bright blue

green to dim green-blue in the twilight, wsaw a dream town built of violet shadow—Marie Stuart's dowry town. Its purplroofs and the dominating towers of it

great collegiate church were ethereal as mirage, yet delicately clear, and sobeautiful, rising from the river-bank, that shuddered to think of the French gunsforced to break the heart of Faidherbe'brave city.

t was a time of day to call back the past

for in the falling dusk modern things anold things blended lovingly together. Foall one could see of detail, nothing hachanged much since the plain of Picard



was the great Merovingian centre oFrance, the gateway through which thEnglish marched, and went away never t

return until they came as friends. Still leshad the scene changed since the bravdays when Marguerite de Valois rodehrough Picardy with her band of lovel

adies and gallant gentlemen. It wasummer when she travelled; but on jussuch an evening of blue twilight and silvemoonshine might she have had hepretended carriage accident at Catelet, aan excuse to disappoint the Bishop oCambrai, and meet the man best loved o

all her lovers, Duc Henri de Guise. It waust then he had got the wound which gavhim his scar and his nickname of " L

alafré"; and she would have been all th

more anxious not to miss her hero.



thought of that adventure, because of thpicture Brian painted of the Queen on heourney, the only one of his which ha

been hung in the Academy, you knowPadre; and I sat for Marguerite. Not tha'm her type at all, judging from portraits

However, I fancied myself intensely in th

finished picture, and used to hope I shoulbe recognized when I strolled into thAcademy. But I never was.

Looking down over the plain of Picardy, pretended to myself that I could see thQueen's procession: Marguerite (lookinas much as possible like me!) in her gol

and crystal coach, lined with rosecoloured Spanish velvet, jewelbroidered: the gentlemen outriders tryino stare through the thick panes obscure



with designs and mottoes concerning thsun and its influence upon human fate; thhigh-born girls chattering to each othe

from their embroidered Spanish saddlesas they rode on white palfreys, trailinafter the glittering coach; and the dusrising like smoke from wheels of joltin

chariots which held the elder women ohe Court.

Oh, those were great days, the days o

Henry of Navarre and his naughty wifeBut, after all, there wasn't as mucchivalry and real romance in Picardy thenor in the time of St. Quentin himself, a

war has brought back to it now. No deedwe can find in history equal the deeds oo-day!



We got lost going home, somehow taking

he wrong road, straying into a woodplunging and bumping down and dowover fearful roads, and landing—by whamight have been a bad accident—in

deep ravine almost too strange to be true.

Even our French officer couldn't make ouwhat had happened to us, or whither we'

wandered, until we'd stopped, and oublaze of acetylene had lighted up a serieof fantastic caverns in the rock (cavernmproved up to date by German cement

and in front of that honeycombed grawall a flat, grassy lawn that was graveyard.

"Mon Dieu, c'est le Ravin de Bitry!" h



cried. "Let us get out of it! I would nevehave brought you here of my own frewill."

"But why—why?" I insisted. "It isn't thonly graveyard we have seen, alas! anhere are only French names on the littl

crosses.""I know," he said. "After we chased thGermans out of this hole, we lived her

ourselves, in their caves—and died hereas you see, Mademoiselle. But the place ihaunted, and not by spirits of the dead—worse! Put on your hats again, Messieurs

The dead will forgive you. And, ladieswrap veils over your faces. If it were noso late, you would already know why. Buhe noise of our autos, and the lights ma

stir up those ghosts!"



Then, in an instant, before the cars coulurn, we did know why. Flies!... such flie

as I had never seen ...nightmare flies. The

rose from everywhere, in a thick blaccloud, like the plague of Egypt. They wern thousands. They were big as bees. The

dropped on us like a black jelly falling ou

of a mould. They sat all over us. It waonly when our cars had swayed anstumbled up again, over that awful roadout of the haunted hole in the deep woodsand risen into fresh, moving air, that thhorde deserted us. Julian O'Farrell had hihands bitten, and dear Mother Beckett wa

badly stung on the throat. Horrible!... don't think I could have slept at night fohinking of the Ravin de Bitry, if we hadn

had such a refreshing run home that th

mpression of the lost, dark place wa



purified away.

Forest fragrance sprayed into our face

ike perfume from a vaporizer. Weseemed to pass through endless hallsupported by white marble pillars, whicwere really spaces between trees

magically transformed by our blazinheadlight. Always in front of us hoveredan archway of frosted silver, moving awe moved, like a pale, elusive rainbow

and when we put on extra speed for ong, straight stretch, poplars carelessl

spared by the Boches spouted up on eitheside of us like geysers. Then, suddenly

across a stretch of blackness palely shonCompiègne, as Venice shines across thedark lagoon.



CHAPTER XXV

Little did I think, Padre, to write you froSoissons! When last I spoke to you about, we were gazing through field-glasses ahe single tower of the cathedral, pointin

out of purple shadows toward the eveninstar of hope. Then we lost ourselves in th

Ravin de Bitry, and arrived thankfully aCompiègne two hours later than we haplanned. We expected to have part of aday at Soissons, but—I told you of th

dreadful flies in that ravine of death, anhow Mother Beckett was stung on thhroat. The next day she had a headache

but took aspirin, and pronounced hersel

well enough for the trip to Soissons



Father Beckett let her go, because he's ihe habit of letting her do whatever sh

wants to do, fancying (and she fancies it

oo) that he is master. You see, we thought was only a fatigue-headache. Foolishlywe didn't connect it with the sting, foJulian O'Farrell was bitten, too, and didn

complain at all.

Well, we set out for Soissons yesterdaymorning (I write again at night) leaving al

our luggage at the hotel in Compiègne. Iwas quite a safe and uneventful run, fohe Germans stopped shelling Soissonemporarily some time ago, when the

were obliged to devote their wholattention to other places. The road wagood, and the day a dream of Indiasummer, when war seemed more than eve



out of place in such a world. If MotheBeckett looked ill, we didn't noticebecause she wore her dust-veil. The sam

officer was with us who'd been our guidast time, and we felt like friends, as hexplained, with those vivid gestureFrenchmen have, just how the Germans i

September, 1914, marched from Laoupon Soissons—marched fast, singingyelling, wild to take a city so importanhat the world would be impressed. Whyt would be—they thought—as if th

whole Île-de-France were in their graspThe next step would be to Paris, goal o

all Germanic invasions since Attila.t's an engaging habit of Mother Beckett'o punctuate exciting stories like this witittle soft sighs of sympathy: but th



graphic war descriptions given by ouieutenant left her cold. Even when w

came into the town, and began to go roun

t in the car, she was heavily silent, not aexclamation! And we ought to havrealized that this was strange, becausSoissons nowadays is a sight to strike th

heart a hammer-blow.

Of course the place isn't older thaRheims. It's of the same time and the sam

significance. But its face looks older iruin—such features as haven't beebattered out of shape. There's thwonderful St. Jean-des-Vignes, whic

should have interested the little ladybecause the great namesake of her familSt. Thomas à Beckett, lived there, when iwas one of Soissons' four famous abbeys



There's the church of St. Léger, and thgrand old gates of St. Médard, to sanothing of the cathedral itself. And then

here's the history, which goes back to thSuessiones who owned twelve towns, anhad a king whose power carried acroshe sea, all the way to Britain. If Mothe

Beckett doesn't know much about historyshe loves being in the midst of it, anhearing talk of it. But when our Frenchmaold us a story of her latest favourite, Kin

Clovis, she had the air of being asleebehind her thick blue veil. It was quite good story, too, about a gold vase and

bishop. The gold vase had been stolen ihe sack of the churches, after the battle oSoissons, when Roman rule was ended iFrance. St. Remi begged Clovis to giv

he vase back. But the booty was bein



divided, and the soldier who had the vasrefused to surrender it to a mere monarch"You'll get what your luck brings you, like

he rest of us!" said he, striking the vase shard with his battle-axe that it was dentedand its beauty spoiled. Clovis swallowehe insult, that being the day of soldiers

not of kings: but he didn't forget; and hkept watch upon the man. A year later, tohe day, the excuse he'd waited for came

The soldier's armour was dirty, oreview; Clovis had the right as a generao reproach and punish him, so snatchinhe man's battle-axe, the king crushed i

he soldier's head. "I do to you with thsame weapon what you did to the golvase at Soissons!" he said.

t wasn't until we had seen everything, an



had spent over an hour looking at thmartyred cathedral, from every point oview, inside and out, that Mother Becket

confessed her suffering. "Oh, Molly!" shgasped, leaning on my arm, "I'm so glahere's only one tower, and not two! Thas, I'm glad, as it was always like that."

"Why," I exclaimed, "how odd of youdearest! I know it's considered one of thbest cathedrals in France, though it isn't

museum of sculpture, like Rheims. But thsingle tower worries me, it looks sunfinished. I'm not glad there's only one!"

"You would be if you felt like I do," shemoaned. "If there was another tower, we'dhave to spend double time looking at itand in five minutes more I should have t

faint! Oh no, I've stood everything so far



not to disappoint any one, but I couldnsee another tower!"

With that, she did faint, or nearly, thencame to herself, and apologized fobothering us! Father Beckett hardly spokebut his face was gray-white with fear, and

he held the fragile creature in his arms af she were his last link with the life ohis world.

We got her back into the car; and the manwho had shown us the cathedral said thahere was an hotel within five minutes

motoring distance. It was not first rate, h

explained, but officers messed there anoccasionally wives and mothers oofficers stayed there. He thought we mighbe taken in and made fairly comfortable

and to be sure we didn't miss the house, h



saved him lumps of sugar. He licked hesmall fingers, clasped by her husband, anattracting Mother Beckett's attentio

perhaps kept her from fainting again.Well, we got to the hotel, which wareally more of a pension than an hotel, an

Madame Bornier, the elderly woman ideep mourning who was la patronne, wakind and helpful. Her best room had beemade ready for the wife of an officer jus

coming out of hospital, but there would bime to prepare another. Our dear invalid

was carried upstairs in her husband'arms, and I put her to bed while a docto

was sent for. Of course, we had nopermission to spend a night at Soissonsbut I began to foresee that we should havo stay unless we were turned out by th



military authorities.

When the doctor came—a médecin majo

fetched from a hospital by our officerguide—he said that Madame was sufferinfrom malarial symptoms; she must havbeen poisoned. So then of course w

remembered the sting on her throat. Hexamined it, looked rather grave, anwarned Father Beckett that Madame semme would not be able to travel tha

day. She had a high temperature, and abest must have a day or two of reposewith no food save a little boiled milk.

Soissons seemed the last place in Franco hope for milk of any description, but thdoctor promised it from the hospital if icouldn't be got elsewhere, and added wit

pride that Soissons was not withou



resources. "When the Germans came threyears ago," he said, "most of thnhabitants had fled, taking what the

could carry. Only seven hundred soulwere left, out of fifteen thousand, but manhave come back: we have more than twhousand now, and some of them behaved

ike heroes and heroines. Oh yes, we maalmost say that life goes on normally! Youshall have all the milk you need foMadame."

When she had taken some medicine, ansmiled at him, Father Beckett left his wifn my care, and rushed off to arrange abou

permission to stop. The médecin majoand our officer-guide were useful. Afteelephoning from the military hospital t

headquarters, everything was arranged



and we were authorized to remain iSoissons, at our own risk and periMadame Bornier prepared rooms for u

all; but there weren't enough to go roundso Brian and Julian O'Farrell were puogether, and Dierdre and I! She, by th

way, is in bed at this moment, whethe

asleep or not I don't know; but if not she ipretending. Her lashes are very long, anshe looks prettier than I ever saw her loobefore. But that may be because I like hebetter. I told you, that after what she didfor Brian I could never dislike that giragain: but there has been another inciden

since then, about which I will tell you tomorrow. You know, I'm not easily tiredbut this is our second night at Soissons. sat up all last night with Mother Beckett

and oh, how glad I was, Padre, that Fat



had forced me to train as a nurse! I'vbeen glad—thankful—ever since the warbut this is the first time my gladness ha

been so personal. Brian's illness was ihospital. I could do nothing for him. Buyou can hardly think what it has meant tme, to know that I've been of real use t

his dear woman, that I've been able tspare her suffering. Before, I had no righo her love. I'd stolen it. Now, maybe I a

beginning to earn a little of the affectiowhich she and Father Beckett give me.

was all "keyed up" when I began to writo you to-night, Padre; but I was suppose

o spend my three hours "off" in sleepOne hour is gone. Even if I can't sleep, shall pass the other two trying to rest, imy narrow bed, which is close t



Dierdre's.



CHAPTER XXVI

This is the next day. Mother Beckett ibetter, and I've been praised by thmédecin major for my nursing. We've goour luggage from Compiègne, and may bhere for days. We shall miss the pleasureof travelling to Amiens with the wa

correspondents, who must go without usand we women will get no glimpse of thBritish front!

ow I'm going to tell you about thncident which has made me almost lov

Dierdre O'Farrell—a miracle, it woulhave seemed two weeks ago, when m

best mental pet name for her was "littl



cat!"

When I wrote last night, I mentioned tha

he room Mother Beckett has in this littlhotel had been intended for the wife of French officer coming out of hospitaAnother room was prepared for that lady

and it happened to be the one next door tMother Beckett's. Through the thipartition wall I heard voices, a man's ana woman's, talking in French. I couldn

make out the words—in fact, I tried not to—but the woman's tones were soft answeet as the coo of a dove. I pictured hebeautiful and young, and I was sure fro

her way of speaking that she adored hehusband. The two come into my storpresently, but I think it should begin with walk that Brian and Dierdre (and Sirius



of course) took together.

With me shut up in Mother Beckett's room

my blind brother and Julian O'Farrell'sister were thrown more closely togetheeven than before. I'm sure Julian saw that, eliminating himself as he couldn't d

when travelling all three in the Red Crosaxi! Perhaps Dierdre and Brian had nevebeen alone in each other's company song; and Brian found the chance he'

wished for, to get at the real girl, behinher sulky "camouflage."

He has repeated the whole conversation t

me, because he wanted me to knowDierdre as he has learned to know herand I shall write everything down as remember it, though the words mayn't b

precisely right. Never was there any on



ike Brian for drawing out confidencefrom shut-up souls (except you, Padre!) ihe chooses to open his own soul, for tha

end; and apparently he thought it wortwhile in the case of Dierdre. He began belling her things about himself—his ol

hopes and ambitions and the change i

hem since his blindness. He confessed the girl (as he confessed to me long ago

how at first he wished desperately to diebecause life without eyesight wasn't lifeHe has so loved colour, and beauty, andsuccess in his work had been so closehat he felt he couldn't endure blindness.

"I came near being a coward," he said. "Aman who puts an end to his life becaushe's afraid to face it is a coward. So ried to see if I could readjust the balance



fell back on my imagination—and isaved me. Imagination was always mbest friend! It took me by the hand and le

me into a garden—a secret sort of gardehat belongs to the blind, and to no onelse. It's the place where the spirits ocolour and the spirits of flowers live—th

spirit of music, too—and all sorts obeautiful strange things which peoplwho've never been blind can't see—oeven hear. They're not 'things,' exactlyThey're more like the reality behind thhings: God's thoughts of things as the

should be, before He created them; artists

houghts of their pictures; musicianshoughts of their compositions—all bettehan the things resulting from the thoughtsothing in the outside world is a

wonderful as what grows in that garden!



couldn't go on being unhappy thereobody could—once he'd found the wa

n."

"It must be hard finding the way in!Dierdre said.

"It is at first—alone, without help. That'why, if I can, I want to help my fellowblind men to get there."

"Only men? Not women, too?"

"I've never met a blind woman. Probably never shall."

"You're talking to one this minute! When'm with you, I always feel as if I werblind, and you could see."

"You're unjust to yourself."



"No, but I'm unjust to you—I mean, I havbeen. I must tell you before we go onbecause you're too kind, too generous. I'

blind about lots of things, but I do see thanow. I see how good you are. I used tohink you were too good to be true—tha

you must be a poseur . I was alway

waiting for the time when you'd givyourself away—when you'd show yourselon the same level with my brother anme."

"But I am on the same level."

"Don't say it! I don't feel that horrid, bitte

wish now. I'm glad you're higher than ware. It makes me better to look up to thplace where you are. But I wish I coulget nearer."



"You are very near. We're friends, aren'we? You don't really mind because I'mfrom the North and you from the South

and because we don't quite agree aboupolitics?"

"I'd forgotten about politics between yo

and me! But there are other distances. Dake me into your garden. You say ibelongs only to blind people; but if I ablind—with a different kind of blindness

and worse—can't I get there with you? need such a garden, dreadfully. I'm sodisappointed in life."

"Tell me how you're unhappy, and howyou've been disappointed," said Brian"Then perhaps we can find the righflowers to cure you, in the garden."



