n give it away yourself. You
made me seem an--ungracious pig and a fool. I shouldn't mind that, if it
did you good, in return for the good you've done me. But since it was
for nothing----"

"I apologize," Herter broke in. "I meant what I said then. But a power
outside myself was too strong for me. Maybe it will be the same for you
some day. Meanwhile, don't make the mistake I made: don't do other
people an injustice."

Leaving Dierdre at bay between anger and amazement, he stared with
professional eagerness into Brian's sightless eyes, and stalked off
toward the hospice.

CHAPTER XVI

Since I wrote you last, Padre, I have been in the trenches--real, live
trenches, not the faded, half-filled-up ghosts of trenches where men
fought long ago. I had to give my word not to tell or write any one just
where these trenches are, so I won't put details in black and white,
even in pages which are only for you and me. I keep this book that you
gave me in my hand-bag, and no eyes but mine see it--unless, dear Padre,
you come and look over my shoulder while I scribble, as I often feel you
do! Still--something might happen: an automobile accident; or the bag
might be lost or stolen, though it's not a gorgeously attractive one,
like that in which Mother Beckett carries Jim's letters.

It was the day after Luneville and Gerbeviller. We started out once
again from Nancy, no matter in which direction, but along a wonderful
road. Not that the scenery was beautiful. We didn't so much as think of
scenery. The thrill was in the passing show, and later in the
"camouflage." We were going to be given a glimpse of the Front which the
communiques (when they mention it at all nowadays) speak of as calm. Its
alleged "calmness" gave us non-combatants our chance to pay it a visit;
but many wires had been pulled to get us there, and we had dwindled to a
trio, consisting of Father Beckett, Brian, and me. Mother Beckett is not
made for trenches, even the calmest, and there was no permission for
the occupants of the Red Cross taxi, who are not officially of our
party. They have their own police pass for the war-zone, but all special
plums are for the Becketts, shared by the O'Malleys; and this visit to
the trenches was an extra-special superplum.

All along the way, coming and going, tearing to meet us, or leaving us
behind, splashed with gray mud after a night of rain, motor-lorries
sped. They carried munitions or food to the front, or brou