ery point of view, inside and
out, that Mother Beckett confessed her suffering. "Oh, Molly!" she
gasped, leaning on my arm, "I'm so glad there's only _one_ tower, and
not two! That is, I'm glad, as it was always like that."

"Why," I exclaimed, "how odd of you, dearest! I know it's considered one
of the best cathedrals in France, though it isn't a museum of sculpture,
like Rheims. But the single tower worries me, it looks so unfinished.
_I'm_ not glad there's only one!"

"You would be if you felt like I do," she moaned. "If there was another
tower, we'd have to spend double time looking at it, and in five minutes
more I should have to faint! Oh no, I've stood everything so far, not to
disappoint any one, but I _couldn't_ see another tower!"

With that, she did faint, or nearly, then came to herself, and
apologized for bothering us! Father Beckett hardly spoke, but his face
was gray-white with fear, and he held the fragile creature in his arms
as if she were his last link with the life of this world.

We got her back into the car; and the man who had shown us the cathedral
said that there was an hotel within five minutes' motoring distance. It
was not first rate, he explained, but officers messed there and
occasionally wives and mothers of officers stayed there. He thought we
might be taken in and made fairly comfortable; and to be sure we didn't
miss the house, he rode on the step of the car, to show us the way.

It was a sad way, for we had to pass hillocks of plaster and stone which
had once been streets, but we had eyes only for Mother Beckett's face,
Father Beckett and I: and even Brian seemed to look at her. Sirius, too,
for he would not go into the Red Cross taxi with the others! Brian, whom
in most things the dog obeys with a pathetic eagerness, couldn't get him
to do that: and when I said, "Oh, his eyes are tragic. He thinks you're
going to send him away, never to see you again!" Brian didn't insist. So
the dog sat squeezed in among us, knowing perfectly well that we were
anxious about the little lady who patted him so often, and
unpatriotically saved him lumps of sugar. He licked her small fingers,
clasped by her husband, and attracting Mother Beckett's attention
perhaps kept her from fainting again.

Well, we got to the hotel, which was really more of a _pension_ than an
hotel, and Madame Bornier, the elderly woman in deep mourning who was
_la patronne_, was kind and helpful. Her best room had been made r