of your women have already
received them. This was a brave piece of work--one of the bravest I ever
saw. It deserves a ribbon. It shall have a ribbon, if I can reach the
King. But two ribbons, no. It cannot be."

"Ah, you don't need to tell me that," returned Hilda. "I know that. One
decoration is quite enough. But that decoration, if granted, must go to
Smith."

* * * * *

The highest honor in the gift of the King of the Belgians was being
conferred: a Red Cross worker was about to be made Chevalier of the
Order of Leopold. Doubtless one would rather be decorated by Albert than
by any other person in the world. It was plain already that he was going
down into history as one of the fabulous good rulers, with Alfred and
Saint Louis, who had been as noble in their secret heart as in their
pride of place. It was fitting that the brief ceremony should be held
in Albert's wrecked village of Pervyse, with shell pits in the road, and
black stumps of ruin for every glance of the eye. For he was no King of
prosperity, fat with the pomp of power. He was a man of sorrows, the
brother of his crucified people.

But the man who was about to be honored kept getting lost. The
distinguished statesmen, officers, and visiting English, formed their
group and chatted. But the object of their coming together was seldom in
sight. He disappeared indoors to feed the wasted cat that had lived
through three bombardments and sought her meat in wrecked homes. He was
blotted out by the "Hilda" car, as he tinkered with its intimacies. No
man ever looked less like a Chevalier, than Smith, when discovered and
conducted to the King. Any of the little naval boy officers standing
around with their gold braid on the purple cloth, looked gaudier than
Smith. He looked more like a background, with his weather-worn khaki,
and narrow, high-hitched shoulders, than like the center-piece in a
public performance.

There came a brief and painful moment, when the King's favor was pinned
upon him.

"The show is over, isn't it?" he asked.

Hilda smiled.

"I suppose you'll go and bury the medal in an old trunk in the attic,"
she said.

Smith walked across to the car, and opened the bonnet. The group of
distinguished people had lost interest in him. Hilda followed him over.

"You're most as proud of that car as I am," she said; "it's sort of your
car, too, isn't it?"

Smith was burrowing into the interior of things, and had a