oment
and then added with another catch in her voice: "Do you think it wicked
of me, because I am still a little sorry I failed in what I attempted?
But I don't think you will when I have told you my history."

Under ordinary circumstances Yvonne's broken and incoherent story would
have annoyed Mrs. Burton. She had scant sympathy and could make but
slight excuse for the neurotic persons who have no fortitude with which
to meet life's inevitable disasters but expend all their energy in
compassion for themselves. Especially did she resent this characteristic
in a young girl, having grown accustomed to the sanity and the outdoor
spirit engendered by the Camp Fire life. Moreover, one has at present no
time or pity save for real tragedies.

Yet Yvonne's attitude had not so affected her. Instead she realized that
the girl's suffering had been due to a vital cause and that the secret
of her action still remained hidden.

"Had you not better rest and talk to me later?" Mrs. Burton inquired. "I
think you are very tired, more so than you realize. After a time perhaps
you will see things more clearly. You are young, Yvonne, to believe
there is nothing more for you in life that is worth while."

"I know that would be true if these were not war times, Madame," the
girl answered. "Will you please listen to my story now? There may be no
opportunity at another time."

Slipping out of her berth, Yvonne proffered the one small chair the
state-room afforded to her visitor.

"Won't you sit here? You may be more comfortable," she suggested.

Then she found a seat for herself on the lounge which ran along one side
of the room.

By this time the little French girl was looking so completely exhausted
that Mrs. Burton would have liked again to urge her to wait. Yet after
all perhaps it might be a relief to have her confession over!

"I was living in a chateau with my mother and two brothers when the war
began," Yvonne said, going directly to the heart of her story. "After
the news came that war was declared and the Germans had invaded our
country, my older brother, Andre, left at once to join his regiment near
Paris. At that time we did not dream there could be danger near our
home, which seemed so far from the front. I do not know whether you have
noticed my name on our passenger list, Yvonne Fleury, and our home was
called the Chateau Yvonne. It is not in existence any longer. But I am
afraid I am not telling my story clearly. Somet