So she told him what Julian had told meabout trying to get on the stage, and nosucceeding, and realizing that she couldn

act; feeling that there was no vocation, nplace for her anywhere. To comfort thegirl, Brian opened the gate of his gardeof the blind, and gave her its secrets, as h

has given them to me. He explained to hehis trick of "seeing across far spaces,with the eyes of his mind, and heartsaying aloud, to himself, names oglorious places—"Athens—Rome—Venice," and going there in the airship omagination; calling up visions of rose

sunset light on the yellowing marble of thAcropolis, or moonlight in the Pinciagardens, with great umbrella-pines likblots of ink on steel, or the opal colour

shimmering deep down, under the surfac



without seeing?" she asked. "You mighhave a line for the horizon, and witsomeone to mix your colours under you

directions—someone who'd tell yowhere to find the reds, where the greensand so on, someone to warn you if yowent wrong. You might make wonderfu

effects."

"I've thought of that," said Brian. "I'vhoped—it might be. Sometime, when thi

rip is over, I may ask my sister's help——"

"Oh, your sister's!" Dierdre broke in. "Bu

she may marry. Or she may go back tonursing again. I wish I could help you. Iwould make me happy. It would bhelping myself, more than you! And w

could begin soon. I could buy you paint



from a list you'd give me. If wsucceeded, you could surprise your sisteand the Becketts. It would be splendid."

Brian agreed that it would be splendidbut he said that his sister must be "in" ioo. He wouldn't have secrets from her

even for the pleasure of a surprise."She won't let me help you," Dierdre said"She'll want to do everything for yo

herself."Brian assured the girl that she wamistaken about his sister. "She's mistakeabout you, too," he added. "You'll seeMolly'll be grateful to you for inventinsuch a plan for me. She'll want you to bhe one to carry it out."



o argument of his could convince thgirl, however. They came back to the hoteat last, after a walk by the river, close

friends than before, but Dierdrdepressed, if no longer sulky. She seemedn a strange, tense mood, as though ther

were more she wished to say—if sh

dared.

Dusk was falling (this was evening of thday we arrived, you must realize, Padre

and Brian admitted that he was tired. He'aken no such walk since he came out o

hospital, weeks and weeks ago.

"Let's go and sit in the salon, to rest a fewminutes and finish our talk," he proposed"We're almost sure to have the room toourselves."



But for once Brian's intuition was at faultThere were two persons in the little salona lady writing letters at a desk by th

window, and a French officer who haddrawn the one easy chair in the room ifront of a small wood fire. This fire haevidently not existed long, as the roo

was cold, with the grim, damp chill of place seldom occupied or opened to thair.

As Dierdre led Brian in, the lady at thdesk glanced up at the newcomers, and thofficer in the big chair turned his headThe woman was young and ver

remarkable looking, with the pearl-palskin of a true Parisian, large dark eyeunder clearly sketched black brows, anmasses of prematurely white hair.



For a second, Dierdre thought thibeautiful hair must be blonde, as thwoman could not be more tha

wenty-eight; but the light from thwindow fell full upon the silver ripplesblanching them to dazzling whiteness.

"What a lovely creature," the girl thought"What can have happened to turn her haiwhite?"

As for the man, Dierdre took an instandislike to him, for his selfishness. His facwas burned a deep, ruddy brown, and hieyes, lit by the red glow of the fire, wer

bright with a black, bead-like brightnessThey stared so directly, so unblinkingly aBrian, that Dierdre was vexed. She wahis chosen friend, his confidante, hi

champion now! Not even Sirius could b



more fiercely devoted than she, who hao atone for her past injustice. She wa

angry that blind Brian should be thu

coldly stared at, and that a man in bettehealth than he should calmly sprawl in thbest chair, screening the fire.

By this time, Padre, you will have learneenough about Dierdre O'Farrell to knowwhat her temper is! She forgot that stranger might not realize Brian'

blindness at first sight in a room where thdusk was creeping in, and she spoksharply, in her almost perfect French.

"There's quite a nice fire," she said, "and should have thought there was room foeverybody to enjoy it, but it seems there'only enough for one! We'd better try the

salle à manger , instead, I suppose."



Brian, puzzled, paused at the door, hihand on Sirius's head, Dierdre standing ifront of them both like a ruffled sparrow.

The French officer straightened up in hichair with an astonished look, but did norise. It was the woman by the window

Dierdre had not connected her with thman by the fire) who sprang to her fee"Mademoiselle," she said quietly, in voice of exquisite sweetness, "my husban

would be the first one in the world tmove, and give his place to others, if hhad known that he was monopolizing thfire. But he did not know. It was I who

placed him there. Those eyes of his whicook so bright are made of crystal. He los

his sight at the Chemin des Dames."

As she spoke, choking on the last words



he woman with white hair crossed throom swiftly, and caught the hand of hehusband, which was stretched out as i

groping for hers. He stumbled to his feetand she stood defending him like a gentlcreature of the woods at bay.

Perhaps at no other moment of her lifwould Dierdre O'Farrell have been strucwith such poignant repentance. That shewho had just been shown the secret, inne

heart of one blind man, shouldeliberately wound another, seemed morhan she could bear, and live.

Brian remained silent, partly because hwas still confused, and partly to givDierdre the chance to speak, which he felnstinctively she would wish to seize.



She took a step forward, then stoppedwith a sob, shamed tears stinging her eyes"Will you forgive me?" she begged. "

would rather have died than hurt a blinman, or—or any one who loves a blinman. Lately I've been finding out howsacred blindness is. I ought to hav

guessed, Madame, that you were with hi—that you were his wife. I ought to havknown that only a great grief could havurned your wonderful hair white—you, s

young——"

"Her hair white!" cried the blind officer"No, I'll not believe it. Suzanne, tell thi

ady she's mistaken. I remember, in somights, it was the palest gold, almost silve

—your beautiful hair that I fell in lovwith——"



His voice broke. No one answered. Therfell a dead silence, and Dierdre had timo realize what she had done. She ha

been cruel as the grave! She had accused helpless blind man of selfishness; and nocontent with that, on top of all she hagiven away the secret that a brav

woman's love had hidden.

"Suzanne—you don't speak!"

"Oh!" the trembling woman tried to laugh"Of course, Mademoiselle is mistakenThat goes without saying."

"Yes—I—of course," Dierdre echoed. "Iwas the light—deceived me."

"And now," said the blind man slowly"you are trying to deceive me —you ar



both trying! Suzanne, why did you keep ifrom me that your hair had turned whitwith grief? Didn't you know I'd love yo

more, for such a proof of love for me?""Indeed, I—oh, you mustn't think——" shbegan to stammer. "I loved your dear eye

as you loved my hair. But I love it twicas much now. I——"

He cut her short. "I don't think. I know

Chérie, you need have had no fear. I shalworship you after this."

"She could never have been so lovelbefore. Her hair is like spun glass,Dierdre tried to atone. "People would turo look at her in the street. Monsieur l

Capitaine, you should be proud of such

beautiful wife."



"I am," the man answered, "proud of hebeauty, more proud of her heart."

"But it is I who am proud!" the womacaught him up. "He has lost his dear eyehat all women admired, yet he has wo

honours such as few men have. What doe

t matter about my poor hair? You can seeby the ribbons on his breasMademoiselle, what he is—what he hadone for his country. You also, Monsieur

you see——""I don't see, Madame, because I, too, ablind," said Brian. "But I feel—I feel tha

your husband has won something whicmeans more than his eyes, more than alhis honours and decorations: a greaove."



"You are blind !" exclaimed thFrenchwoman. "I should never havguessed. Ah, Madame, it is I who mus

now ask your pardon! I called yoMademoiselle.' Already I had forgiveyou what you said in error. But I did nounderstand, or the forgiveness would hav

been easier. Your first thought was foryour husband—your blind husband—jusas my thought always is and will be fomine! You wanted him to have a place byhe fire. Your temper was in arms, not for

yourself, but for him—his comfort. Howwell I understand now! Madame, you an

have the same cross laid upon us. But it'a cross of honour. It is le croix duerre!"

"I wish I had a right to it!" Dierdre brok



out. "I haven't, because he is not mhusband. He doesn't care for me—excepmaybe, as a friend. But to atone to him fo

njustice, to punish myself for hurting you'll confess something. I'd marry him tomorrow, blind as he is—perhaps becaushe is blind!—and be happy and proud al

my life—if he would have me. Only,—know he won't ."

"My child! I care too much for you," Bria

answered, after an instant of astonishesilence, "far too much to take you at youword. Some men might—but not IMonsieur le Capitaine here, and Madame

were husband and wife before theirouble came. That is different——"

"No!" cried the woman whose name wa

Suzanne. "It is not different. My husband'



he one man on earth for me. If we wernot married—if he had lost his legs anarms as well as his eyes, I'd still want t

be his wife—want it more than kingdom."

"You hear, Monsieur," her husband said

aughing a little, and holding her closewith that perfect independence oonlookers which the French have whehey're thoroughly in love.

"I hear, Madame," said Brian. "But youMonsieur le Capitaine—you would nohave accepted the sacrifice——"

"I'm not sure I could have resisted," thFrenchman smiled.

"You love her!—that is why," Dierdre



said. "My friend—doesn't love me. Hnever could. I'm not worthy. No one goodcould love me. If he knew the worst of me

he'd not even be my friend. And I supposeafter this, he won't be. If, by and by, I'not ashamed of myself for what I've saidhe'll be ashamed for me, because——"

"Don't!" Brian stopped her. "You know mustn't let myself love you, Dierdre. Andyou don't really love me. It's only pity an

some kind of repentance—for nothing aall—that you feel. But we'll be greatefriends than ever. I understand just whyou spoke, and it's going to help me a lo

—like a strong tonic. You must haveknown it would. And if Monsieur andMadame have forgiven us——"

"Us? What have you done? If they'v



forgiven me——"

"They have, indeed, forgiven," said th

blind Frenchman. "They even thank you. Ipossible you've drawn them closeogether than before."

Brian searched for Dierdre's hand, anfound it. "Let us go now, and leave them,he whispered.

So they went away, and Brian softly shuhe door of the little salon.

" I did mean every word I said!" the girblurted out, turning upon him in the hall

"But—I shouldn't have dared say it if hadn't been sure you didn't care. And evef you did care—or could—your siste

wouldn't let you. She knows me exactly a



he said. "Thank you with all my heart—foeverything."

"Who told you I was beautiful?" Dierdrflung the question at him.

"My sister Mary told me," Briaanswered. "Besides—I felt it. A man doefeel such things—perhaps all the more ihe is blind."

"Your sister Mary?" the girl echoed. "Shedoesn't think I'm beautiful. Or if she doest's against her will."

"It won't be, after this."

"Why not? You won't tell her——"

"I'll tell her to love you, and—to help m

not to!"



t was just then they came to Brian's doorand Dierdre fled, Sirius staring after hen dignified surprise.

But Dierdre herself came to me at onceand told me everything, with a kind oproud defiance.

" I do love your brother," she boasted. "would marry him if he'd have me. I doncare what you think of me, or what yo

say!""Why, I love you for loving him," I threwback at her. "That's what I think of you—and that's what I say."

was sincere, Padre. Yet I don't see howhey can ever marry, even if Brian shouldearn to love the girl enough. Neither on



has a penny—and— Brian is blind . Whcan tell if he will ever get his sight again

wish Dierdre hadn't come into our live

n just the way she did come! I wish shweren't Julian O'Farrell's sister! I hopshe won't be pricked by that queeconscience of hers to tell Brian an

secrets which concern me as well aJulian and herself. And I hope—whatevehappens!—that I shan't be mean enough tbe jealous. But—with such a newexciting "friendship" for Brian's prop, iseems as if, for me—Othello's occupatiowould be gone!



CHAPTER XXVII

We're at Amiens, where we came by wayof Montdidier and Moreuil; and nearlwo weeks have dragged or slipped awa

since I wrote last. Meanwhile a thousanhings have happened. But I'll begin at th

beginning and write on till I am called b

Mother Beckett.We stopped at Soissons three more dayafter I told you about Dierdre and Brianand Captain Devot and his wife. Not onldid they forgive Dierdre—those two—buhey took her to their hearts, perhaps mor

for Brian's sake than her own. I wa

ntroduced to them, and they were kind t



me, too. Of the blind man I have beautiful souvenir. I must tell you about itPadre!

The evening before we left Soissonwhen the doctor had pronounced Mothe

Beckett well enough for a short journey)

had an hour in the stuffy little salon witDierdre and Brian and the Devots. We saround the fire—plenty of room for us aln a close circle—and Captain Devo

began to talk about his last battle on thChemin des Dames. Suddenly he realizehat the story was more than his wif

could bear—for it was in that battle h

ost his eyes! How he realized what shwas enduring, I don't know, for she didnspeak, or even sigh, and Brian sat betweehem; so he couldn't have known she wa



rembling. It must have been some electricurrent of sympathy between the husbanand wife, I suppose—a magnetic flash t

which a blind man would be morsensitive than others. Anyhow, hesuddenly stopped speaking of the fighand told us instead about a dream he ha

he night before the battle—a dream wherhe saw the ladies for whom "The LadiesWay" was made, go riding by, along the"Chemin des Dames."

"In silks and satins the ladieswent

Where the breezes sighed and the

poplars bent,Taking the air of a Sunday mornMidst the red of poppies and gold

of corn—



Flowery ladies in gold brocades,With negro pages and serving

maids,

In scarlet coach or in gilt sedan,With brooch and buckle andflounce and fan,

Patch and powder and trailing

scent,Under the trees the ladies went,Lovely ladies that gleamed and

glowed,As they took the air of the Ladies'

Road."

That verse came from Punch, not fro

Captain Devot. I happen to remember ibecause it struck my fancy when I read iand added to the romance of the roamade for Louis XV's daughters—



daughters of France, where now so mansons of France have died for France! Buhe ladies of Captain Devot's dream wer

ike that, travelling with a gorgeoucavalcade, and as they rode, they weristening to a song about the old Abbey o

Vauclair on the plateau of the Craonne

When they came to a place where thpoppies clustered thickest, the threprincesses insisted on stopping—PrincesAdelaide, Princess Sophia, PrincesVictoire. They wished to gather thflowers to take with them to the Châteade Bove, where they were going to visi

h e i r dame d'honneur , Madame darbonne, but their guards argued thaalready it was growing late: they habetter hurry on. At this the girls laughed

silvery laughter. What did time matter to



hem? This was their road, made anpaved for their pleasure! They would nobe hurried along it. No indeed; to show

hat time as well as the road was theirs, tdo with as they liked, they would gedown and make a chain of poppies lonenough to stretch across the whole platea

before it dipped to the valley of thAillette!

So, in Captain Devot's dream, th

princesses descended, and they and alheir pretty ladies began weaving a chai

of poppies. As they wove, the flowerchain fell from their little white finger

and trailed along the ground in a crimsoine. The sun dropped toward the west

and thunder began to roll: still theworked on! Their gentlemen-in-charg



begged them to start again, and at last therose up petulantly to go; but they hastayed too late. The storm burst. Lightnin

flashed; thunder roared; rain fell iorrents; and—strange to see—the popppetals melted, so that the long chain oflowers turned to a liquid stream, red as

river of blood. The princesses werfrightened and began to cry. Their tearfell into the crimson flood. Captain Devotwho seemed in his dream to be one of thadies' attendants, jumped from his horso pick up the princesses' tears, whicurned into little, rattling stones as the

fell. With that, he waked. The princessewere gone—"all but Victoire," he saidsmiling, "she shall stay with us! Thhunder was the thunder of German guns

The poppies were there—and the bloo



was there. So also were the stones thahad been the princesses' tears. They lie alalong the Chemin des Dames to this day.

gathered some for my wife, and if you likshe will give a few to you, ladies—souvenirs of the Ladies' Way!"

Of course we did like; so Dierdre and each have a small, glistening gray stonewith a faint splash of red upon it. I woulnot sell mine for a pearl!

Father Beckett proposed to take his wifback to Paris; but while she rested aftehe fever, industriously she built up

another plan. You remember, Padre, my

elling you that the Becketts wer



negotiating for a château, before thearrived in France to visit their son? Whehey heard that Jim had fallen, they n

onger cared to live in this château (whicwas to let, furnished), nevertheless, thefelt bound in honour to stick to theibargain. Well, at Soissons, Mothe

Beckett had it "borne in upon her" that Jiwould wish his father and mother to staat the old house he had loved and covetefor himself.

