y, you're a soldier. What we've
been through must seem a summer shower to you. And you, sir"--he turned
to the singing-man--"I think you mentioned you'd had shell shock----"

"Yes," the other answered quickly. "It cost me my voice."

"Cost you your voice?" Father Beckett echoed. "If it was better than it
is now, why, it must have been a marvel! We're ignorant in the music
line, my wife and I, so if we ought to know who you are----"

The young man laughed. "Oh, don't be afraid of hurting my feelings! If
you were an Italian, or a Britisher--but an American! I sang in New York
only part of last winter, and then I--came over here, like everyone
else. My name is Julian O'Farrell, but my mother was an Italian of
Naples, once a prima donna. She wished me to make my professional debut
as Giulio di Napoli."

The name appeared to mean nothing for the Becketts, but instantly I knew
who the man was, if little about him. I remembered reading of the
sensation he created in London the summer that Brian and I tramped
through France and Belgium. The next I heard was that he had "gone back"
to Italy. I had of course supposed him to be an Italian. But now he
boasted--or confessed--that he was an Irishman. Why, then, had he left
England for Italy when the war broke out? Why had he been singing in New
York after Italy joined the Allies? Above all, what had happened since,
to put him on my track, with a Red Cross flag and a taxi-cab?

These questions asked themselves in my head, while I could have counted
"One--two--three." Meantime, Brian had spoken to the girl, and she had
answered shortly, in words I could not hear, but with a sullen, doubtful
look, like a small trapped creature that snaps at a friendly hand. The
landlord was helping a white-faced waiter to clear a place on the table
for a tray of coffee and liqueurs; and outside the noise of shrapnel
had died in the distance. The air-raid incident was closed. What next?

"You'll both have coffee with us, won't you, Signor di Napoli--or Mr.
O'Farrell? Or should I say Lieutenant or Captain?" Father Beckett was
urging. "You were a friend of our son's, and my wife and I----"

"Plain Mister O'Farrell it is," the other broke in. "Thanks, it would be
a pleasure to stay, but it's best to refuse, I'm sure, for my sister's
sake. You see by her dress what her work has been, and she's on leave
because she's tired out. She faints easily--and what with the air
raid--maybe you'll let us pay our r