lanation
came to her.

The arrival of Marie roused Henri. The worst of the bombardment was
over, but there was far-away desultory firing. He listened carefully
before, standing outside in the cold, he poured over his head and
shoulders a pail of cold water. He was drying himself vigorously when
he heard Sara Lee's voice in the kitchen.

The day began for Henri when first he saw the girl. It might be evening,
but it was the beginning for him. So he went in when he had finished
his toilet and bowed over her hand.

"You are cold, mademoiselle."

"I think I am nervous. There was an attack this morning."

"Yes?"

Marie had gone into the next room, and Sara Lee raised haggard eyes
to his.

"Henri," she said desperately--it was the first time she had called him
that--"I have something to say to you, and it's not very pleasant."

"You are going home?" It was the worst thing he could think of. But
she shook her head.

"You will think me most ungrateful and unkind."

"You? Kindness itself!"

"But this is different. It is not for myself. It is because I care a
great deal about--about--"

"Mademoiselle!"

"About your honor. And somehow this morning, when I found you here
asleep, and those poor fellows in the trenches fighting--"

Henri stared at her. So that was it! And he could never tell her. He
was sworn to secrecy by every tradition and instinct of his work. He
could never tell her, and she would go on thinking him a shirker and a
coward. She would be grateful. She would be sweetness itself. But
deep in her heart she would loathe him, as only women can hate for a
failing they never forgive.

"But I have told you," he said rather wildly, "I am not idle. I do
certain things--not much, but of a degree of importance."

"You do not fight."

In Sara Lee's defense many things may be urged--her ignorance of modern
warfare; the isolation of her lack of knowledge of the language; but,
perhaps more than anything, a certain rigidity of standard that
comprehended no halfway ground. Right was right and wrong was wrong to
her in those days. Men were brave or were cowards. Henri was worthy
or unworthy. And she felt that, for all his kindness to her, he was
unworthy.

He could have set himself right with a word, at that. But his pride was
hurt. He said nothing except, when she asked if he had minded what she
said, to reply:

"I am sorry you feel as you do. I am not angry."

He went away, however, without breakfast.