hen surely in the fullness of
time which is eternity the call would be answered.

In October Sara Lee took charge again of the little house. Mrs. Cameron
went back to England, but not until the Traverses' plan had been
revealed. They would support the little house, as a memorial to the son
who had died. It was, Mrs. Travers wrote, the finest tribute they could
offer to his memory, that night after night tired and ill and wounded
men might find sanctuary, even for a little time, under her care.

Luxuries began to come across the channel, food and dressings and tobacco.
Knitted things, too; for another winter was coming, and already the frost
lay white on the fields in the mornings. The little house took on a new
air of prosperity. There were days when it seemed almost swaggering
with opulence.

It had need of everything, however. With the prospect of a second
winter, when an advance was impossible, the Germans took to hammering
again. Bombardment was incessant. The little village was again under
suspicion, and there came days of terror when it seemed as though even
the fallen masonry must be reduced to powder. The church went entirely.

By December Sara Lee had ceased to take refuge during the bombardments.
The fatalism of the Front had got her. She would die or live according
to the great plan, and nothing could change that. She did not greatly
care which, except for her work, and even that she felt could be carried
on by another as well.

There was no news of Henri, but once the King's equerry, going by, had
stopped to see her and had told her the story.

"He was ill, undoubtedly," he said. "Even when he went to London he was
ill, and not responsible. The King understands that. He was a brave
boy, mademoiselle."

But the last element of hope seemed to go with that verification of his
illness. He was delirious, and he had gone in that condition into the
filthy chill waters of the inundation. Well and sane there had been a
chance, but plunging wild-eyed and reckless, into that hell across,
there was none.

She did her best in the evenings to be cheerful, to take the place, in
her small and serious fashion, of Henri's old gayety. But the soldiers
whispered among themselves that mademoiselle was in grief, as they were,
for the blithe young soldier who was gone.

What hope Sara Lee had had died almost entirely early in December. On
the evening of a day when a steady rain had turned the roads into slimy
pitfalls,