hrough the
darkness; her hands passed quickly over his sleeve, his shoulder, then
found his neck and clasped it passionately.

Drawing her gently to his lap he realized that she was merely a child
who had come to him--a skeleton child, of perhaps eight or nine years
old, seeming to be little more than bones dressed in scanty clothing.
Touching his lips to her cheeks he whispered encouragement, promising
prodigious things without regard to their possible accomplishment, until
her body ceased to quiver. Then she whispered tremulously:

"Are you the American who fed us?"

"No, little one, I haven't fed you." He, too, spoke in the merest
whisper.

"But yes, Monsieur, indeed you did! _Le bon cure_ said the American gave
us food for many, many months. Oh, I wish I had some now!"

"He meant the American Relief, little one. Haven't you any food now?"

"Not since two days, Monsieur. The Boche," he felt her quiver again as
she pronounced this name, "used to take our American food and give us
their own black kind; but the cure told us to submit gracefully, as
those who had tried to object were killed. But two days ago a German, a
Kommandantur, they called him, Monsieur, said that he felt so very, very
sorry for us he thought we had better starve; and since then we have had
nothing."

"Where is the cure now?" he asked, feeling himself grow hot with rage.

"Dead, Monsieur. They killed him for trying to defend his bell."

"Defend his bell?"

"Quite so, Monsieur." She snuggled into a more comfortable position, as
though the presence of this American removed all dangers; she found it
good, furthermore, to talk to someone, even in whispers, and amidst
ruins, and about the horrors buried there. "Before blowing up the Marie
they lowered the bell--for everything iron in the village they said must
be sent into Germany. But the cure loved his bell--so did we all,
Monsieur--and he threw his arms about it, pleading. But this made the
soldiers laugh very much." She waited an instant, as though listening,
then continued: "So they got a blanket, Monsieur, and tossed him into
the air, but always let him fall upon the stones. He was very old, was
_le bon cure_,--but so good! Then officers came up, and they carried
open bottles of wine, and around their necks were strung on cords many
women's finger rings and bracelets. My mother uttered a prayer, because
she thought they would help _le bon cure_, but when they were told he
had tried to