as but just been called."

There was another conference in the little house that morning, but
Henri's prisoner could tell little. He had heard nothing of an advance.
Further along the line it was said that there was much fighting. He sat
there, pale and bewildered and very civil, and in the end his frightened
politeness brought about a change in the attitude of the men who
questioned him. Hate all Germans as they must, who had suffered so
grossly, this boy was not of those who had outraged them.

They sent him on at last, and Sara Lee was free to tell Henri her news.
But she had grown very wise as to Henri's moods, and she hesitated. A
certain dissatisfaction had been growing in the boy for some time, a
sense of hopelessness. Further along the spring had brought renewed
activity to the Allied armies. Great movements were taking place.

But his own men stood in their trenches, or what passed for trenches, or
lay on their hours of relief in such wretched quarters as could be found,
still with no prospect of action. No great guns, drawn by heavy
tractors, came down the roads toward the trenches by the sea. Steady
bombarding, incessant sniping and no movement on either side--that was
the Belgian Front during the first year of the war. Inaction, with that
eating anxiety as to what was going on in the occupied territory, was
the portion of the heroic small army that stretched from Nieuport to
Dixmude.

And Henri's nerves were not good. He was unhappy--that always--and he
was not yet quite recovered from his wounds. There was on his mind, too,
a certain gun which moved on a railway track, back and forth, behind the
German lines, doing the work of many. He had tried to get to that gun,
and failed. And he hated failure.

Certainly in this story of Sara Lee and of Henri, whose other name must
not be known, allowance must be made for all those things. Yet--perhaps
no allowance is enough.

Sara Lee told him that evening of her recall, told him when the shuffling
of many feet in the street told of the first weary men from the trenches
coming up the road.

He heard her in a dazed silence. Then:

"But you will not go?" he said. "It is impossible! You--you are
needed, mademoiselle."

"What can I do, Henri? They have recalled me. My money will not come
now."

"Perhaps we can arrange that. It does not cost so much. I have
friends--and think, mademoiselle, how many know now of what you are
doing, and love you for it. Some of