the eyes. "But there were others here, not so friendly to the little
Garin. That is true, is it not?"

"Yes," said the Bonnie Lassie.

"There is at least a strong suspicion that he is not a deserving case,"
I pointed out defensively.

"Then it is only because he does not explain himself well," returned the
Belgian quickly.

"He does not explain himself at all," I corrected. "Nor does Annie
Oom--his wife."

"Ah? That will clarify itself, perhaps, in time. If you will bear with
me, I should like to tell you a little story to be passed on to those
who are not his friends. Will you not be seated, Madame?"

The Bonnie Lassie resumed her place on the bench. Standing before us,
the big man began to speak. Many times since have I wished that I might
have taken down what he said verbatim; so gracious it was, so simple, so
straightly the expression of a great and generous personality.

"Emile Garin," he said, "was a son of Belgium. He was poor and his
people were little folk of nothing-at-all. Moreover, they were dead. So
he came to your great country to make his living. When our enemies
invaded my country and the call went out to all sons of Belgium, the
little Garin was ashamed because he knew that he was physically unfit
for military service. But he tried. He tried everywhere. In the mornings
they must sweep him away from our Consul-General's doorsteps here
because otherwise he would not--You spoke, Monsieur?"

"Nothing. I only said, 'God forgive us!'"

"Amen," said the narrator gravely. "Everywhere they rejected him as
unfit. So he became morbid. He hid himself away. Is it not so?"

"That is why they left Our Square so mysteriously," confirmed the Bonnie
Lassie.

"After that he hung about the docks. He saw his chance and crawled into
the hold of a vessel as a stowaway. He starved. It did not matter. He
was kicked. It did not matter. He was arrested. It did not matter.
Nothing mattered except that he should reach Belgium. And he did reach
my country at the darkest hour, the time when Belgium needed every man,
no matter who he was. But he could not be a soldier, the little Garin,
because he was unable to march. He had weak legs."

At this point the eternal feminine asserted itself in the Bonnie Lassie.
"I _told_ you there was something," she murmured triumphantly.

"Hush!" said I.

"I am glad to find that he had one true defender here," pursued the
biographer of Plooie. "Though he could not fight in the ranks