"I can't go back across the sea and settldown at home while this war goes on!she said. "Home just wouldn't be home

t's too far away from Jim. I don't meafrom his body," she went on. "His bodsn't Jim, I know! I've thought that out, an

made myself realize the truth of it. But it'



Jim's spirit I'm talking about, Father. guess his soul—Jim himself—won't caro be flitting back and forth, crossing th

ocean to visit us, while his friends arfighting in France and Belgium, to save thworld. I know my boy well enough to bsure he's too strong to change much jus

because he is what some folks call 'deadand he'd like us to be near. Paris won't dofor me. No city would. I'd be too restleshere. Do, do let's go and live till the en

of the war in Jim's château! That's whahe's wanting. I feel it every minute."

was in the room when she made thi

appeal to her husband, and I longed to punto their hearts the thought Jack Curti

had put into mine. But, of course, I darenot. It would have been cruel. Jack Curti



had nothing to go upon except himpression—the same impression I mysel

have at times, of Jim's vital presence i

he midst of life. I have it often, thougnever quite so strongly as that night iParis, when he would not let me kilmyself.

t wasn't difficult to make Father Beckeconsent to the new plan. He told mafterward that his own great wish was t

find Jim's grave, when the end of the wawould make search possible. Beckenterests were being safeguarded i

America. They would not suffer muc

from his absence. Besides, business nonger seemed vitally important to him a

of old. Money mattered little now that Jiwas gone.



He would have abandoned his visit to thBritish front, since Mother Beckett coulnot have the glimpse half promised by th

authorities. But she would not let him givt up. "Molly" would take good care oher. When she could move, we would algo to Amiens. There she and I could b

safely left for a few days, while Brian anFather Beckett were at the front. As foJulian O'Farrell and Dierdre, at first iappeared as if the little lady had left theout of her calculations. But I might havknown—knowing her—that she wouldndo that for long.

She believed implicitly in their Red Crosmission, which, ever since the little caoined the big one, has been constantl

aided with Beckett money and Becke



nfluence. Julian would, she supposedwish to "carry on his good work," wheour trip came to an end. But as he had n

permission for the British front (he hadncared to make himself conspicuous to thBritish authorities by asking for it!) he anDierdre might like to keep us two wome

company at Amiens. By the time wwanted to leave, Mother Beckeconfidently expected "Jim's château" to bready for occupation, and Dierdre musvisit "us" there indefinitely, while hebrother dutifully continued distributinsupplies to hospitals and refugees. ("Us,

according to Mother Beckett, meant Briaand me, Father Beckett and herself, for wnow constituted the "family"!) Telegramhad given the Paris house-letting agenc

carte blanche for hasty preparations at th



Château d'Andelle, where several olservants had been kept on as caretakersand being a spoiled America

millionairess, the little lady was confidenhat a week would see the house airedwarmed, staffed, and altogether habitable

"You wouldn't object to having that pooittle girl stay with us, would you, dear?Mother Beckett asked me, patting my hanwhen she had revealed her idea

concerning the O'Farrells."Oh, no," I answered, looking straight inther inquiring eyes, and trying not t

change colour. "But you shouldn't speak af I had any right——"

"You have every right!" she cut me short

"Aren't you our daughter?"



"I love you and Father Beckett enough tbe your daughter," I said. "But that giveme no right——"

"It does. Your love for us, and ours foryou. I don't believe we could have livehrough our sorrow if it hadn't been fo

you and Brian. He saved our reason bshowing us what Jim would want us to dfor the good of others. And he taught uwhat we couldn't seem to realize fully

hrough religion, that death doesn't counow, since I've been ill, I guess you'v

saved my life. And much as I want to seJim, I want even more to live for Father

He needs me—and we both need you anBrian. You two belong to us, just as iyou'd been given to us by Jim. We want todo what's best for you both. I thought, fo



Brian, it would be good perhaps to havDierdre——"

"Perhaps," I murmured, when she paused."You're not sure? I wasn't at first. I mean

wasn't sure she was good enough. Busince the night when she threw herself ifront of him to keep off the dog, I saw shcared. Maybe she didn't know it herselill then. But she's known ever since

You've only to see the way she looks ahim. And she's growing more and more oa woman—Brian's influence, and thnfluence of her love—such a grea

nfluence, dear! It might be for hihappiness, if——"

"I don't think Brian would marry Dierdr

or any girl, unless his sight came back,"



said. "He's often told me he wouldnmarry."

"Was that before he went to Paris with theO'Farrells? Things have been rathedifferent since then—and a good deadifferent since the night we met Jac

Curtis with Sirius.""I know," I admitted. "But if Brian wantedo change his mind about marrying, h

couldn't. Neither he nor Dierdre O'Farrelhave a penny——"

"Brian's got as much as we have," the deawoman assured me.

"Do you think he'd take your money tmarry on? No, dearest! Brian's verunworldly. So far, he hasn't worried abou



finances for the present. The future idifferent. If he doesn't get back his sigh——"

"But he will—he must!" she urged. "Thagreat specialist you saw in Paris gave hihope. And then there's the other one tha

your doctor friend recommended——.""He's somewhere at the front. We can't geat him now."

"We'll get at him later," Mother Becketpersisted. "In the meantime—let's givhose two hearts the chance to drawogether, if it's best for them."

could not go on objecting. One can't, foong, when that little angel of a woma

wants a thing—she who never want



anything for herself, only for others! But hought Fate might step between Brian an

Dierdre—Fate, in the shape of Puck.

wasn't at all sure that Julian O'Farrelcould be contented to leave his sister ancontinue his own wanderings. The ReCross taxi had in truth been only a mean

o an end. I didn't fancy that his devotioo duty would carry him far from th

Château d'Andelle while Dierdre wacomfortably installed in it. Unless he wernvited to embusquer himself there, in ou

society, I expected a crash. Which showhow little I knew my Julian!

When the plan was officially suggested thim, he agreed as if with enthusiasm. Iwas only when he'd consented tDierdre's visit at the château on the othe



side of the Somme, and promised to dropn now and then himself on his wa

somewhere else, that he allowed himself

second thought. To attract attention to ithe started, ran his hand through his hairand stopped in the middle of a sentence. "am heaven's own fool!" he exclaimed.

Of course Father Beckett wanted to knowwhy. (This was two days before wstarted for Amiens.) Julian "registered

reluctance." Father Beckett persisted, andrew forth the information that Juliamight have to cut short his career as ministering Red Cross angel. "If it hadn

been for you," he said, "my funds and msupplies would have run short before thisYou've helped me carry on. But I'm gettingpretty close to the bone again now, I'



afraid. A bit closer and I shall have tosettle down and give music lessons. That'all I'm fit for in future! And Dierdr

wouldn't want me to set up housekeepinalone. While I'm on this Red Cross job it'all right, but——"

Of course Father Beckett broke in to sahat there was no question of not carryinon. Money should be forthcoming fosupplies as long as Julian felt inclined t

drive the Red Cross taxi from one scenof desolation and distress to anotherHolidays must be frequent, and all spent ahe Château d'Andelle. Let the futur

decide itself!

So matters were settled—on the surfaceJulian was ready to pose before a

admiring audience as the self-sacrificin



hero, giving all his time and energy to noble cause. Only his sister and I knewhat he was the villain of the piece, and fo

different reasons neither of us coulexplain the mistake about his rôle. He wasure of us both; impudently, aggravatinglyyet (I can't help it, Padre!) amusingly sur

of me. He tried to "isolate" me, as if I'been a microbe while we were still aSoissons, and again just after FatheBeckett and Brian went away froAmiens in the big gray car. There wasomething, something very special that hwished to say to me, I could tell by hi

eyes. But I contrived to thwart him. never left Mother Beckett for a moment!

The first day at Amiens it was easy tokeep out of his way altogether, for I wa



nurse as well as friend, and my dear littlnvalid was worn out after the journe

from Soissons. She asked nothing bette

han to stop in her room. The next dayhowever, exciting news acted upon heike a tonic. The Amiens address had bee

wired to Paris, and in addition to a mas

of letters (mostly for Father Beckett) therwas a telegram from the Châtead'Andelle, despatched by an agencmessenger, who had been sent to

ormandy. All was going well. The housewould be ready on the date named. Twoarge boxes from the Ritz had safel

arrived by grande vitesse."Darling Jimmy's own things!" MotheBeckett explained to me. "Do yoremember my telling you we'd brough



over to France the treasures out of his deat home?"

did remember. (Do I ever forget anythinshe says about Jim?)

"They were to be a surprise for him whehe came to see us," his mother went onears misting the blueness of her eyes

"Not furniture, you know, but just the littlhings he loved best in his rooms: some h

had when he was a child, and others whehe was growing up—and the picture youbrother painted. When we heard—thnews—and knew we shouldn't see our bo

again in this world, I couldn't bear to opehe boxes—though I was longing to crover his dear treasures. They've beestored at the Ritz ever since. But the firs

hing I asked Father to do when w



decided the other day to live in Jim'château, after all—was to wire for thboxes to be sent there. I didn't suppos

hey'd arrive so soon—in war time. Deame, I can hardly wait to start, now! I feeas strong as a girl."

To prove this—or because she warestless—she begged to be taken out in cab to see the town, especially thcathedral, which Brian had told her wa

he largest in Europe except St. Peter's iRome, St. Sophia in Constantinople, ansomething in Cologne which she didnwant to remember! Julian O'Farrell an

his sister must go with us, of course. Iwouldn't be kind to leave them to do theisightseeing alone. Besides, Julian was sgood-natured, and said such funny things i



would be pleasant to have his society.

This arrangement made it difficult for m

o glue myself to Mother Beckett's sideow and then she insisted upon getting ouof the cab to try her strength, and Dierdrwould obediently have taken her in tow, i

order to hand me over to "Jule," if I hadnbeen mulishly obstinate. I quite enjoyemanœuvring to use my dear little invalias a sort of standing barrage agains

enemy attacks, and even though Brian anwere parted for the first time since hi

blindness, I felt almost absurdly cheerfult was so good to know that Mothe

Beckett was out of danger, and that it wawho had helped to drag her out! Besides

after all the stricken towns that havsaddened our eyes, it was enlivening to b



n one (as Mother Beckett said aCompiègne) with "whole houses." Icontrast, good St. Firmin's ancient cit

ooks almost as gay as Paris. Our hotewith its pleasant garden and the fine shop—(where it seems you can still buy everfascinating thing from newest jeweller

and oldest curiosities, to Amiens' specia"roc" chocolates)—the long, arboureboulevards, the cobbled streets, the quainblue and pink houses of the suburbs, anhe poplar-lined walk by the Somme, al

all have the friendliest air! Despite thcrowds of soldiers in khaki and horizo

blue who fill the streets and cafés, thplace seems outside war. Even the stackesandbags walling the west front and thside portals of the grandest cathedral i

France suggest comfortable security rathe



han fear. The jackdaws and pigeons thaused to be at home in the carvings, campcontentedly among the bags, or walk in th

neglected grass where sleep the dead oong ago. I didn't want to remember jushen, or let any one else remember, thawenty miles away were the trenches an

housands of the dead of to-day!

ever can Amiens have been such kaleidoscope of colourful animation sinc

Henri II of France and Edward VI oEngland signed the treaty of peace herewith trains of diplomatists and soldiers ochurch and state and dignified rejoicings!

t wasn't until we were inside thcathedral that I forgot my manœuveringsThe soft, rich light gave such a bizarr

effect to the sandbags protecting th



famous choir carvings, that I was all eyefor a moment: and during that momenJulian must have signed to his sister t

decoy Mother Beckett away from meWhen I hauled my soul down from thsoaring arches as one strikes a flag, therwas Puck at my side and there wer

Mother Beckett and Dierdre disappearinbehind sandbag-hillocks, in the directioof the celebrated Cherub.

"I suppose you want me jolly well tunderstand," said Puck, smiling, "that evef your brother Brian and my sister Dar

are fools over each other, you won't b

fooled into forgiving a poor, brokenvoiced Pierrot?"

"I've nothing to forgive you for

personally," I said. "Only——"



"Only, you don't want to be friends?"

"No, I don't want to be friends," I echoed

"Why can't you be content with beinreated decently before people, instead ofollowing me about, trying always to brinupon yourself——"

"A lamp might ask that question of moth."

laughed. "You're less like a moth thanany creature I ever met!"

"You don't believe I'm sincere."

"Do moths specialize in sincerity in thnsect world?"

"Yes," Puck said, more gravely than usual

"Come to think of it, that's just what the



do. They risk their lives for the light theove. I 'follow you about,' as you put i

because I love you and want to persuad

you that we're birds of a feather, made foeach other by nature and fate and oumutual behaviour. We belong together inife."

"Do you really believe you can blackmaime into a partnership?" I turned at bay"You must have seen that I wanted to keep

out of your way——""Oh, I saw all right. You thought that hought Amiens would be my great chance

and you made up your mind it shouldn't bf you could help it. Well, you won't beable to help it much longer, because I'vgot something you want, and you can't ge

t except through me."



"I doubt very much that I could wananything you have," I said.

"Give your imagination wings.""You are always teasing me to gueshings I don't care to guess!"

"Here comes Dierdre back with MrsBeckett so I won't worry you to guess. I'vgot a message from the Wandering JewDo you want it, or don't you?"



CHAPTER XXVIII

f Julian had suddenly popped down aapple on the top of my head, à la Gessleand the son of William Tell, andhereupon proceeded to shoot it off,

could have been no more amazed. Foonce he outflanked me, caught m

completely off my guard! I saw by thmpish gleam in his eye how delighted hwas with himself.

"Yes or no, please; quick!" he fired thenext volley as I stood speechless.

"Yes!" I gasped. "I do want the message—f it's for me. But why should he sen



word through you?"

"He didn't. I caught it as I might catch

homing carrier-pigeon. You know, mymotto is 'All's fair in love and war.' In mcase, both exist—your fault! Besideswhat I did was for your good."

"What did you do—what did you dare tdo?"

"Dare!" Puck mimicked my foolish fury"'Dare' is such a melodramatic word froyou to me. I can't tell you now what I didor the message—no time. But I'm in amuch of a hurry as you are. When can I seyou alone?"

hesitated, because it would be like hio cheat me with some trick, and chuckl



at my rage. I couldn't see how a messagfrom Paul Herter for me had reacheJulian O'Farrell, unless he'd intercepted

etter. It seemed far more likely that Puckwas romancing, yet I felt in my bones anheart and solar plexus that he wasn't! simply had to know—and in a flurry

before Mother Beckett and Dierdre werupon us, I said, "This afternoon, at threewhen Mrs. Beckett is having her nap. I'lmeet you in the garden of the hotel."

Though I dash along with this story omine, Padre, as if I went straight odescribing the scene between Julian an

me from beginning to end, without a breakt isn't really so. I've been interrupte

more than once, and may be again; but shall tell you everything that's happene



since we came to Amiens, as if I wrotconsecutively. You can understand bettern that way, and help me with you

strength and love, through youunderstanding, as I feel you do helpwhenever I make you my confessionsSince I've begun to write you, as in ol

days when you were in the flesh, I've felyour advice come to me in electriflashes. I'm sure I don't just imagine thist's real, dear Padre, and makes all th

difference to me that a rope flung out ovedark waters would make to a drowninman.

At three o'clock I was in the garden. Iwas cold, but I didn't care. Besides, I waoo excited to feel the chill. I wanted to b

out of doors because there would b



people about, and no chance for Julian try and kiss my hand—no vulgaemptation for me to box his ears!

He was already waiting, strolling up andown, smoking a cigarette which he threwaway at sight of me. Evidently he'

decided on this occasion not to bfrivolous!

selected a seat safely commanded b

many windows. "Now!" I said, sittindown close to one end of the bench.

Julian took the other end, but sat gazinstraight at me without a word. There waan odd expression on his face. I didnknow how to read it, or to guess what wao come. But there was nothing Puckis

about the enemy at that moment. He looke



nervous—almost as if he were afraid. hought of something you told me when

was quite small, Padre: how the Roman

of old used to send packets of good newbound with laurel, or of bad news, tiewith the plumes of ravens. I stared intJulian O'Farrell's stare, and wished tha

he'd stuck a green leaf or a black feathen his buttonhole to prepare my mind.

"Yes—now!" he echoed at last, as if he'd

suddenly waked up to my challenge"Well, a man blew into this hotel last nigh—a lame Frenchman with a face like boiled ghost. I was writing an importan

elegram (I'll tell you about that later)when I heard this person ask the conciergf a Miss Mary O'Malley was staying ihe house. That made me open my eyes—



because he was of the lower bourgeoiclass, and hadn't the air of being—so tspeak—in your set. It seemed as if 'twa

up to me to tackle him; so I did. ntroduced myself as a friend of MisO'Malley's, travelling with her party. explained that Miss O'Malley was takin

care of an old lady who'd been ill and waired after a long journey. I asked if he'dike to give a message. He said he would

But first he began to explain who he wasan Alsatian by birth, named Mullercorporal in an infantry regiment; been prisoner in Germany, I forget how long—

aken wounded; leg amputated; and fittewith artificial limb in a Boche hospitalust exchanged for a grand blessé Boche

and repatriated; been in Paris on importan

business, apparently with the War Office



—sounded more exciting than he lookedAfter I'd prodded the chap tactfully, hcame back to the subject of the message

asked me if I knew Doctor Paul Herter. said I did know him. Herter mended up msister after an air raid. I inquired politelwhere Herter was, but Muller evaded tha

question. He led me to suppose he'd seeHerter in Paris; but putting two and twogether, I got a different ide

— altogether different."

