ell get out
your pencil and draw another picture--because I'm going."

Far enough away now, the little house at home and the peace that dwelt
therein; and Harvey; and the small white bedroom; and the daily round of
quiet duties. Sara Lee had set her face toward the east, and the land
of dying men. And as Henri looked down at her she had again that poised
and eager look, almost of flight, that had brought into Harvey's love
for her just a touch of fear.

VI

Sara Lee Kennedy was up at dawn the next morning. There was a very
serious matter to decide, for Henri's plan had included only such hand
luggage as she herself could carry.

Sara Lee carefully laid out on the bed such articles as she could not
possibly do without, and was able to pack into her suitcase less than
a fourth of them. She had fortunately brought a soft wool sweater,
which required little room. Undergarments, several blouses, the sweater
and a pair of heavy shoes--that was her equipment, plus such small
toilet outfit as is necessary when a young woman uses no make-up and
regards cold cream only as a remedy for chapped hands.

The maid found her in rather a dismal mood.

"Going across, miss!" she said. "Fancy that!"

"It's a secret," cautioned Sara Lee. "I am really not sure I am going.
I am only trying to go."

The maid, who found Sara Lee and the picture of Harvey on her dressing
table both romantic and appealing, offered to pack. From the first
moment it was evident that she meant to include the white dress. Indeed
she packed it first.

"You never know what's going to happen over there," she asserted. "They
do say that royalties are everywhere, going about like common people.
You'd better have a good frock with you."

She had an air of subdued excitement, and after she had established the
fact that not only the white frock but slippers and hose also would go
in she went to the door and glanced up and down the passage. Then she
closed the door.

"There was queer goings-on here last night, miss," she said cautiously.
"Spies!"

"Oh, no!" cried Sara Lee.

"Spies," she repeated. "A man and a woman, pretending to be Belgian
refugees. They took them away at daylight. I expect by now they've
been shot."

Sara Lee ate very little breakfast that morning. All through England
it was confidently believed that spies were shot on discovery, a theory
that has been persistent--and false, save at the battle line--since
the beginning of the war