she looked up. "Peterr, mon ami," she said, "listen to me. I
will tell you the story of Louise, of me. My father, he lived--oh, it
matters not; but he had some money, he was not poor. I went to a good
school, and I came home for the holidays. I had one sister older than
me. Presently I grew up; I learnt much; I noticed. I saw there were
terrible things, chez nous. My mother did not care, but I--I cared. I was
mad. I spoke to my sister: it was no good. I spoke to my father, and,
truly, I thought he would kill me. He beat me--ah, terrible--and I ran
from the house. I wept under the hedges: I said I would no more go 'ome.
I come to a big city. I found work in a big shop--much work, little
money--ah, how little! Then I met a friend: he persuade me, at last he
keep me--two months, three, or more; then comes the war. He is an
officer, and he goes. We kiss, we part--oui, he love me, that officer. I
pray for him: I think I nevair leave the church; but it is no good. He is
dead. Then I curse le bon Dieu. They know me in that place: I can do
nothing unless I will go to an 'otel--to be for the officers, you
understand? I say, Non. I sell my things and I come here. Here I do
well--you understand? I am careful; I have now my home. But this is what
I tell you, Peterr: one does wrong to curse le bon Dieu. He is wise--ah,
how wise!--it is not for me to say. And good--ah, Jesu! how good! You
think I do not know; I, how should I know? But I know. I do not
understand. For me, I am caught; I am like the bird in the cage. I cannot
get out. So I smile, I laugh--and I wait."

She ceased. Peter was strangely moved, and he pressed the hand he held
almost fiercely. The tragedy of her life seemed so great that he hardly
dare speak of his own. But: "What has it to do with me?" he demanded.

She gave a little laugh. "'Ow should I say?" she said. "But you think God
not remember you, and, Peterr, He remember all the time."

"And Julie?" quizzed Peter after a moment.

Louise shrugged her shoulders. "This love," she said, "it is one great
thing. For us women it is perhaps the only great thing, though your
English women are blind, are dead, they do not see. Julie, she is as us,
I think. She is French inside. La pauvre petite, she is French in the
heart."

"Well?" demanded Peter again.

"C'est tout, mon ami. But I am sorry for Julie."

"Louise," said Peter impulsively, "you're better than I--a thousand
times. I don't know how to thank you." And he