Julian paused on those words, and triepiercingly to read my thoughts. But I madmy face expressionless as the front of

shut-up house, with "to let unfurnishedover the door.

"I expect you've guessed what my ide

was, and I bet you know for a fact whethe



was on the right track," he ventured.

"The only thing so far which I know for

fact," I said, "is that you had no right talk to the man at all. You should havesent for me at once."

"You couldn't have come if I had. Dierdrehad told me about five minutes before thayou were putting Mrs. Beckett to bed, angiving her a massage treatment with a rub

down of alcohol.""Why didn't you ask the man to wait?"

"I did ask him if he could wait, and h

said he couldn't. He'd stopped at Amienon purpose to deliver his message, and hhad to catch a train on to Allonville, towhere it seems his people have migrated.



"You asked him that because you hoped hecouldn't wait—and if he could, you'd havfound some reason for not letting me mee

him. You thought you saw a way of gettinga new hold over me!"

"Some such dramatic idea may have flitte

hrough my head. I've often warned you, am dramatic! I enjoy dramatizing life fomyself and others! But honestly, hcouldn't wait for you to finish with Mrs

Beckett. I know too well how devoted yoare to think you'd have left the old ladbefore you'd soothed her off to sleep."

"Where is the message?" I snatched Juliaback to the point.

"In my brain at present."



"You destroyed the letter?"

"There wasn't a letter. Oh, make grapplin

hooks of your lovely eyes if you like! Youcan't drag anything out of me that doesnexist. Herter's message to you was verbafor safety. That was one thing set m

hinking the men hadn't met in ParisMuller admitted going to a bank to geyour address. The people there didn't wano give it, but when he explained that i

was important, and mentioned where hwas going, they saw that he might havime to meet you at Amiens on his wa

home. So they told him where you were

ow, there's no good your being croswith me. What's done is done, and can't bundone. I acted for the best— my best; ann my opinion for your best. Listen! Here'



he message, word for word. You'll seehat a few hours' delay for me to think i

over could make no difference to any on

concerned. Paul Herter, from somewher—but maybe not 'somewhere in France'—sends you a verbal greeting, because iwas more sure of reaching you—no

coming to grief en route. He reminds yohat he asked for an address in case he ha

something of interest to communicate. Hhoped to find the grave of a man yooved. Instead, he thinks he has found thahere is no grave—that the man is abov

ground and well. He isn't sure yet whethe

he may be deceived by a likeness onames. But he's sure enough to sayHope.' If he's right about the man, yomay get further news almost any minute b

way of Switzerland or somewhere neutra



That's all. Yet it's enough to show youwhat danger you're in. If Herter hadnbeen practically certain, he wouldn't hav

sent any message. He'd have waitedEvidently you made him believe that yooved Jim Beckett, so he wanted t

prepare your mind by degrees. I suppos

he imagined a shock of joy might bdangerous. Well, you ought to thank Herteust the same for sparing you a worse sor

of shock. And I thank him, too, for it giveme a great chance—the chance to savyou. Mary, the time's come for you and mo fade off the Beckett scene—together."

listened without interrupting him once: afirst, because I was stunned, and housand thoughts beat dully against m

brain without finding their way in, as gull



beat their wings against the lamp of ighthouse; at last, because I wished t

hear Julian O'Farrell to the very en

before I answered. I fancied that ianswering I could better marshal my owhoughts.

He misunderstood my silence—I expectehim to do that, but I cared not at all—sowhen he had paused and still I sainothing, he went on: "Of course I—for th

best of reasons—know you didn't love JiBeckett, and couldn't love him."

Hearing those words of his, suddenly

knew just what I wanted to say. I'd beeike an amateur actress wild with stagfright, who'd forgotten her part till thright cue came. "There you're mistaken,"

contradicted him. "I did love Ji



Beckett."

Julian gave an excited, brutal laugh. "Tel

hat to the Marines, my child, not to yourruly! You never set eyes on Jim BeckettHe never went near your hospital. Younever came near the training-camp. You

seem to have forgotten that I was on thspot."

"I met him before the war," I said.

"What's that?" Julian didn't know whetheo believe me or not, but his forehea

flushed to the black line of his lowgrowing hair.

"I never told you, because there was nneed to tell," I went on. "But it's true. I feln love with Jim Beckett then, and— h



cared for me."

For the first time I realized that Julia

O'Farrell's "love" wasn't all pretence. Hiflush died, and left him pale with that sickgreenish-olive pallor which men of Latiblood have when they're near fainting. H

opened his lips, but did not speakbecause, I think, he could not. If I'wanted revenge for what he made msuffer when he first thrust himself into m

ife, I had it then; but to my own surprise felt no pleasure in striking him. Instead felt vaguely sorry, though very distanfrom his plans and interests.

"You—you weren't engaged to Beckettanyhow. I'm sure you weren't, or you'dhave had nothing to worry about whe

Dierdre and I turned up," he faced m



down.

"No, we weren't engaged," I admitted. "

—was just as much of a fraud as yomeant Dierdre to be with Father anMother Beckett. I've no excuse—excephat it was for Brian's sake. But that's n

excuse really, and Brian would despisme if he knew."

"There you are!" Julian burst out, with

relieved sigh, a more natural coloucreeping back to his face. "If Jim Beckeet you go before the war without askin

you to marry him, I'm afraid his lov

couldn't have been very deep—not deeenough to make him forgive you after alhis time for deceiving his old father an

mother the way you have. My God, no! I

spite of your beauty, he'd have no merc



on you!"

"That's what I think," I said. "My havin

met him, and his loving me a little, makewhat I've done more shameful than if I'never met him at all."

"Then you see why you must get away aquick as you can!" urged Julian, his eyeighting as he drew nearer to me on th

garden bench. "Oh, wait, don't speak yet

Let me explain my plan. There's time stilYou're thinking of Brian before yourselfmaybe. But he's safe. The Becketts adorhim. They say he 'saved their reason.' H

makes the mysticism they're alwaygroping for seem real as their daily breadHe puts local colour into the fourtdimension for them! They can never d

without Brian again. All that's needed i



for him to propose to Dierdre. I know—you think he won't, no matter how he feelsBut he'll have missed her while he's away

She's a missable little thing to any onwho likes her, and she can tempt him tospeak out in spite of himself when he getback. I'll see to it that she does. Th

Becketts will be enchanted. The old lady'a born match-maker. We can announce ouengagement at the same time. While thehink Jim's dead, they won't grudge you

being happy with another man, especiallwith me. They're fond of me! And you'ryoung. Your life's before you. They're too

generous to stand in your way. They looon you as a daughter, and Brian as a sonThey'll give each of you a handsomwedding present, and I don't doubt they'l

ask Brian to live with them, or near them



f he's to be blind all his life. He'll haveverything you wanted to win for himEven when they get into communicatio

with Jim, and find out the truth about youwhy I bet anything they'll hide it froBrian to keep him happy! Meanwhile yoand I will be in Paris, safely married. A

offer came to me yesterday from Jean DLetzski—forwarded on. He's getting oldHe wants me to take on some of hipupils, under his direction. I telegrapheback my acceptance. That's the wire I wasending when Herter's man turned up lasnight. There was a question last summer o

my getting this chance with De Letzski, buhardly dared hope. It's a great stroke ouck! In the end I shall stand in D

Letzski's shoes, and be a rich man—

almost as rich as if I'd kept my place a



star tenor in opera. Even at the beginninyou and I won't be poor. I count on wedding gift from the Becketts to you o

en thousand dollars at least. The one wao save our reputations is to marry or dibrilliantly. We choose the former. We canake a fine apartment. We'll entertain the

most interesting set in Paris. With youooks and charm, and what's left of m

voice, we——"

"Oh, stop!" I plunged into the torrent of hialk. "You are making me— sick . Do yo

really believe I'd accept money from JiBeckett's parents, and—marry you?"

He stared, round-eyed and hurt, like misunderstood child. "But," he blundereon, "don't you see it's the only thing yo

can do—anyhow, to marry me? If yo



won't accept money, why it's a pity and waste, but I want you enough to snap youp without a franc. You must marry me

dear. Think what I gave up for you!"burst out laughing. "What you gave up fo

me!"

"Yes. Have you forgotten already? If hadn't fallen in love with you at first sightand sacrificed myself and Dierdre fo

your good, wouldn't my sister have been your place now, and you and youbrother Lord knows where—in prison ampostors, perhaps?"

"According to you, my place isn't a verenviable one at present," I said. "But I'rather be in prison for life than married t

you. What a vision—what a couple!"



"Oh, I know having you for my wifwould be a good deal like going to heaven a strong mustard plaster; but I'd stan

he smart for the sake of the bliss. If yowon't marry me and if you won't takmoney from the Becketts, what wilbecome of you? That's what I want t

know! You can't stay on with them. Youdaren't risk going to their Châtead'Andelle, as things are turning outHerter's certainly in Germany—ideal mafor a spy! If he runs across Jim Beckett, ahe's trying to do, he'll move heaven anearth to help him escape. He must hav

nfluence, and secret ways of workinhings. He may have got at Jim before thifor all we can tell. Muller let it leak ouhat he left Herter—somewhere—a wee

ago. A lot can happen in a week—to a



Wandering Jew. The ground's tremblingunder your feet. You'll have to skipwithout Brian, without money, withou

——""I shall not stir," I said. "I can't leave MrsBeckett, I won't leave her! The only way

can atone even a little bit, is to stop anake care of her while she needs me, nmatter what happens. When she finds outshe won't want me any longer. Then I'l

go. But not before."We glared at each other like two fencerhrough the veil of falling dusk. Suddenly

sprang up from the bench, rememberinhat, at least, I could escape from Julian, inot from the sword of Damocles. But hcaught my dress, and held me fast.



"What if I tell the old birds the wholstory up to date?" he blustered. "I can, yoknow."

"You can. Please give me fair warning iyou're going to—that's all I ask. I'll try tprepare Mrs. Beckett's mind to bear th

shock. She's not very strong, but——""If I don't tell, it won't be because of hert will be for you—always, everything, fo

you! But I haven't decided yet. I donknow what I shall do yet. I must thinkYou'll have to make the best of thacompromise unless you change you

mind.""I shall not change my mind," I said.



CHAPTER XXIX

Later, Padre, when I'd broken away froJulian, I wondered if he had made up thwhole story. The cruel trick would bmpishly characteristic! But I went straigho the concierge to ask about Muller. H

said that a man of that name had called th

night before, inquiring for me, and haalked with "the Monsieur who lookeike an Italian." This practicall

convinced me that Julian hadn't lied.

f only I could get direct advice from youDo try to send me an inspiration of what tdo for the best.



My first impulse was to give MotheBeckett a faint hint of hope. But I darenot run the risk. If Paul Herter proved t

be mistaken, it would be for her likosing her son a second time, and the deaone's strength might not be equal to thstrain. After thinking and unthinking al

night, I decided to keep silent until ouwo men returned from the British front

Then, perhaps, I might tell Brian of thmessage from Doctor Paul, and ask hiopinion about speaking to Father BecketAs for myself, I resolved not to make anconfession, unless it were certain that Ji

ived. And I'm not sure, Padre, whethehat decision was based on sheer, selfiscowardice, or whether I founded it partlon the arguments I presented to myself.

said in my mind: "If it's true tha



everything you did in the beginning wafor Brian's good, why undo it all at thmost critical hour of his life, whe

perhaps there may never be any reason tspeak?" Also I said: "Why make impossible for yourself to give Mothe

Beckett the care she needs, and can hardl

do without yet? Every day counts with henow. Why not wait unless you hear againmore definitely?"

The annoying part of a specious argumens that there's always some truth in it, ant seems like kind advice from wis

friends!

Anyhow, I did wait. Julian made nfurther appeal to me, and I felt sure that hsaid nothing to Dierdre. If he had taken he

nto his confidence, I should have know



by her manner; because, from the shut-upnight-flower of a girl that she was, she harather pathetically opened out for me int

a daylight flower. All this since she cameof her own free will and told me of thscene in the chill boarding house salon aSoissons. I used to think her as secret a

he grave—and deeper. She used to makme "creep" as if a mouse ran over mineby the way her eyes watched me: still as cat's looking into the fire. If we had tshake hands, she used to present me with imp little bunch of cold fingers, whic

made me long to ask what the deuce sh

wanted me to do with them? Nowbecause I'm Brian's sister, and because I'human enough to love her love of him, thflower-part of her nature sheds perfum

and distils honey for me: the cat-par



purrs; the girl-part warms. The creaturactually deigns to like me! It could nonow conceal its anxiety for Brian an

Brian's kith and kin, if it knew what Juliaknows.

waited until our last day at Amiens, and

Father Beckett, Brian, and Sirius are bacfrom the British front. Perhaps I forgot tell you that Sirius went. He wasn't on th

programme, but he knew somehow that hi

master was planning a separation, anrefused to fall in with the scheme. He wadiscovered in the motor-car when it waready to start, looking his best, his dea

face parted in the middle with arresistible, ingratiating smile. Whe

Brian tried to put him out he flattenehimself, and clung like a limpet. By Fathe



Beckett's intercession, he was eventuallaken, trusting to luck for toleration by th

British Army. Of course he continued to

smile upon all possible arbiters of hifate; and the drama of his historycombined with the pathos of his blinmaster who fought on these battlefields o

Flanders, which now he cannot see, madBrian's Sirius and Sirius's Brian personæratæ everywhere.

"I should have been nobody and nothinwithout them!" modestly insisted thmillionaire philanthropist for whom alhe privileges of the trip had been granted

To me, with the one thought, the one word"Jim—Jim— Jim!" repeating in my head iwas strange, even irrelevant to hear Jim'

unsuspecting father and my blind brothe



discoursing of their adventures.

We all assembled in Mother Beckett'

sitting room to listen to the recital, she oa sofa, a rug over her feet, and on heransparent face an utterly absorbed, tens

expression rather like a French spanie

rying to learn an English trick.Father Beckett appointed Brian aspokesman, and then in his excitemen

broke in every instant with: "Don't forgehis! Be sure to remember that! But soand-so was the best!" Or he jumped upfrom his chair by the sofa, and droppe

his wife's hand to point out something ohe map, spread like a cloth over thwhole top of a bridge-table.

t was his finger that sketched for our eye



he sharp triangle which the road-journehad formed: Amiens to Albert: Albert toPéronne: Péronne to Bapaume: Bapaum

o Arras: Arras to Bethune, and so on toYpres: his finger that reminded Brian ohe first forest on the road—a forest full o

working German prisoners.

At Pont-Noyelles, between Amiens andAlbert, they were met by an officer whwas to be their guide for that part of th

British front which they were to visit. Hwas sent from headquarters, but hadnbeen able to afford time for AmiensHowever, Pont-Noyelles was the mos

nteresting place between there anAlbert. A tremendous battle was fought onhat spot in '70, between the French unde

famous General Faidherbe and th



Germans under Manteuffel—a perfecname for a German general of these daysf not of those! There were tw

monuments to commemorate the battle—one high on a hill above the village; anhe officer guide (with the face of a bo

and the grim experience of an Ol

Contemptible) was well up in theihistory. He turned out to be a friend ofriends of Brian and knew the history oSirius as well as that of all the warwasted land. He and Brian, though they'never met, had fought near each other iseemed, and he could describe for th

blind eyes all the changes that had comupon the Somme country since Brian'"day." The roads which had been remadby the British over the shell-scarred an

honeycombed surface of the land; th



aerodromes; the training-camps; the tankshe wonderful new railways for troop

and ammunition: the bands of Germa

prisoners docilely at work.When the great gray car stopped

hrobbing, at special

view-points here and there, it was Briawho could listen for a lark's message ohope among the billowing downs, or drawn the tea-rose scent of earth from som

brown field tilled by a woman. It waFather Beckett who saw the horrors odesolation—desolation more hideoueven than on the French front; because

since the beginning, here had burned thhottest furnace of war: here had fallen black, never-ceasing rain obombardment, night and day, day and



night, year after year.

