d, with tapes to tie it over the mouth and nose. To adjust them the
soldiers had but to stoop and wet them in the ever-present water in
the trench, and then to tie them on.

Sara Lee gave them out that night, and there was much mirth in the little
house, such mirth as there had not been since Henri went away. The
Belgians called it a _bal masque_, and putting them on bowed before one
another and requested dances, and even flirted coyly with each other over
their bits of white gauze. And in the very middle of the gayety some
one propounded one of Henri's idiotic riddles; and Sara Lee went across
to her little room and closed the door and stood there with her eyes
shut, for fear she would scream.

Then, one day, coming out of the little church, she saw the low broken
gray car turn in at the top of the street and come slowly, so very
slowly, toward her. There were two men in it.

One was Henri.

She ran, stumbling because of tears, up the street. It was Henri! There
was no mistake. There he sat beside Jean, brushed and very neat; and
very, very white.

"Mademoiselle!" he said, and came very close to crying himself when he
saw her face. He was greatly excited. His sunken eyes devoured her as
she ran toward him. Almost he held out his arms. But he could not do
that, even if he would, for one was bandaged to his side.

It is rather sad to record how many times Sara Lee wept during her
amazing interlude. For here is another time. She wept for joy and
wretchedness. She stood on the running board and cried and smiled. And
Jean winked his one eye rapidly.

"This idiot, mademoiselle," he said gruffly, "this maniac--he would not
remain in Calais, with proper care. He must come on here. And rapidly.
Could he have taken the wheel from me we should have been here an hour
ago. But for once I have an advantage."

The car jolted to the little house, and Jean helped Henri out. Such a
strange Henri, smiling and joyous, and walking at a crawl, even with
Jean's support. He protested violently against being put to bed, and
when he found himself led into Sara Lee's small room he openly rebelled.

"Never!" he said stubbornly, halting in the doorway. "This is
mademoiselle's boudoir. Her drawing-room as well. I am going to the
mill house and--"

He staggered.

So Sara Lee's room had a different occupant for a time, a thin and
fine-worn young Belgian, who yielded to Sara Lee when Jean gave up in
despair, and who proceeded, most unman