s that evening, while Sara Lee cut bandages and Henri rolled them,
that she asked him what his work was. He looked rather surprised, and
rolled for a moment without replying. Then: "I am a man of all work,"
he said. "What you call odd jobs."

"Then you don't do any fighting?"

"In the trenches--no. But now and then I have a little skirmish."

A sort of fear had been formulating itself in Sara Lee's mind. The
trenches she could understand or was beginning to understand. But this
alternately joyous and silent idler, this soldier of no regiment and no
detail--was he playing a man's part in the war?

"Why don't you go into the trenches?" she asked with her usual directness.
"You say there are too few men. Yet--I can understand Monsieur Jean,
because he has only one eye. But you!"

"I do something," he said, avoiding her eyes. "It is not a great deal.
It is the thing I can do best. That is all."

He went away some time after that, leaving the little house full and busy
justifying its existence. The miller's son, who came daily to chat with
Marie, was helping in the kitchen. By the warm stove, and only kept from
standing over it by Marie's sharp orders, were as many men as could get
near. Each held a bowl of hot soup, and--that being a good day--a
piece of bread. Tall soldiers and little ones, all dirty, all weary,
almost all smiling, they peered over each other's shoulders, to catch,
if might be, a glimpse of Marie's face.

When they came too close she poked an elbow into some hulking fellow and
sent him back.

"Elbow-room, in the name of God," she would beg.

Over all the room hung the warm steam from the kettles, and a delicious
odor, and peace.

Sara Lee had never heard of the word _morale_. She would have been
astonished to have been told that she was helping the _morale_ of an
army. But she gave each night in that little house of mercy something
that nothing else could give--warmth and welcome, but above all a touch
of home.

That night Henri did not come back. She stood by her table bandaging,
washing small wounds, talking her bits of French, until one o'clock.
Then, the last dressing done, she went to the kitchen. Marie was there,
with Maurice, the miller's son.

"Has the captain returned?" she asked.

"Not yet, mademoiselle."

"Leave a warm fire," Sara Lee said. "He will probably come in later."

Maurice went away, with a civil good night. Sara Lee stood in the
doorway after he had gone, looking ou