t has been rebuked.

"I am a prisoner here, mademoiselle, I never leave the house. Here I
live day after day--my husband is always painting. Who would go out
alone under this grey sky of yours, and the hatreds of the war in every
face? I prefer to keep my room. My husband goes painting; every face he
sees interests him, except that which he sees every day. But I am a
prisoner. Monsieur Barra is our first visitor for a long time."

The soldier raised his face from his fists. "Prisonnier, madame! What
would you say if you were out there?" And he gave his thick giggle. "We
are the prisoners, we others. What would you say to imprisonment by
explosion day and night; never a minute free. Bom! Bom! Bom! Ah! les
tranchees! It's not so free as all that, there."

"Every one has his own prison," said Lavendie bitterly. "Mademoiselle
even, has her prison--and little Chica, and her doll. Every one has his
prison, Barra. Monsieur Barra is also a painter, mademoiselle."

"Moi!" said Barra, lifting his heavy hairy hand. "I paint puddles,
star-bombs, horses' ribs--I paint holes and holes and holes, wire and
wire and wire, and water--long white ugly water. I paint splinters, and
men's souls naked, and men's bodies dead, and nightmare--nightmare--all
day and all night--I paint them in my head." He suddenly ceased speaking
and relapsed into contemplation of the carpet, with his bearded cheeks
resting on his fists. "And their souls as white as snow, les camarades,"
he added suddenly and loudly, "millions of Belgians, English, French,
even the Boches, with white souls. I paint those souls!"

A little shiver ran through Noel, and she looked appealingly at Lavendie.

"Barra," he said, as if the soldier were not there, "is a great painter,
but the Front has turned his head a little. What he says is true,
though. There is no hatred out there. It is here that we are prisoners
of hatred, mademoiselle; avoid hatreds--they are poison!"

His wife put out her hand and touched the child's shoulder.

"Why should we not hate?" she said. "Who killed Chica's father, and
blew her home to-rags? Who threw her out into this horrible
England--pardon, mademoiselle, but it is horrible. Ah! les Boches! If
my hatred could destroy them there would not be one left. Even my
husband was not so mad about his painting when we lived at home. But
here--!" Her eyes darted at his face again, and then sank as if rebuked.
Noel saw the p