whiff
of it. It was agreed that the makers of the gas--mythological beings
Sheila had created--should be killed at once so that their secret should
never be discovered; and Sheila herself was despatched to compass the
deed. Before she returned the bell in the church near by was tolling for
their parting souls; and Monsieur Satan chuckled as he cast admiring
glances at this prompt executioner.

"You are a good pupil, ma'am'selle; you learn quickly. Now the maps." And
they fell to diagraming where the piping for this deadly gas should be
laid.

Not an inch of the old world was to be left peopled; from east to west and
north to south everything was to be destroyed. No, not everything. Even as
Monsieur Satan decreed it he hesitated. "There are the children, I
think--yes, I think they shall live. Their hearts are pure; the Boches
cannot contaminate them. They shall live after us with no memory of evil,
so they can build again the beautiful world." He stopped and looked across
at the nurse with a haunting, wistful stare. "Tell me, ma'am'selle, was
the world ever beautiful?"

"Very beautiful, capitaine."

He passed an uncertain hand over his eyes. "I seem to remember that it
was; but now I see it always running with red blood boiling from hell."

After that the children were always in his mind; as he planned the
destruction of the rest of the world he planned their re-creation.
Thereupon Sheila saw to it that the war orphans from the _creche_ came to
play in the hospital gardens--under the window of the little room. Soon it
became a custom for Monsieur Satan to look for them, to ask their names,
and wave gaily to them. And they waved back. And the chief of the surgical
staff began to marvel that Monsieur Satan should give no more trouble.

Among them was a little girl, a wan, ethereal little creature who sat
apart from the other children and watched their play with far-away,
haunting eyes, as if she wondered what in the world they were doing.
Sheila had found toys for her--a ball, a doll, a jumping-jack--and tried
to coax her to play. But she only clung to them for their rare value as
possessions; as a means to enjoyment they were quite meaningless. From one
of the older children Sheila got her story. Her father had been killed,
her mother was with the Boches; there was no one else. With an aching
heart the nurse wondered how many thousand Madelines France held.

One day she brought the child in to Monsieur Satan and re