as still in a whirl. Had she called Lafrane to the
front for nothing at all? Had she really been stirring up a mare's
nest? She listened, however, to the countess' further observations:

"But yes, Mademoiselle, we all do what we may. My sons are hard at
work for la patrie--and brave Bubu!" and she laughed. "Of course your
American soldiers cannot be expected to take over the scouting on this
front, not altogether, for they do not know the country as do we
French. Yet some of your young men, Henri tells me, show marvelous
adaptability in the work. Is it the Red Indian blood in them, think
you, that makes them so proficient in scouting?" she added innocently.

But Ruth did not laugh. Indeed, she felt very serious, for she was
thinking of Tom Cameron. Major Henri Marchand must know about
Tom--where he was and what he was doing. That is, if it had been the
major who had dropped the message from Tom at her feet the day before.

She could not discuss this matter with the countess. And yet the girl
was so troubled regarding Tom's affairs that she felt equal to almost
any reckless attempt to gain information about him.

Before the girl could decide to speak, however, there was a step upon
the bare floor of the great entrance hall of the chateau. The ringing
step came nearer, and the countess raised her head.

"Henri! Come in! Come in!" she cried as the door opened.

Major Marchand marched into the room breezily, still in the dress
uniform Ruth had seen at Aunt Abelard's cottage.

"Ah, Mademoiselle!" he cried, having kissed his mother's hand and
suddenly beholding the girl who had shyly retired to the other side of
the hearth. "May I greet you?"

He came around the tea table and took her hand. She did not withdraw
it abruptly this time as he pressed his lips respectfully to her
fingers. But she did blush under his admiring glance.

"See, Henri!" his mother cried. "It is the good Bubu who has brought
it. In code. Can you read it?"

She thrust the whisp of paper, taken from the dog's hollow tooth, under
his eyes before pouring his cup of tea. Henri, begging Ruth's
indulgence with a look, sat down before the table, his sword clanking.
He smoothed the paper out upon the board and drew the reading glass to
him.

"Wait!" Countess Marchand said. "You have had no luncheon! You are
hungry, my dear boy?"

She hurried out of the room intent upon her son's comfort. Ruth
watched the countenance of the ma