It was the cherubic Old Contemptible

who could telleach detail of war-history, when the car reached Albert. It was Brian who knewhe ancient legend of the place, and the

modern story of the spy, which, together,double the dramatic interest of theBending Virgin. In the eleventh century ashepherd boy discovered, in a miraculous

way, a statue of the Virgin. There was afar-off sound of music at night, when hewas out in search of strayed sheep, andbeing young he forgot his errand in

curiosity to learn whence came themysterious chanting, accompanied by thesilver notes of a flute. The boy wanderedn the direction of the delicate sounds, and



o his amazement found all the lost flock grazing round a statue which appeared tohave risen from the earth. On that spot wa

built the basilica of Notre-Dame deBrébières, which became a place of pilgrimage. The Virgin of the Shepherdswas supposed to send her blessings far,

far over the countryside, and her gildedmage, with the baby Christ in her arms,

was a flaming beacon at sunrise andsunset. Thus

on her high tower the golden Lady stoowhen the war began. Albert was pitilesslbombarded, and with a startling accurac

which none could understand: yet thchurch itself, with its temptingly higower, remained intact. Through October

1914, the shining figure blazed against th



sky, while houses fell in all quarters of thown: but on November 1st, three bomb

struck the church. They were the firs

heavy drops of rain in a thunderstorm. Throof crashed in: and presently the pedestaof the Virgin received a shattering blowThis was on the very day when Alber

discovered why for so long the church habeen immune. A spy had been safelysignalling from the tower, telling Germagunners how and where to strike with thmost damage to the town. When all thfactories which gave wealth to Albert, anhe best houses, had been methodicall

destroyed, the spy silently stole away: anhe Virgin of the Shepherds then bent overface down, to search for this black sheepof the fold. Ever since she with the sacre

Child in her arms has hung thus suspende



n pity and blessing over mountainoupiles of wreckage which once composehe market-place. She will not crash t

earth, Albert believes, till the war is overBut so loved is she in her posture oprotection that the citizens propose tkeep her in it for ever to commemorate th

war-history of Albert, when Albert irebuilt for future generations.

From there the gray car ran on almost du

east to Péronne, out of the country oSurrey-like, Chiltern-like downs, into strange marshy waste, where the riveSomme expands into vast meres

swarming with many fish. It lookedFather Beckett said, "Like a bit of thworld when God had just begun to creatife out of chaos."



Poor Péronne! In its glorious days ofeudal youth its fortress-castle wanvincible. The walls were so thick that i

days before gunpowder no assaults coulhope to break through them. Down in itunderground depths was a dungeon, wherrapped enemy princes lay rotting an

starving through weary years, nevereleased save by death, unless torturento signing shameful treaties. The ver

sound of the name, "Péronne," is an echof history, as Brian says. Hardly a yeardate in the Middle Ages could be prickedby a pin without touching som

sensational event going on at that time aPéronne. I remember this from mschooldays; and more clearly still fro"Quentin Durward," which I hav

promised to read aloud to Mother Becket



remember the Scottish monks who werestablished at Péronne in the reign oClovis. I remember how Charles the Bol

of Burgundy (who died outside Nancy'gates) imprisoned wicked Louis XI in strong tower of the château, one of the fouowers with conical roofs, lik

extinguishers of giant candles and kinglreputations! I remember best of all thheroine of Péronne, Catherine de Poix, "lbelle Péronnaise," who broke with heown hand the standard of Charles's royaflag, in the siege of 1536, threw the bearento the fosse, and saved the city.

When Wellington took the fortress in1814, he did not desecrate or despoil thplace: it was left for the Germans to dhat, just a century later in the progress o



civilization! My blood grew hot as I hearfrom our two men the story of what thnew Vandals had done. Just for a momen

almost forgot the secret burning in mheart. The proud pile of historic stonbrought to earth at last, like a soldier-kingfelled by an axe in his old age: the statu

of Catherine thrown from its pedestal, anreplaced in mockery by a foolish maniki—this as a mean revenge for what she dio the standard-bearer, most of Charles'

men in the siege being Germans, undeHenry of Nassau.



"Toujours Francs-PéronnaisAuront bon jour,Toujours et en tout temps

Francs-Péronnais auront bontemps,"

he girls used to sing in old days as the

wove the wonderful linens and tissues oPéronne, or embroidered banners ogorgeous colours to commemorate thsaving of the Picard city by Catherine: a

Brian repeated to Father Beckewandering through the ruins redeemed lasspring for France by the British. Andhough Brian's eyes could not see th

rubbish-heap where once had soared thcitadel he saw through the mystic veil ohis blindness many things which otherdid not see.



t seems that above these marshy flats ohe Somme, where the river has wandere

away from the hills and disguised itself i

shining lakes, gauzy mists always hoverBrian had seen them with bodily eyeswhile he was a soldier. Now, with theeyes of his spirit he saw them again

gleaming with the delicate, indescribablcolours which only blind eyes can call uo lighten darkness. He saw the fleec

clouds streaming over Péronne like a vastransparent ghost-banner. He saw on thei

filmy folds, as if traced in blue and goland royal purple, the ever famous scen

on the walls when Catherine and hefollowing beat back Nassau's men frohe one breach where they might hav

captured the town. And this mystic banne

of the spirit Germans can never capture o



desecrate. It will wave over Péronne—what was Péronne, and what will again bPéronne—while the world goes on makin

history for free men.After Péronne, Bapaume: the batterecorpse of Bapaume, murdered in flam

hat reddened all the skies of Picardbefore the British came to chase thGermans out!

n old times, when a place was destroyehe saying was, "Not one stone is left upoanother." But in this war, destructionmeans an avalanche of stones upon eac

other. Bapaume as Father Beckett saw its a Herculaneum unexcavated. Beneatie buried countless precious things, an

still more precious memories; the feuda

grandeur of the old château wher



Philippe-Auguste married proud Isabellde Hainaut, with splendid ceremony aong ago as 1180: the broken glory o

ancient ramparts, where modern loverwalked till the bugles of August 2, 1914parted them for ever; the arcaded TownHall, old as the domination of th

Spaniards in Picardy; the sixteenth-centurchurch of St. Nicolas with its quainByzantine Virgin of miracles: the statue oFaidherbe who beat back the Germawave from Bapaume in 1871: all, alburned and battered, and minglenextricably with débris of pitiful littl

homes, nobles' houses, rich shops and tinboutiques, so that, when Bapaume risefrom the dead, she will rise as one—eveas France has risen.



Of the halting places on this pilgrimagalong the British front, I should best haviked to be with Brian and Father Becke

at Arras. Brian and I were there togetheyou know, Padre, on that happy-go-luckramping tour of ours—not long before

met Jim. We both loved Arras, Brian and

, and spent a week there in the mosfascinating of ancient hotels. It had been palace; and I had a huge room, big enougfor the bedchamber of a princesprincesses should always hav

bedchambers, never mere bedrooms!with long windows draped like the wall

and stiff old furniture, in yellow satin. was frightened when an aged servant withe air of a pontiff ushered me in; fo

Brian and I were travelling "on th

cheap." But Arras, though delicious in it



quaint charm, never attracted hordes oordinary tourists. Consequently one coulhave yellow satin hangings without bein

beggared.Oh, how happy we were in that hotel, ann the adorable old town! While Bria

painted in the Grande Place and the PetitPlace, and sketched the Abbey of StWaast (who brought Christianity to thapart of the world) I wandered alone.

used to stand every evening till my necached, staring up at the beautiful belfry, towatch the swallows chase each other bacand forth among the bells, whose peal wa

music of fairyland. And I never tired owandering through the arcades under thall old Flemish houses with thei

overhanging upper storeys, or peeping int



he arcades' cool shadows, from thmiddle of the sunlit squares.

There were some delightful shops in thosarcades, where they sold antique Flemisfurniture, queer old pictures showinArras in her proud, treaty-making day

you know what a great place she was foreaty-making!) and lovely fadeapestries said to be "genuinely" of thime when no one mentioned a piece o

apestry save as an "arras." But the shop haunted was a cake-shop. It was calle"Au Cœur d'Arras," because the famouspeciality of Arras was a heart-shaped

cake; but I wasn't lured there so much bhe charm of les cœurs as by that of th

person who sold them.

dare say I described her to you in letters



or when I got back to England after tharip. The most wonderful old lady wh

ever lived! She didn't welcome he

customers at all. She just sat and knittedShe had an architectural sort of faceframed with a crust of snow—I mean, frilled cap! And if one furtively stared

she looked at one down her nose, anmade one feel cheap and small as if onhad snored, or hiccupped out aloud in cathedral! But it seems I won her esteeby enquiring if "les cœurs d'Arras" had history. Nobody else had ever showenough intelligence to care! So she gav

me the history of the cakes, and oeverything else in Arras; also, before wwent away, she escorted Brian and mnto a marvellous cellar beneath her shop

t went down three storeys and ha



fireplaces and a well! The earth under LGrande Place was honeycombed witsuch souterrains, she said. They'd onc

been quarries, in days so old as to bforgotten—quarries of "tender stonewhat a nice expression!), and the peopl

of Arras had cemented and made the

habitable in case of bombardment. Themust have been useful in 1914!

As for the cakes, they were invented by a

abbess who was sent to Spain. Beforreluctantly departing, she gave the recipo her successor, saying she "left her hearn Arras." According to the legend (the

old shop-lady assured me) a girl who hanever loved was certain to fall in lovwithin a month after first eating a Heart oArras. Well, Padre, I ate almost a hundred



was life without the Arras HeartsBesides, Arras without the Hearts wouldbe like the Altar of the Vestal Virgins

without the ever-burning lamp. So they arstill baked, and still eaten, those bravittle Hearts of Arras—and Brian asked

Father Beckett to bring me a box.

They bought it of a cousin of my olwoman, an ancient man who had lurked ia cellar during the whole of th

bombardment. He said that all Arraknew, in September, 1914, how the Kaisehad vowed to march into the town iriumph, and how, when he found th

place as hard to take "as quicksilver is tgrasp," he revenged himself by destroyints best-beloved treasures. He must hav

rejoiced that July day of 1915, whe



Wolff's Agency was able to announce aast, that the Abbey of St. Waast and its

museum were in flames!

As the gray car bumped on to BethuneVimy Ridge floated blue in the fadistance, to the right of the road, an

Father Beckett and Brian took off theihats to it. Still farther away, and out osight lay Lens, in German possession, bupractically encircled by the British. Th

Old Contemptible had been there, andescribed the town as having scarcely roof left, but being an "ant heap" oBoches, who swarm in undergroun

shelters bristling with machine gunsBetween Lens and the road stood thcelebrated Colonne de Condé, showinwhere the prince won his great victor



over Spain; and farther on, within gunsound distance though out of sight, laLoos, on the Canal de l'Haute Deule. Wh

hinks nowadays of its powerfuCistercian Abbey, that dominated thecountry round? Who thinks twice, wheravelling this Appian Way which

Germany has given France, of any historwhich began or ended before the yea1914?

Bethune they found still existing as a townt has been bombarded often but not utterl

destroyed, and from there they ran out foumiles to Festubert, because the little tha

he Germans have left of the thirteenthcentury church and village, burns with aeternal flame of interest.

Bethune itself was a famous fortress once



full of history and legend: but isn't thwhole country in its waste and ruin, like orn historic banner, crusted with jewel

—magic jewels, which cannot be stoleby enemy hands?

On the way to Ypres—crown and climax

of the tour—the car passed Lillers anHazebrouck, places never to be forgotteby hearts that beat in the battles oFlanders. Then came the frontier a

Steenwoorde; and they were actually iBelgium, passing Poperinghe to Ypres, themost famous British battleground of thwar.

When Brian was fighting, and when yowere on earth, Padre, everyone talkeabout the "Ypres Salient." Now, though

for soldiers Ypres will always be the



"salient" since the battle of WytschaetRidge, the material salient has vanishedYet the same trenches exist, in the same

gray waste which Brian used to paint ihose haunting, impressionist war sketcheof his that all London talked about, aftehe Regent Street exhibition that he didn

even try for leave to see! The criticspoke of the mysterious, spiritual qualitof his work, which gave "withousentimentality" picturesqueness to thshell-holes and mud, the shattered treeand wooden crosses, under eternalldreaming skies.

Well, Brian tells me that going back as ablind man to the old scenes, he had strange, thrilling sense of seeing them—seeing more clearly than before thos



effects of mysterious beauty, hoverinwith prophecy above the squalor of muand blood, hovering and mingling as th

faint light of dawn mingles, at a certaihour, with the shadows of night. Peoplused to call his talent a "blend of visiowith reality." Now, all that is left him i

"vision"—vision of the spirit. But withelp—I used to think it would be my helpnow I realize it will be Dierdre's—whknows what extraordinary things my blinBrian may accomplish? His hope is sbeautiful, and so strong, that it has lit aanswering flame of hope in me.

He and I were in Ypres for a few daysust about the time I was wondering wh

"Jim Wyndham" didn't keep his promise tfind me again. It was in Ypres,



remember, that I came across the box o"Cœurs d'Arras" I'd brought with meOpening it, I recalled the legend about

girl who has never loved, falling in lovwithin a month after first eating an ArraHeart. It was then I said to myself, "Whyt has come true! I have fallen in love wit

Jim Wyndham—and he has forgottenme!"

Oh, Padre, how that pain comes back t

me now, in the midst of the new pain, likhe "core of the brilliance within th

brilliance!" Which hurt is worse, to love man, and believe oneself forgotten, or t

ove and know one has been loved, anhen become unworthy? I can't be sure.

can't even be sure that, if I could, I woulgo back to being the old self before



committed the one big sin of my lifewhich gave me Jim's father and motherand the assurance that he had cared . For

while, after Mother Beckett told me abouJim's love for "The Girl," in spite of mwickedness I glowed with a kind ohappiness. I felt that, through all the year

of my life—even when I grew old—Jiwould be mine, young, handsome, gayust as I had seen him on the Wonderfu

Day: that I could always run away frooutside things and shut the gate of thgarden on myself and Jim—that rosegarden on the border of Belgium. Now

when I know—or almost know—that hwill come back in the flesh to despise meand that the gate of the garden will bforever shut—why, I shall be punished a

perhaps no woman has ever been punishe



before. Still— still I can't be sure that would escape, if I could, by going back tmy old self!

t is writing of Belgium, and my days therwith Brian while I still hoped to see Jimhat brings all these thoughts crowding s

hickly to my mind, they seem to drip ofmy pen!

But what a different Ypres Father Becket

has now seen, and Brian felt , from thadear, pleasant Ypres into which we twodrove in a cart, along a cobbled causewaas straight as a tight-drawn string

Tourists who loved the blue, and yellowand red bath-houses on the golden beacof Ostend, didn't worry to motor over thbumpy road, through the Flemish plain t

Ypres. The war was needed to bring it



sad fame to "Wipers!" But Brian and nterrupted our walking tour with that car

because we knew that the interminabl

causeway would take us deep into thnner quaintness of Flanders. We adored iall: and at every stopping-place on thwenty-mile road, I had the secret joy o

whispering; "Perhaps it is here that Hwill suddenly appear, and meet us!"

There was one farmhouse on the way

where I longed to have him come. wanted him so much that I almost createhim! I was listening every moment, anhrough every sound, for his car. It neve

came. But because I so wished the placo be a background for our meeting I ca

see the two large living-rooms of the olhouse, with the black-beamed ceilings, th



Flemish stoves, the tall, carvesideboards and chests with armoriabearings, the deep window-seats tha

were flower-stands and work-tablecombined, and the shelves of ancienpottery and gleaming, antique brass. Therwas a comfortable fragrance of new

baked bread, mingling with the spicy scenof grass-pinks, in that house: and thhostess who gave us luncheon—a younmarried woman—had a mild, sweet facestrongly resembling that of St. Genevièvof Brabant, as pictured in a coloureithograph on the wall.

St. Geneviève's story is surely the mosromantic, the most pathetic of any sainwho ever deigned to tread on earth!—anher life and death might serve as a



allegory of Belgium's martyrdom, pooBelgium, the little country whose patroshe is. Since that day at the farmhouse o

he road to Ypres, I've thought often of thegentle face with its forget-me-not eyes angolden hair; and of Golo the darpersecutor who—they say now—was

real person and an ancestor of thHohenzollerns through the first Duc dBavière.

At Ypres, Brian painted for me a funny"imagination picture" imitating earliesFlemish work. It showed Ypres whenhere was no town save a few tiny house

and a triangular stronghold, with a turret aeach corner, built on a little island in thriver Yperlee. He named the picture "TheCastle of the Three Strong Towers," and



dated it in the year 900. A thousand yearhave passed since then. Slowly, aftemuch fighting (the British fought as hard t

ake Ypres once, as they fight to save inow), the town grew great and powerfuand became the capital of Flanders. Thdays of the rough earthen stockades an

sharp thorn-bush defences of "Our Lady ohe Enclosures" passed on to the days o

casemates and moats; and still on, to thdays when the old fortifications could burned into ornamental walks—days o

quaintly beautiful architecture, such aBrian and I saw before the war, when w

spent hours in the Grand' Place, admirinhe wonderful Cloth Hall and the Spanishooking Nieuwerck. The people of Ypreold us proudly that nothing in Bruge

tself, or anywhere in Flanders, coul



compare with those noble buildingmassed together at the west end of thGrand' Place, each stone of whic

represented so much wealth of the richesmerchant kings of Europe.

