Lee, having visited Rene's grave and prayed in the ruined
church, said good-by to the little house, and went away, tearless at the
last, because she was too sad for tears.

It was not for some time that Jean spoke what was in his mind, and when
he had done so she turned to him gravely:

"You are wrong, Jean. He is the kindest of men. Once I am back, and
safe, he will be very different. I'm afraid I've given you a wrong
impression of him."

"You think then, mademoiselle, that he will forget all these months--he
will never be unhappy over them?"

"Why should he?" said Sara Lee proudly. "When I tell him everything he
will understand. And he will be very proud that I have done my share."

But Jean's one eye was dubious.

At the wharf in Dunkirk they found Henri, a pale but composed Henri.
Jean's brows contracted. He had thought that the boy would follow his
advice and stay away. But Henri was there.

It was as well, perhaps, for Sara Lee had brought him a letter, one of
those missives from the trenches which had been so often left at the
little house.

Henri thrust it into his pocket without reading it.

"Everything is prepared," he said. "It is the British Admiralty boat,
and one of the officers has offered his cabin. You will be quite
comfortable."

He appeared entirely calm. He saw to carrying Sara Lee's small bag on
board; he chatted with the officers; he even wandered over to a
hospital ship moored near by and exchanged civilities with a wounded man
in a chair on the deck. Perhaps he swaggered a bit too much, for Jean
watched him with some anxiety. He saw that the boy was taking it hard.
His eyes were very sunken now, and he moved his right arm stiffly, as
though the old wound troubled him.

Jean did not like leave-takings. Particularly he did not like taking
leave of Sara Lee. Some time before the boat sailed he kissed her hand,
and then patted it and went away in the car without looking back.

The boat was preparing to get under way. Henri was standing by her very
quietly. He had not slept the night before, but then there were many
nights when Henri did not sleep. He had wandered about, smoking
incessantly, trying to picture the black future.

He could see no hope anywhere. America was far away, and peaceful.
Very soon the tranquillity of it all would make the last months seem
dreamlike and unreal. She would forget Belgium, forget him. Or she
would remember him as a soldier who had once loved her. On