And now, the work of those thousand bus

years has crumbled in a few monstroumonths, like the sand-houses of childrewhen the tide comes in! What FatheBeckett saw of Ypres after three years

bombardment, was not much more thahat shown in Brian's picture, dated 900

A blackened wall or two and a heap orubble where stood the Halle de

rapiers —pride of Ypres since thehirteenth century—its belfry, its statuests carvings, its paintings, all vanisheike the contours and colours of a sunse



cloud. The cathedral is a skeleton. Hardla pointed gable is left to tell where thquaint and prosperous houses onc

grouped cosily together. Ypres the town isa mourner draped in black with the stainof fire which killed its beauty and joy. Buhere is a glory that can never be killed,

glory above mere beauty, as a living sous above the dead body whence it ha

risen. That glory is Ypres. She is a ghostbut she is an inspiration, a name of namesa jewel worth dying for—"worth giving man's eyes for," Brian says!

"Has your brother told you about the ma

we met at the Visitors' Château?" askedFather Beckett, when between the twmen—and my reminiscences—the story ohe tour was finished with those las



"There isn't much to tell, really," Briasaid. "It was only that oculist chap Herteold you about—Dr. Henri Chrevreuil

He's been working at the front, as yoknow: lately it's been the British front; anhey'd taken him in at the château for a few

days' rest. We met him there and talked o

his friend—your friend, Molly—DoctoPaul."

"What did he say about your eyes?

Dierdre almost gasped. (I should not havventured to put the question suddenly, andbefore people. I should have been toafraid of the answer. But her nickname i

"Dare!") "He must have said somethingor Mr. Beckett wouldn't have spoken soHe did look at your eyes—didn't he? Hwould, for Herter's sake."



"Yes, he did look at them," Brianadmitted. "He didn't say much."

"But what— what ?""He said: 'Wait, and—see.'"

"And see!" Dierdre echoed.

The same thought was in all our minds. Agazed mutely at Brian, he gave me th

most beautiful smile of his life. He mus

have felt that I was looking at him, or hwould not so have smiled. Let Jim hatand—punish me when he comes back, andrive me out of Paradise! Wherever I ma

go, there will be the reflection of thasmile and the thought behind it. How can be unhappy, if Brian need only wait, tosee?



CHAPTER XXX

Padre, my mind is like a thermometeexposed every minute to a differenemperature, but always high or low—

never normal.

To tell, or not to tell, Father Beckett whahe man I didn't see said about Jim—o

rather, what Julian O'Farrell said that hsaid! This has been the constant questionbut the thermometer invariably flies up odown, far from the answer-point.

When our men came back to Amiens, almost hoped that Puck would do hiworst—carry out his threat and "give m



away" to Father Beckett. In that case should at least have been relieved froresponsibility. But Puck didn't. In my hear

had known all along that he would not.f I could have felt for a whole minute at ime that it would be fair to wake hope

which mightn't be fulfilled, out woulhave burst the secret. But whenever I'screwed up my courage to speakSomething would remind me: "Herter sen

word that there might be a message froSwitzerland. Better wait till it comes, fohe wasn't sure of his facts. He may havbeen misled." Or, when I'd decided not t

speak, another Something would say: "Jis alive. You know he is alive! Herter i

helping him to escape. Don't let these deaold people suffer a minute longer than the



need."

But—well—so far I have waited. A week

has passed since I wrote at Amiens. Wehave arrived at Jim's château—the littlequaint, old Château d'Andelle, with thicstone walls, black-beamed ceilings, an

amusing towers, set in the midst of aenchanted forest of Normandy. No wondehe fell in love with the place before thwar, and wanted to live there! It must hav

seemed an impossible dream at the timefor the owners (the château has been in thsame family for generations) had money ihose days, and wouldn't have let thei

home to strangers. The war has made alhe difference. They couldn't afford t

keep up the place, and were eager to letBeckett money is a boon to them, s



everyone is satisfied. The agents in Parisecured two or three extra servants to helphe old pair left in the house as caretakers

and there is a jewel of a maid for MotheBeckett—a Belgian refugette. I shall givher some training as a nurse, and by anby I shall be able to fade away in peace

Already I'm beginning to prepare my deaady's mind for a parting. I talk of m

hospital work, and drop hints that I'm onlon leave—that Brian's hopes and FatheBeckett's splendid new-born plan for himwill permit me to take up duty again soon

The plan developed on the trip: but I'

sure the first inspiration came froMother Beckett. While she was ill, shdid nothing but lie and think of things to dfor other people. And she was determined



o make it possible for Brian to have ove story of his own, provided he wante

one. It only needed Father Beckett'

practical brain and unlimited purse to turher vague suggestion into a full-growplan. A whole block of buildings on thoutskirts of Paris, let as apartment houses

s to be bought by Mr. Beckett, for the usof blinded soldiers. Already his agenthave got the refusal of the property fohim; and with a few changes such aknocking down inner walls and putting idoors where doors don't exist, the housewill become one big mansion, t

accommodate five or six hundred menEach will have his own bedroom ocubicle. There'll be a gymnasium, with Swedish instructor, and every trade o

profession in which a blind man coul



possibly engage will be taught by expertsThere will be a big dining hall with musicians' gallery, and a theatre. Th

ibrary will be supplied with quantities obooks for the blind. There'll be a gardewhere the men will be taught to growflowers and vegetables. They will have

resident doctor, and two superintendentsOne of these two will himself be a blinman taught by his own experience how teach others. Of course, Padre, you knowhat this blind teacher is already chosen

and that the whole scheme centers rounhim!

n a way Brian realizes that, if it were nofor him, it would never have been thoughof. In a way. But—it is his way. Hdoesn't torture himself, as I probabl



should in his place, by thinking: "All thesmmense sums of money being spent as a

excuse to provide for me in life! Ought I t

et it be done? Ought I to accept?"Brian's way is not that. He says: "Now understand why I lost my eyesight, and it'

worth it a thousand times. This wonderfuchance is to be given me to help others, anever could have helped if I hadn't bee

blind. If sight comes back, I shall know

what it is to be blind, and I can givcounsel and courage to others. I am gladglad to be blind. It's a privilege and mission. Even if I never see again, excep

with my spirit's eyes, I shall still be glad!

He doesn't worry at all because carryinout the plan will cost Father Beckett on

or more of his millions. What is mone



for, except to be spent? What pleasure iike spending to do good? He finds it quit

natural that Father Beckett wants to do thi

hing; and though he's immensely gratefuhe takes it blithely for granted that thbenefactor should be happy and proud.

Travelling back from Ypres to Amienshey seem to have settled all the detailbetween them, though they told us theiadventures before even mentioning th

Plan. Brian is to be guide, philosopherand friend to the inmates and students ohe James Wyndham Beckett College fohe Blind. Also he is to give lectures o

art and various other subjects. If he caearn to paint his blind impressions (as h

believes he can, with Dierdre's promisehelp) he will be able to teach other blin



artists to follow his example. And he is tohave a salary for his services—not the bione Father Beckett wished: Bria

wouldn't hear of that—but enough to livon. And Dierdre and Julian are offeredofficial positions and salaries too. It'suggested that they should take a flat nea

by the College, within easy walkindistance. Dierdre is to entertain the blinmen with recitations, and teach the art oreciting to those who wish to learn. Julias to sing and play for the men in th

house-theatre, once or twice a week, as hcan spare time from his work with D

Letzski. Also he will give one lesson week in singing and voice production.

Both the O'Farrells are to be well paino trouble in persuading Julian to accep



generous proposals for himself and hisister; for him the labourer is indeeworthy of his hire): and with America

dash and money the scheme is expected tbe in working order by next June. It's nowwell into November. But after seeing howother schemes have worked, and how thi

Château d'Andelle business has beerushed through, I have the most sublimfaith in Beckett miracles.

They are astonishing, these BeckettsFather, the simplest, kindest man, with thair of liking his fireside better than anadventure: Mother, a slip of a creatur

—"a flower in a vase to be kept by hemenfolk on a high shelf," as I told myselwhen I first saw her. Yet what adventureshey have had, and what they hav



accomplished since the day Briaproposed this pilgrimage, two months ago

ot a town on our route that, after the wa

won't have cause to bless them and the son whose name their good works havbeen done—cause to bless Beckekindness, Beckett money for generations i

he future! Yet now they have added thimost ambitious plan of all to the list, and know it will be carried out to perfection.

You see now, Padre, from what I've toldyou, how easy it is being made for me tslip out of this circle. Brian, beaming withappiness, and on the point of opening hi

heart to Dierdre's almost worshippinove: Mother Beckett slowly getting bac

a measure of frail, flower-like health, ihis lovely place which she calls Jim's



Father Beckett more at ease about her, andntensely interested in his scheme: th

small, neat Belgian refugette likely t

prove at least a ministering mouse if not ministering angel: above all, hope if nocertainty that Jim will one day return—noonly in spirit but in body—to his châtea

and his family. If I am needed anywheron earth, it isn't here, but down in thsouth at my poor Hôpital des ÉpidémiesWould it be cowardly in me to fly, as sooas I've persuaded the Becketts to sparme, and throw the responsibility I havendared decide to take, upon my brave

blind Brian?Ah, I don't mean telling him about myseland my sins. I shouldn't have the couragfor that, I fear! I mean, shall I tell hi



about Doctor Paul's message—osupposed message? It has just occurred tme that I might do this, and let Bria

decide whether Father Beckett ought tknow, even if no further news comehrough Switzerland. You see, if I were

gone, and Jim came, I could trust the new

Dierdre to do her best for me with BrianHe could never respect me, never love mn the old way—but he might forgive

because of Dierdre herself—and becausof the great Plan. Hasn't my wickednesgiven them both to him?

Writing all this to you has done me good

Padre. I see more clearly ahead. I shaldecide before morning what to do. I feel shall this time! And I think it a good ideo speak to Brian. He will agree, thoug



he doesn't know my secret need to escapehat it's right for me to take up hospita

work again. But, Padre, I can't go—

won't go—until I've helped MotheBeckett arrange Jim's treasures in throom to be called his "den." She has beeiving for that, striving to grow stron

enough for that. And I—oh, Padre!—want to be the one to unpack his things ano touch each one with my hands. I want teave something of myself in that roo

where, if he's dead, his spirit will surelcome: where, if he lives, his body wilcome. If I leave behind me thoughts o

ove, won't they linger between thoswalls like the scent of roses in a vaseMayn't those thoughts influence JiBeckett not to detest me as I deserve?



CHAPTER XXXI

Five days later.

did talk to Brian, Padre, and he said

better wait and give the letter froSwitzerland a fair chance to arrive, beforelling Father Beckett about Doctor Paul'

messenger at Amiens.

ow I have had a letter, but not froSwitzerland. I shall fold it up between thpages of this book of my confessions.

believe you will read it, Padre.

t came to-day. It explains itself. Thenvelope, postmarked Paris, wa

addressed to me in typewriting. If Mothe



Beckett had not had a slight relapse froworking too hard in the den, I mighperhaps have been gone before the lette

came. Then it would have had to bforwarded. It's better that I stayed. Youwill see why. But—oh, Padre, Padre!

THE LETTER "Miss O'Malley,

"Once I met a lady whose name, as understood it, was not unlike yours nowgiven me by Doctor Paul Herter. I cannohink that you and she are one. That lady'd swear, would be incapable of—let m

say, placing herself in a false position.

"Though you will not recognize mhandwriting, I've said enough for you t



guess that James Wyndham Beckett is youcorrespondent. I have had the addresyped because, for my parents' sake and t

spare them distress, it seems that you and must reach some understanding before venture to let them know that I'm alive.

"If you are worthy to be called 'friend' bsuch a man as Paul Herter, you will wiso atone for certain conduct, by carryin

out the request I make now. I must trus

you to do so. But first let me relieve mmind of any fear for yourself. I have nocontradicted the story you told Herteabout our engagement. What I shall say t

my parents when I meet them, as I hopsoon to do, depends upon circumstancesTill you and I have had a privatconversation, you will oblige me b



etting things remain as they are. I havstrong reasons for this wish. One of the—the only one I need explain now, is tha

t will seem natural to them I should writo my fiancée—a young, strong girl able tbear the shock of a great surprise—askinher to break the news gently and tactfull

o my father and mother. I do ask you to dohis. How to do it I must leave to you. Bu

when you've told my parents that I'm alivehat I've escaped, that I'm in Paris wit

Herter, that as soon as my officiabusiness of reporting myself is finished'll get leave, you may put into their hand

he following pages of this letter. Theywill not think it strange that the girl I aengaged to should keep the first part foher own eyes. Thus, without your bein

compromised, they will learn m



adventures without having to wait until come. But there's just room enough left ohis first sheet to reiterate that, whe

Herter found me, and gave me thsomewhat disconcerting news of mengagement to his friend, a Miss O'Malleravelling with my parents, I—simpl

istened. Rather than excite his suspiciondid not even yield to curiosity, and try to

draw out a description. I could not be surhen that I should ever see you, or m

people, for escape was difficult and therwere more chances against than for mgetting out of Germany alive. Now, in al

human certainty I shall arrive at thChâteau d'Andelle (I got the address at thbank), and you owe it to me to remain ohe spot till we can thrash out our affai

ogether. I will begin on a new sheet th



story of the last few months since mcapture. You must forgive me if it boreyou. In reality it is for my parents, whe

you have prepared their minds, and I donhink it will bore them....

"We came a bad cropper. I was thrown

clear of the machine, but knew nothinuntil I waked up, feeling like a bag obroken bones. It was night, and I saw huge fountain of red flame and a lot o

dark figures like silhouettes movinbetween it and me. That brought me out omy stupor. I knew my plane must havaken fire as it crashed down, and I wa

pretty sure the silhouettes were Germans. ooked around for my observer, and calleo him in a low voice, hoping the Bosc

wouldn't hear, over the noise of the fire



obody answered. Later I found out thahe poor chap had been caught under th

car. I pray he died before the flame

reached him!"As I got my wits back, I planned to trand hide myself under some bushes

could see not far off, till the coast waclear; but I couldn't move. I seemed to bhoroughly smashed up, and began to thint was the end of things ici-bas for me

After a while I must have fainted. By anby I had a dream of jolting along through blazing desert, on the back of a lamcamel. It was rather fierce, that jolting! I

shook me out of my faint, and when opened my eyes it was to find myself on stretcher carried by fellows in Germagray. They took me to a field hospital, and



guessed by the look of things that it waclose to the first lines. It made me sick think how near I must be to our own fron

—yet so far!"Well, I won't be long-winded about whahappened next. I can go into details whe

we meet. It turned out that I had a leg, aarm, and some ribs smashed. The Boscsurgeon wasn't half bad, as Bosches gobut he was a bit brusque. I heard him sa

right out to the anæsthetist, it seemed pity to waste good ether on me, as therwasn't one chance in five to save my lifeStill, I'd be an experiment! Before I wen

off under the stuff I told them who I wasfor I'd heard they were sometimes fairldecent to enemy aviators, and I hoped tget a message through to my people. I wa



feeling as stupid as an owl, but I did thinsaw a change come over the men's face

when they heard my name. Later, puttin

wo and two together, I concluded thaGermany was just the kind of businesnation to know all about the dear olGovernor. I might have realized that, ou

of sheer spite against the United States fobursting into the war, they'd enjoy letting man of James Beckett Senior's importancgo on believing his son was dead. I behey put my name over the grave of m

poor, burned pal, Hank Lee! It would bhe thoroughgoing sort of thing they do

when they make up their minds to creatan impression.

"I didn't die, though! Spite for spite, I gowell. But it took some time. One of m



ungs had been damaged a bit by a brokerib, and the doctors prescribed an openair cure, after I'd begun to crawl again.

was put with a lot of T. B.'s, if you knowwhat that means, in a camp hospital. Nofar off was a huge 'camouflagedaerodrome and a village of hangars.

heard that flying men were being trainehere. I used to think I'd give my head t

get to the place, but I never hoped to do i—till Herter came.

"Now I will tell you how he came—whiccan freely do, as we are both safe i

Paris, having come from somewhere nea

Compiègne. One of the first things Hertesaid about you was that you must havguessed where he was going, and more oess for what purpose. For that purpose h



was the ideal man: a Lorrainer oGermanized Lorraine; German his nativongue—(though he hates it)—and cleve

as Machiavelli. He "escaped" froFrance into Germany, told a tale aboukilling a French sentry and creepinacross No Man's Land at night, in order t

get to the German lines. It was a big riskbut Herter is as brave and resourceful man as I ever met. He got the Bosches tbelieve that he was badly ill in Pariwhen the war broke out and couldn't sliaway, otherwise he'd have sprung to dohis loyal duty to the Fatherland. H

persuaded them that his lot being cast iFrance for the time, he'd resolved to servGermany by spying, until he coulsomehow bolt across the frontier. He spu

a specious tale about pretending to th



French to have French sympathies, anwinning the confidence of high-up men, bserving as a surgeon on several fronts. To

prove his German patriotism he had noteo show, realistically made on thin silpaper, and hidden inside the lining of hicoat.

"Herter's mission in Boschland isn't mbusiness or yours; but I'm allowed to sahat it was concerned with aeroplanes

There was something he had to find outand he has found it out, or he wouldn't bback on this side of the lines. Because hhoped to be among German flying-men, h

hinted to you that he might be able to dyou some service. It occurred to him thahe might learn where my grave was anet you know. Nothing further was in hi



houghts then—or until he happened tdraw out a piece of unexpectenformation in a roundabout way.

"His trick of getting across to the flyingmen was smart, like all his tricks. Thvaluable (?) notes he'd brought int

Germany mostly concerned new Frencand American inventions in that line. Thawas his 'speciality.' And when he hadhanded the notes over with explanations

he continued his programme by asking foa job as surgeon in a field hospital. (Yousee, he hoped to get back to France beforhe worthlessness of his notes wa

discovered.) When he'd proved hiqualifications, he got his job like a shotThey were only too glad of his servicesPretending to have been in America



raining-camps, it was easy to bring up mname in a casual way. Laughing that rathesinister laugh of his, which you wil

remember, Herter told a couple of flyinchaps he had promised a girl to find JiBeckett's grave. One of the fellowaughed too, and made a remark which se

Herter thinking. Later, he was able to refeo the subject again, and learned enough t

suspect that there was something fishabout the Bosch announcement of my deatand burial. He tells me that, at this poinhe was able to send you a verbal messagby a consumptive prisoner about to b

repatriated. Whether you got that messagor not who knows?

"His idea was to send another (in a wahe won't explain even to me) when he'



picked up further news. But as thingurned out, there was no time. Besides, i

wasn't necessary. It looked hopeful tha

we might be our own carrier pigeons, oelse—cease to exist.

"What happened was that Herter heard

was alive and in a hospital not far behinhe lines. Just at this time he had got holof the very secret he'd come to seek. Thsooner he could make a dash for home th

better: but if possible, he wished to takme with him. He had the impression that tdo so would please his friend MisO'Malley! How it was to be worked h

didn't see until an odd sort of Americabombing machine fell, between aaerodrome it had attempted to destroy, anHerter's hospital. They knew it wa



American, only because of its twoccupants, both killed. The machine waconsiderably smashed up, but expert

found traces of something amazinglnovel, which they couldn't understandHerter was called to the scene, because hhad pretended to be up in the lates

American flying 'stunts.' The minute hsaw the wreckage an inspiration jumpento his head.

"He confessed himself puzzled by thmysterious details, thought them importanand said: 'It seems to me this resemblehe engine and wings of the James Becket

nvention I heard so much about. But didn't know it was far enough ahead yet tbe in use. A pity the inventor was killedHe might have come in handy.



"Well, they put those words in their pipeand smoked them—knowing, of coursehat I was very much alive and almos

within a stone's throw."I had always pretended not to understanGerman: thought ignorance of the languag

might serve my plans some day or otherThe chap they sent to fetch me dropped few words to a doctor in my hearing. Andso, though I wasn't told where I was bein

aken or why I was to go, I'd about caughon to the fact that I was supposed to havnvented the plans for a new bombin

biplane. That made me wonder if a frien

was at work under the rose: and I waready for anything when I got to the scenof the smash.

"Fortunately, none of the Bosches on th



spot could speak English fluently, and appeared more of a fool at French thaGerman. Herter—entirely trusted by hi

German pals—was told off to talk Engliswith me; and a flash of his eye said, herwas the friend! It was only a flash, and couldn't be sure, but it put me on the qu

vive. I noticed that in asking me thquestion he was told to ask, hemphasized certain words which needeno emphasis, and spoke them slowly, wita look that made me determine to fix eacone in my mind. This I did, and puttinhem together when I got the chance,

made out, 'I want to get you home. Say yonvented this model, and could put thhing in working trim.'

"That was a big order! If I said it an



could keep my word, would it be patriotic job to present the enemy with perfectly good machine, of a new make, i

he place of a wreck they didnunderstand? This was my first thought. Buhe second reminded me of a sentence I'

constructed with some of the emphasize

words; ' I want to get you home.' How dihe expect to get me home—if not by air?

"With that I caught a glimpse of the plan

as one sometimes catches sight of the earthrough a break in massed clouds whe

flying. If the man meant to help me, would help him. If he turned out a fraud

he Germans shouldn't profit by hireachery I'd stop that game at the las

moment, if I died for it!

"You will know nothing about the new an



curious bombing biplane of super-speenvented by Leroy Harman of Galbraith

Texas. But Father knows as much as any

one not an expert in aeronautics can knowWhen the Government wouldn't believe iHarman, Father financed him by madvice. I left home for France before th

rial machine that was to convincofficialdom had come into being; and didn't even know whether it had madgood. But the minute I saw what lay on thground, surrounded by a ring of Germans

said to myself; 'Good old Leroy!'

"I'd seen so much of his plans that the

remained printed on my brain, and I coul—if I would—set that biplane on itwings again almost as easily as if I hanvented it.



"Odd that the Bosches and I both trusteHerter, seeing he must be false to one sidor other! But he's that sort of man. And

always take a tip from my own instincbefore listening to my reason. Maybhat's why I didn't do badly in my brie

career as a flier. Anyhow, I played up to

Herter; and I got the job of superintendinhe reconstruction of poor Harman'

damaged machine. It was a lovely job foa prisoner, though they watched me as German cat would watch an Allied mouseHerter was nearly always on the spothowever, for he'd made himsel

responsible for me. Also, he'd offered topump me about what was best in the aiworld on my side of the water: how manaeroplanes of different sorts Americ

could turn out in six months, etc. We



contrived a cypher on diagrams I made. Iwas a clever one, but the credit waHerter's.

"The Bosches were waiting impatientlfor my work to be done, in order to try ouhe machine, and if satisfactory, spawn

brood of their own on the same model. was equally impatient. I hoped to fly ofwith the biplane before they had time tcopy it!

"A wounded Ace of theirs, Anton Hupferwas for ever hanging round. He was take up the 'plane when it was ready. Bu

Herter industriously chummed with himand not for nothing. To Herter was due thediscovery' of the inventor; and as hboasted experience in flying, he asked th

privilege of being Hupfer's companion o



he trial trip.

"The success of this trip would depen

even more on the machine's worth as bomber than on her speed and climbinqualities. It was, therefore, to bundertaken at night, with a ful

complement of real bombs to drop upoheadquarters at Compiègne. Herter hasuggested this. Daylight wouldn't havsuited for a start.

"An hour before the appointed time hdashed in upon Hupfer to confide that sudden suspicion concerning me wa

roubling him. He had noticed a queeexpression on my face as I gave the engina last look over! If I had done somobscure damage to this so new type o

machine, the mechanics might not detec



ts nature. Herter didn't wish to harm mef his suspicion was unfounded, h

explained, but he proposed a drastic proo

of my good faith. I was to be hauled out obed, and hurried without warning to looat the biplane in her hangar. Thmechanics were to be sent outside, ther

o wait for a signal to open the doors: thio avoid gossip if I was honest after al

Hupfer was to spring it on me that he'decided to take me up instead of HerterMy face was to be watched as this newwas flung at me. If I showed the slightesrace of uneasiness, it would be a sign tha

had played a trick and feared to fall itvictim. In that case the 'third degree' wao be applied until I owned up, and coul

be haled away for punishment.



"There was just time to carry out thiprogramme, and Hupfer fell for it. Hertehad put me wise beforehand, and I knew

what to expect. His real plan was to stanbehind Hupfer, the Bosch Ace, and bashhim on the head with a spanner, while hiHupfer's) whole attention was fixed o

me. We would then undress the fellow. would take his clothes, and we'd put hinto mine. Hupfer's body (stunned, no

dead, we hoped) we would lay behind pile of petrol tins. I acting as pilot, woulrust to my disguise and the darkness o

night not to be spotted when the tw

mechanics threw open the hangar doors."Everything happened as we'd arrangedwithout a hitch—again, all credit tHerter! When we'd hidden the limp Ace



russed up in my prison rig, Herter yelleo the waiting men, in a good imitation o

Hupfer's voice. We ran smoothly out o

he hangar, and were given a fine send offHow soon the Bosches found out howhey'd been spoofed, I don't know. I

couldn't have been long though, as m

prison guard was in attendance. The greahing was, we went up in grand style

Otherwise—but we needn't now think ohe 'otherwise'!

"Our next danger lay in taking the wrondirection, getting farther back iBoschland instead of over the frontier.

kept my wits, fortunately, so that turnedout all right. Still, there remained thchance of being shot down by the Frenchand blown with our own bombs int



kingdom come. But, by good luck it was clear night. No excuse for getting lostAnd when I was sure we were well ove

he French lines, I planed down to alighn a field.

"The alert was out for us, of course, and

fierce barrage put up, but I flew high till was ready for a dive. We'd hardly landedwhen the poilus swarmed like bees, buhat was what we wanted. You mus

magine the scene that followed, till I caell you by word of mouth!

"I shall have made my report, and hav

been given leave to start for a visit to mfamily by to-morrow I hope.

"Yours till the end,



"JIM."

"Yours till the end!" Rather a smart

cynical way of winding up thos"exhibition pages" was it not, Padre? Thsecret translation of that signature is"Yours, you brute, till I can get rid of you

with least damage to my parentssusceptibilities!"

shall obey, and wait for the interview

t's like waiting to be shot at dawn!



CHAPTER XXXII

persuaded Brian to tell Father Beckett. wasn't worthy. But the dear old man camstraight to me, transfigured, to make me gwith him to his wife, even before he hafinished reading the letter.

"You must come," he said—and whenFather Beckett says "must," in a certaione, one does. It's then that th

resemblance, more in expression thafeature, between him and his son shineout like a light. "It will save mother throuble of asking for you," he went on

dragging me joyously with him, his ar

round my waist. "She'd do that, first thing



sure! Why, do you suppose we forgeJim's as much to you as to us? Haven't yoshown us that, every day since we met?"

What answer could I give? I gave none.

Mother Beckett had been lying down fohe afternoon nap which by my orders shakes every day. She'd just waked, and

was sitting up on the lounge, when hehusband softly opened the door to peep in

The only light was firelight, leaping in aopen grate.

"Come in, come in!" she greeted us in hesilver tinkle of a voice. "Oh, you didndisturb me. I was awake. I thought I'd rinfor tea. But I didn't after all. I'd had such beautiful dream, I hated to come out of it."



"I bet it was a dream about Jim!" saiFather Beckett. He drew me into the roomand the little lady pulled me down besid

her on the wide, cushiony lounge. Hehusband's special arm-chair was close bybut he didn't subside into it as usual at thicosy hour of the afternoon. Instead, h

knelt stiffly down on one knee, and toohe tiny, ringed hand held out to him. "You

wouldn't think a dream beautiful, unlesJim was in it!"

"Yes I would, if you were in it, dear," shreproached him. "Or Molly. But Jim wan this dream. I saw him as plainly as I se

you both. He walked in at the door, thway he used to do at home, saying: 'HelloMother, I've been looking for yoeverywhere!' You know, Father how you



and Jimmy used to feel injured if yocalled me and I couldn't be found in minute. In this dream though, we didn

seem to be back home. I wasn't sure wherwe were: only—I was sure——" Shstopped, with a catch in her voice. BuFather Beckett took up the sentence wher

she let it drop. "Sure of Jim?"

"Yes. He was so real!"

"Well then, Mother darling, I guess thedream ought not to have been back homebut here, in this very house. For here'where Jim will come."

"Oh, I do feel that!" she agreed, trying t"camouflage" a tear with a smile. "Jim'with me all the time."



"Not yet," said Father Beckett, with stolid gentleness. "Not yet. Not the reaJim. But he'll come."

"You mean, when Molly and I've finishedputting out all his treasures in the den, jusas he'd like to see them?"

"He might come before you get the deready. He might come—any day now—even to-morrow." The gnarled brow

hand smoothed the small, shrivelled whitone with nervous strokes and passes.

"Father!" she sat up suddenly, straight andrigid among her cushions. "You've heard—you're trying to break something to meTell me right out. Jim's alive!"

She snatched her hand free, and bendin



forward, flung both arms round the olman's neck before he could answer. sprang up to give them room. I though

hey had forgotten me. But no. Out camFather Beckett's big hand to snatch mdress.

"This child got the news—a letter," hexplained. "The boy was afraid of thshock for us. He thought she——"

"A shock of joy—why, that gives life—not death!" sobbed and laughed MotheBeckett. "But it was right to let Mollknow first. She's more to him than we ar

now. Oh, Father—Father—our Jim's aliv— alive! I think in my soul I knew it all thime. I never felt he was gone. He mus

have sent me thoughts. Dear ones, I wan

o pray. I want to thank God—now, thi



nstant, before I hear more—before I reahe letter. We three together—on ou

knees!"

Padre, when I was on my knees, with thhin little arm of Jim's mother thrilling m

shoulder, my face hidden in the cushions,

could only say: "God, forgive!" and echhe thanksgiving of those two lovinhearts. I didn't pray not to be punished. almost want to be punished—since Bria

s safe, and my punishment can't spoil hifuture.

The patriotic Becketts have given up thbig gray car, now they've settled down a

he Château d'Andelle: and our one-legge



soldier-chauffeur has departed, to conduca military motor. For the moment there'only the O'Farrell Red Cross taxi, not ye

gone about its legitimate business; so iwas Julian who took Father Beckett to thfar-off railway station, to meet JiBeckett the next day but one—Julian—o

all people on earth!

Father Beckett begged me to be of thparty, and Mother Beckett—too frail stil

for so long and cold a drive—piled up hepersuasions. But I was firm. I didn't likgoing to meet trains, I said. It was prosaic

was allowed to stop at home, therefore

with my dear little lady: the last time, old myself, that she would ever love an

"mother" me. Once Jim and I had settleour affairs in that "interview" I wa



ordered to wait for, I should be the blacsheep, turned out of the fold.

There was just one reason why I'd haviked to be in the car to bring Jim bacfrom the station. Knowing Julian-Puck, was convinced that despite Fathe

Beckett's presence he'd contrive a chanco thrust some entering wedge of mischiento Jim Beckett's head. Not that it wa

needed! If he'd read the first pages o

Jim's letter—the secret pages—he woulhave known that. But the night the greanews came to the château, he whisperento my ear: "You seem to be taking thing

easy. Sure you won't change your mindand bolt with me?—or do you count oyour invincible charm, "über alles"?

didn't even answer. I merely looked



Perhaps he took it for a defiant lookhough Heaven knows it wasn't. I was pas

defiance. In any case, such as the loo

was, it shut him up. And after that thbrooding storm behind his eyes made mwonder (when I'd time to think of it) whacoup he was meditating. There woul

never be a chance like the chance at thstation before Jim had met me. Julian washarp enough, dramatic enough to see that

pictured him somehow corralling Jim foan instant, while Father Beckett carried oa conversation of signs with a worrieorteuse. Julian would be able to do in a

nstant as much damage to a character amost men could do in an hour!

A little added disgust for me on Jim's parthowever, what could it matter? I tried to



argue. When a thing is already black, cat be painted blacker?

Still, I was foolish enough to wish that ougood old one-legged soldier might havstayed to bring Jim home.

Mother Beckett would have compelled m

o be with her at the open door to mee"our darling boy," but that I could nobear. It would be as trying for him as fome, and I had to spare him the ordeal a

any price."Don't make me do that," I begged, witreal tears in my voice. "I—I've set m

heart on seeing Jim for the first time alone



He wants it too—I know he does."

She gazed at me for some long seconds

with the clear blue eyes which seemed—hough only seemed!—to read my soul. Ireality she saw quite another soul thamine. The darling crystallizes to radian

beauty all souls of those she loves, aobjects are crystallized by frost, or bsparkling salt in a salt mine.

"Well, you must have a good and lovingreason, I'm sure. And probably your lovhas taught you to know better than I canwhat Jim would want you to do," she said

"It shall be just as you wish, dear. Onlyou must grant one little favour in return tplease me. You are to wait for Jim in thden. When his Father and I have hugge

and kissed him a few times, and mad



certain he's not one of my dreams, we'lead him up to that door, and leave hi

outside. It shall be my hand that shuts th

door when he's gone in. And I shan't telhim one word about the den. It shall be surprise. But he won't notice a thing unti—until you and he have been together fo

a while, I guess—not even the hobbyhorse! He'll see nothing except you, Moll— you!"

implored—I argued—in vain. Thmaking of the den had been henspiration. It was monstrous that I shoul

have to greet her son there. The pleasur

of the den-surprise would be for evespoilt for Jim. But I couldn't explain thao his mother. I had to yield at last, tongueied and miserable beyond words.



haven't described the den to you, Padre. will do it now, in the pause, the hushbefore the storm.

t's a quaint room, with a little rounower in each of the two front corners

One of these Mother Beckett has turne

nto a refuge for broken-down toys, alJim's early favourites, which he'd neveet her throw away: the famous spotte

hobby-horse starred in the centre of th

stage: oh, but a noble, red-nostrillebeast, whose eternal prance has somethinof the endless dignity of the Laocoön! Thsecond tower is a miniature library

whose shelves are crowded with the pebooks of Jim's boyhood—queer bookssome of them, for a child to choose"Byron," "Letters of Pliny," Plutarch'



"Lives," Gibbon's "Rome," "Mortd'Arthur," Maeterlinck's "Life of the Bee,Kingsland's "Scientific Idealism," wit

several quite learned volumes oastronomy and geology, side by side witGulliver and all kinds of travel and storybooks which we have most of us adored

t was I who had the task of sorting anarranging this motley collection, and I cahardly tell you, Padre, how I loved doint!

The room isn't large, so the ten or twelvpictures on the walls are not lost in desert of bare spaces. These pictures, th

oys, the books, tennis-rackets, golf-cluband two lovely old Persian prayer-rugare all of Jim's treasures brought tFrance. He must have been a boy o



ndividual, independent nature, for iseems he disliked the idea of killing thingfor pleasure, and was never a hunter o

even a fisherman. Consequently, there arno monster fish under glass, or rare birdor butterflies, or stuffed animals. He mushave loved wild creatures though, for fiv

of the beloved pictures are masterly oilpaintings by well-known artists, of lionand tigers and stags, chez eux, happy anat home, not being hunted, or standinagonized at bay. Oh, getting this den iorder has taught me more about the reaJim than a girl can learn about a man i

ordinary acquaintance in a year! But then had a wonderful foundation to begibuilding upon: that day in the rose-arbou—the red-rose day of my life.



Well, when the car was expected backfrom the station, bringing Jim home to himother, I went by her command to the den

Even that was better than having to meehim in the presence of those two deasouls who trusted and loved me onlsecond to him. And yet everything in th

den which had meant something in Jim'ife, seemed to cry out at me, as I shut th

door and stood alone with them—and mpounding heart—to wait.

didn't know how to make the time pass. was too restless to sit down. I wouldn't lemyself look out of the window to see th

car come along the drive. I dared not walup and down like the caged thing I wasest the floor should creak, for the tower

room—the den—is over the entrance-hal



felt like a hunted animal—I, the oncreature to whom Jim Beckett deliberatelmeant to be cruel! I, in this room whic

was a tribute to his kindness of heart, hifaithfulness, his loyalty! But why should inot be so? I had no right to call upon thesqualities of his.

The horn of the little Red Cross taxi! Imust be turning in at the gate. How well knew its gay, conceited tootle! An eighth

of a mile, and the car would reach thhouse. Even the poor worn-out taxcouldn't be five minutes doing that!...

f I ran to the window between the towercould see! No, I wouldn't; I couldn't . should scream—or faint—or do somethinelse idiotic, if I saw Jim Beckett gettin

out of the car, and his mother flying to



meet him. I had never felt like this in mwhole life—not in any suspense, not iany danger.

nstinctively I walked as far from thwindow as I could. I sought sanctuarunder Brian's cathedral picture—th

picture that had introduced me to JimYes, sanctuary I sought, for in that roommy brother's work was my one excuse tntrude!

By this time the car must have arrivedThe front door must have flown open iwelcome. Now Mother Beckett must b

crying tears of joy in the arms of her sonFather Beckett gazing at the blessed sightspeechless with ecstasy!

What should I be doing at this moment, if



had yielded to their wish and stoppedownstairs with them? Just how far woulJim have gone in keeping up the tragi

farce? Would he have kissed me? Wouldhe——?

The vision was so blazing bright that

covered my eyes to shut it out. Not that hated it. Oh no, I loved it too well!

So, for a while, I stood, my hands presse

over my eyes, my ears strained to catcdistant sounds—yet wishing not to hearSuddenly, close by, there came the clickof a latch. My hands dropped like broke

clock weights. I opened my eyes. JiBeckett was in the room, and the door washut.



CHAPTER XXXIII

stared, fascinated. Here was Jim-of-therose-arbour, and a new Jim-of-the-war—browner, thinner, sterner Jim, a Jim thaooked at me with a look I could not readt may have been cruel, but it was no

cold, and it pierced like a hot sword

blade through my flesh into my soul."You —after all!" he said. Thremembered voice I had so often heard idreams, struck on my nerves like a hanon the strings of a harp. I felt the vibratiohrill through me.

"Yes—it's I." The answer came in a



whisper from dry lips. "I'm sorry!"

"What are you sorry for? Because you ar

you?""It wouldn't be— quite so horrible if—I'been a stranger."

"You think not?"

"I—it seems as if I took advantage of—ohhat's just what I did! I'm not asking you t

forgive me——""It isn't so much a question of forgiving, aputting things straight. We must put the

straight——""I'll do whatever you wish," I promised"Only—let me go soon."



"Are you afraid of me?" There washarpness in his tone.

"Not afraid. I am—utterly humiliated.""Why did you do this—thing? Let's havhat out first."

"The thought came into my head when was at my wits' end—for my brother. Nohat that's an excuse!"

"I'm not worrying about excuses. It'explanations I need, I had my own theorie—thinking it all over—and wondering—whether it would be you or a stranger

should find. The name was the one thing had to go on: 'O'Malley' and its likeness tOmmalee. That was the way I heard youname pronounced, you know, when w



met. I was coming back to see you anmake sure. But I was laid up in Paris witan attack of typhoid. Perhaps Mother tol

you?""Yes. But please, let us not talk of thatThere isn't much time. You'll have to go

back to Fath—to Mr. and Mrs. BeckettTell me quickly what you want me to do."

"I was forgetting for a minute. You look

very pale, Miss O'Malley. Hadn't yobetter sit down?"

"No, thank you. I like standing—where am."

"Ah!" he gave a sudden exclamation. Aast he had seen Brian's sketch. He had no

noticed it, or any of the "den treasures,



before. He had looked only at me.

"Why—it's the picture! And—Gee!"—hi

eyes travelled round the room—"all mdear old things! What a mother I've got!He gazed about during a full minute osilence, then turned abruptly back to me

"You love her—don't you?""Who could help loving her?"

"And the dear old Governor—you're fonof him?"

"I should be even worse than I am, if didn't adore them both. They have been—

angels to me and my brother."

"I'm told that you and he have beesomething of the same sort to them."



"Oh, they would speak kindly of us, ocourse!—They're so noble, themselveshey judge——"

"It was another person who told me thparticular thing I'm thinking of now."

"Another person? Doctor Paul, I suppose.

"You must guess again, Miss O'Malley."

"I can't think of any one else who woul

——""What about your friend, Mr. O'Farrell?"

"He's not my friend!" I cried. "Oh, I knewhe'd somehow contrive a chance to talk tyou alone, about me!"

"He certainly did. And what he said



mpressed me a good deal."

"Most likely it's untrue."

"Too likely! I'm very anxious to find oufrom headquarters if it's true or not."

"If you ask me, I'll answer honestly. I can

and won't lie to you."

"I'll take you at your word and ask you—n a minute. You may be angry when I do

But—it will save time. It'll clear up all mdifficulties at one fell swoop."

"Why wait a minute, then?" I ventured

with faint bitterness, because hi"difficulties" seemed so small comparewith mine. He was in the right ieverything. This was his home. The dea

Becketts were his people. All the world



was his.

"I wait a minute, because something has t

be told you before I can ask you to answeany more questions. When I didn't knowwho or what my—er—official fiancéwould turn out to be, this was the plan

made, to save my parents' feelings—anyours. I thought that, when we'd had thnterview I asked you to give me, w

could manage to quarrel, or discover tha

we didn't like each other as well abefore. We could break off ouengagement, and Father and Mother neenever know—how it began."

"A very generous idea of yours!" I criedhe blood so hot in my cheeks that i

forced tears to my eyes. "It had occurre

o me, too, that for their sakes we migh



manage that way. Thank you, Mr. Beckettfor sparing me the pain—I deserve. couldn't have dared hope for such a happ

solution——""Couldn't you?"

"No. I——"

"Well, I'm hoping for an even happier one—a lot happier. But of course it dependon what you say to Mr. O'Farrell's—accusation."

"He—made an accusation?"

"Listen, and tell me what you'd call it. Hsaid you told him at Amiens, when hasked you to marry him, that— you loveme."



"Oh!"

"Is it true?"

"Yes, I did tell him that——"

"I mean, is it true that you've loved me?"

"Mr. Beckett, after all, you are cruelYou're punishing me very hard."

"I don't wish to 'punish you hard'—or a

all. Why am I 'cruel,' simply asking if it'rue that you've loved me? Of coursewhen Mother told you of my fever, andwhat I'd said of this cathedral picture, sh

old you that I was dead in love with 'thGirl,' as I called you, and just about crazbecause I'd lost her. Why shouldn't yohave loved me a little bit—say, th

hundredth part as much as I loved you? I'



not a monster, am I? And we both hadexactly the same length of time to fall iove—whole hours on end. Cruel or no

cruel, I've got to know. Was it the truthyou told the O'Farrell man?"

could not speak. I didn't try to speak.

ooked up at him. It must have been somsuch look as the Princess gave St. Georgwhen he appeared at the last minute, trescue her from the dragon. The tears I'

been holding back splashed over mcheeks. Jim gave a low cry of pity—oove (it sounded like love) as he sawhem; and the next thing, he was kissin

hem away. I was in his arms so closelyheld that my breath was crushed out of mungs. I wanted to sob. But how can yo

sob without breath? I could only let hi



kiss me on cheeks, and eyes, and mouthand kiss him back again, with eager hasteest I should wake up to find he had love

me for a fleeting instant, in a divindream.

When he let me breathe for a second,

gasped that, of course, it couldn't be truehis wonderful thing that was happening?

"I've dreamed of you—a hundred times,"

stammered. "Waking dreams—sleepingdreams. They've seemed as real—almosas real—as this."

"Did I kiss you like this, in the dreams?"

"Sometimes. But not in the realest ones. Inever seemed real that you could care, ispite of all—that you'd forgive me, if yo



should come back——"

"Did you want me to come?"

"Oh, 'want' isn't the word to express it!"

"Even though you dreaded—being founout!"

"That didn't count, against having yoalive, and knowing you were in the worl—if only for your parents' sake. I wante

hem to be happy, more than I wantedanything for myself except Brian's good. had you for my own, in my dreams, whilyou were dead, and I expected to lose yo

f you were alive. But——"

"You really expected that?"

"Oh, indeed, yes!"



"Although you knew from Mother how I'oved you, and searched for you?"

"You thought I was good —then.""I think so now."

"But you can't! You know what a wicked

wicked wretch I was! Why, when yocame into this room and looked at me, saw how you felt! And your letter——"

"Don't you understand, I was testing youf you hadn't cared for me, what you dimight have been—(only 'might', mind youfor what man can judge a girl's heart?

what you did to my people might havbeen cruel and calculating. I had to finout the truth of things, before letting myselgo. The letter was written to let a strange



see—if you turned out to be a stranger—what to expect. But O'Farrell made msure in a minute, that the girl here must b

my Girl. After that, I'd only to see you—toask if he told the truth—to watch your fac—your precious, beautiful face! I thoughof it and pictured it. But I never thought o

hose tears! Forgive me, my darling, fomaking them come. If you'll let me lovyou all your life, they shall be the last I'lever cause."

laughed, and cried a little more, at thsame time. "What a word from you to m—'Forgive'!"

"Well, it's more suitable than from you tome, because there's nothing you could dhat I wouldn't forgive before you did it

or even be sure it was just the one righ



hing to do. My Girl—my lost, found lov—do you suppose it was of your owaccord you came to my people and sai

you belonged to me? No. It was the GreaPower that's in us all, which made you dwhat you did—the Power they calProvidence. You understand now what

meant, when I said that one question frome and an answer from you, woulsmooth away all my difficulties at onceBless that O'Farrell fellow!"

'd never thought to bless Julian O'Farrelbut now I willingly agreed. Sometimesdimly, I had divined latent goodness i

him, as one divines vague, lovely shapefloating under dark depths of water. Andhe had said once that love for me wabringing out qualities he hadn't credite



himself with possessing. I had taken thaas one of Puck's pleasantries! But I knewhe true inwardness of him now, as I had

earned to know the true inwardness oDierdre. Julian had had his chance to hurme with his rival. He had used it insteao do me good. He had laughed the othe

day, "Well, I'll always be something tyou anyhow, if only a brother-in-law." Bunow, he would be more than that, even ihe went out of my life, and I never sawhim again.

"Bless O'Farrell. Bless Providence. Blesyou. Bless me. Bless everybody an

everything!" Jim was going on, joyfullexploding, still clasping me in his armsfor we clung as if to let each other gmight be to lose one another forever



"How happy Mother dear—and the gooold Governor are going to be! Theabsolutely adore you!"

"Did they say so?"

"They did. And almost hustled me into thiroom to meet you. I'm glad the best thinn my life has come to me here, among alhe odds and ends of my childhood an

youth, that I call my treasures! Of cours

Mother planned it specially that yoshould welcome me here."

"Yes, the darling! But it seemed to me aerrible plan. I thought you'd hate me so'd spoil the surprise of the room for you."

Those words were uttered with the lasbreath he let me draw for some time. Bu



oh, Padre, if it had been my last on earthhow well worth while it would have beeo live just till that minute, and no longer!

am so happy! I don't know how I am goino deserve this forgiveness, thideliverance, this joy!

"Even if I'd found a strange girl lookinafter my parents and saving their lives anwinning their love, it would have beepretty difficult to chuck her," Jim wa

aughing. "You, on this side of the doorwaiting to face the ogre Me, couldn't havfelt much worse than I felt on my side, noknowing what I should see—or do

Darling, one more kiss for my people'sake, one more for myself, and then I musake you to them. It's not fair to keep the

waiting any longer. But no—first I mus



put a ring on the Girl's finger—as I hopeo do long ago. You re member—the rin

of my bet, that almost made me lose you?

old you about it, didn't I, on our daogether, when I thought I should comback in two weeks?"

"You told me you hoped not to lose a thingyou wanted. You didn't say it was a ringBut at Royalieu—the newspapecorrespondents' château near Compiègn

—we came across a friend of yours, thone you made the bet with——"

"Jack Curtis!"

"Yes. He told me about the ring. And hewas sure you were alive."

"Good old Jack! Well, now I'm going to



slip that magic ring on your darling finge—the 'engaged' finger."

"But where is it?""The finger? Just now on the back of mneck, which it's making throb—like star!... Oh, the ring ? That's in the hobbyhorse which I see over there, as large aife. At least, it's in him unless, unlike eopard, he's changed his spots."

Jim wouldn't let me go, but drew me withim, our arms interlaced, to the tower enof the room where the hobby-horse he haonce rescued from fire endlessly pranced"This used to be my bank, when I was ittle chap," he said. "Like a magpie,

always hid the things I valued most in

hole I made under the third smudge to th



eft, on Spot Cash's breast. 'Spot Cash' ihe old boy's name, you know! When

won the bet and took the ring home, I ha

a fancy to keep it in this hidie hole, fouck, till I could find the Girl. Motheknew. She was with me at the time. But was half ashamed of myself for m

childishness, and asked her not to tell—not even the Governor. I shouldn't wondef that was why it occurred to her to pac

up my treasures for France. Maybe shhad a prophetic soul, and thought, if found the Girl, I should want to lay mhand on the ring. Here it is, safe an

sound."As he spoke, he had somehow contriveo extract a particularly black smudg

from the region of the hobby-horse's hear



t came out with a block of woounderneath, and left a gap which gavSpot Cash the effect of having suffered a

operation. At the back of the cavity second hole, leading downward, had beeburrowed in the softish wood; and in thireposed a screwed-up wad of tissu

paper. Jim hooked the tiny packet out wita finger, opened the paper as casually ahough it enclosed a pebble, and brougho the light (which found and flashed to th

depths of a large blue diamond) a quaintlfashioned ring of greenish gold.

"This belonged to the most beautifu

woman of a day that's past," Jim said"Now, it's for the most beautiful woman oa better day and a still grander to-morrowMay I wish it on your finger—with th



greatest wish in the world?"

gave him my hand—for the ring, and fo

all time.One more moment in his arms, and hopened the door, to take "his Girl" toFather and Mother Beckett.

Somewhere in the distance JuliaO'Farrell was singing, as he had sung ohe first night we met, Mario'

heartbreaking song in "La Tosca"—thesong on the roof, at dawn. Always inremembering Julian I must remembeMario's love and sacrifice! I knew that hmeant it should be so with me.

The voice was the voice of love itselfsuch love as mine for Jim, as Jim's for me



which can never die. It made me sad anhappy at the same time. But, as Jim and paused at the door to listen, hand in hand

he music changed. Julian began to sinsomething new and strangely beautiful—song he has composed, and dedicated tBrian. I was sad no longer, for this is

song of courage and triumph. He calls it"Everyman's Land."

THE END

THE COUNTRY LIFE PRESS, GARDENCITY, NEW YORK



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